Phnom Penh Pals: Team Helm in Cambodia

Prior to this week, I never had someone puke down my shirt.  Or in my hair.  Or on my face.  This week I had the privilege of experiencing each of those events, as Josiah tackled his first stomach bug.  The gastrointestinal virus morphed into another illness (thank you, daycare, for making my child an immunologic giant) as the week wore on, keeping us all up at night.  I begged God for mercy.  As though He doesn't give me mercy every blasted day of my blessed, privileged life. As I changed Josiah's diaper this morning, reflecting on his seemingly constant state of viral illness, I powerful thought struck me.  These sicknesses, which for Josiah are small bumps in road of his first year of life, are far less merciful to children in developing nations.  In fact, diarrheal illnesses kill 760,000 children under age five each year (WHO). Is the life of any of those children worth less than his?  Of course not.  Do I live that truth?  Sadly, no. I buy brand name diapers and Desitin, s

After nearly 72 hours of gastrointestinal distress, my favorite little 10-month-old was understandably cranky. As I attempted to put him down for a nap, which he desperately needed, he proceeded to complain loudly and arch his back in such a way that he became nearly impossible to hold.  Basically, he refused to be comforted.  When I put him down, his protests were even louder and more pathetic. How often do we respond to God this way?  He is trying to give us what we need, in the most gentle way, but we think what He is giving us isn't what we want.  Mostly because we don't know what we want.  We murmur loudly, on repeat, about what we think we need.  But He knows.  Oh, how He knows.  And how we get in the way of what could be such a sweet time, held in secure arms, because we think we know better. Think about it.  What concerns dominate our prayer lives?  Have our conversations with God become a one-sided litany of complaints, in which we endlessly state and restate our reque