Phnom Penh Pals: Team Helm in Cambodia

He was restless, and sick, and out of context.  So I took our little one-year-old warrior out of the crib at my parents' house, and laid him on the guest bed.  I put my arm over his chest, and sang to him softly.  And I thought: Dear God, how could I ever love another person as much as I love this one?   My thoughts wandered to the unborn child within me, and to all the children I hoped would someday fill our home. Would I love them less than this one? Immediately, a scene from over two years ago flashed into my mind.  Married only a few weeks to the most incredible, inspiring, God-honoring man I had ever met, I did not consider myself ready to be a mother.  Bearing children was not supposed to be part of our marriage, thanks to the miracle (cancer survival) and curse (resulting infertility) of modern medicine.  Pondering these and many other thoughts, I put my arm across my new husband's chest as he fell asleep.  The exact same question had crossed my mind: Dear God, ho

Throughout the day, I hear a little voice repeating things he has been told.  It is a sobering reminder of the weight our words carry in the lives of those around us.  Many of the sentiments are sweet: "Mama loves you.  Daddy loves you, too." "Thank you, Josiah." (as he pretends to feed and water his Little People farm animals) "I like football. I like friends." "Daddy at work." "I throw out!" (bringing something to the garbage) "Keep up!" ("clean up", as he puts things away) "Happy to you, happy to you, happy dear Jesus!" (Happy Birthday to Jesus) Others are reminders of boundaries and expectations: "No color floor.  No color wall." (the former was attempted once, and the latter warded off by a dramatically reenacted comparison) "No stinkies in bathtub.  No stinkies on couch" (the former attempted once, the latter advisory prep for potty training) "No kicking." &