Duke's Daughter

She stares at me through serious dark eyes in the picture that sits framed on my desk. I like to think this expression is only because she is staring into the sun, or maybe she's confused about why I'm taking her picture.

I know we helped her. We gave them clothes, we gave them Bibles, we told them Jesus loved them.

And so help me, I know He does. I've built my life around those words; they changed the course of my life, they changed me.

But here's this little girl staring back at me from a picture frame that probably costs more than anything she owns.

She has her ears pierced, and she doesn't even have on a shirt.

And all I did was toss a couple of words her direction, expect them to change her life, and hop back on the plane.

I'm home now, finding it harder and harder to justify to myself how I can have so much, how I can drive my car, how I can live so easily and know that her world didn't stop just because I left.

I don't like the effect she's having on me. She made me happy at first, because she was so precious. I can hear myself babbling to my mother from a pay phone, over the static and across the ocean, about how beautiful the children were.

And they were. I filled pages and pages in my cheap spiral notebook, describing how much I loved them and how wonderful it was to be down there.

Since then, though, something has changed.

When people ask me about Brazil, I hear myself throwing off general terms like "It was awesome," or " We had a really good time."

But I don't tell the stories anymore. I don't talk about sitting in an empty classroom, holding a woman's hand as she sobbed to me that she could find no real reason to get up in the morning and then seeing the look of relief on her face as I explained to her that there is, indeed, a peace that transcends all understanding.

I don't talk about watching her walk out of that classroom, her entire posture changed, with a smile on her face. And I can't really figure out why. For awhile I thought it was because it's impossible for those two worlds to coexist. In order to enjoy my life, I had to shove that other world away, push it out my mind until I can be back there and do something to make it better.

But really it's because I'm afraid that, as I look at their pictures, as I type these words, they're still there, in exactly the same position they were when we came.

I have a silver cross ring on my finger, and she wasn't even wearing a shirt.

I lose my breath.

Where are they now? Do they understand that, without us there to guide them and teach them, the unconditional love of Christ we taught them about still remains? Or were we just a passing distraction, a wave of hope followed by a valley of hopelessness?

With every day that I was home, I found my answers becoming more and more cynical.

She doesn't even have a shirt, and I have a ring on my finger that is supposedly a Christian witness.

The morning comes when I make a conscious decision not to put the ring on, perhaps for the first time since I've owned it. I don't wear it the next day either, or the next. For several days, my finger is bare, a silent protest that only I would ever notice. I don't want to have these questions, but I do, and I'm mad.

It doesn't make any sense to me. I believe, I believe, I believe. But it just doesn't make sense.

Through bitter tears and broken words, I throw out my questions. What's this all about? Is it even worth it? Am I building my life around something that's going to let all of these people down? It's not fair, can't be right, can't be real.

So help me, I'm mad. Mad at myself, mad at Him, mad at all the stupid people that think a couple of words are going to make a difference.

And then, as I leave my apartment one night, I randomly catch a glimpse of the brilliant stars that color the black sky above me.

I lose my breath.

I'm confronted with all of the things my dad has taught me about the beauty of the sky, how it all fits together, how every single star out there is pulling on me, and I'm pulling on it (a concept that fascinated me as a child).

I'm humbled by its beauty, its perfection, its design.

And suddenly, I know, with certainty, that everything is as it should be. I may not know anything else, the questions may still stand, but everything is as it should be.

The God of the universe, that made these very stars, is by my side, waiting for me to cast my cares upon him.

A soothing calm takes the place of bitter questions.

Thank you, Father, for your peace that transcends understanding.

That night I kneel, tearfully, begging him to use me to help reach his people, right here, right where I am, until I'm able to go back there. Thanking Him that even though I don't understand, I can rest in Him and know that He is in control. Praising him for every single beautiful, amazing thing I see around me. Thanking Him that He is powerful enough to change the lives of the people I knew in Brazil, no matter what their circumstances.

The next morning, I slip my silver cross ring out of my jewelry box and put it back on my finger.

Hannah Heath


Stardust

I am made of stardust. I was born to love the stars. It was 1986, and I was named for the year's most extravagant display of heavenly power, Halley's Comet.

When I was little, I always enjoyed this fact.

"I'm named after a star," I would gleefully boast to my friends while stumbling on the jungle gym. "And one day, I'll be one."

Faithfully each night, my dad would quiz me on their names, and with each correct answer my eyes would gleam with pride.

"Of course I know that one, Daddy. It's Arcturus," I'd giggle and wait expectantly for the impending pat on the head that meant my dad was pleased.

My dad was different from me, I thought. I would catch him gazing at the sky for hours, waiting, it seemed, for something that would never come and searching for answers that couldn't be found.

One breezy autumn night around 2:00 in the morning, I made a discovery that led me to finally understanding my father. For years, we would go out early in the morning to watch the sky. My whole family would come every time some new sensational spectacle occurred in the stars. ( I suspected that my sister secretly hated each and every one of these occurrences, but I loved them.) This night, however was different. Everyone refused to go except for my dad and me. So we loaded our beaten up ancient van with all of the star watching essentials: blankets for a mosquito net, Coke, and classic Rock & Roll.

We got in, and Daddy began to drive. I wiped the sleep away from my eyes and watched out of the window while trying to control the growing anticipation in my stomach. In the air, there was a hint of mystery, and I knew this night would be different from the rest. To me, the time it took to reach our star watching destination was an eternity. In order to see the meteors, we had to get far away from the lights of the city, the lights of daily living that polluted the beauty of God's sky.

Finally, we stopped and leapt out of the van with childish impatience. I turned my eyes to the velvet sky and saw the smooth Milky Way flowing between the constellations that I had memorized years before. The air was crisp and felt like silky lotion on my tired skin. My dad clapped his hands with more joy than I usually saw within him.

"It's clear, Haley. The sky's so clear. This is gonna be a perfect night."

"Dad! Dad, there's one!!" I danced with delight.

It was our first star that night. It's tail woke up the black sky with light and then slowly faded back into the night. We turned up the Rolling Stones, the group that we had found to be the meteors' favorite, and begged the stars to come. We counted and counted, and the stars kept flying.

"Wow!" my dad breathed. "How can you see that and not know there's a God?"

We continued to watch, rejoicing over each star and tallying them in our minds.

As dawn approached, we saw, with great disappointment, the hints of color, the rising of the sun, the breaking of a new day. We sauntered to the car, my dad smiling with a rejuvenated faith, and me a new person.

In the car, I lazily slouched into my seat, my neck cramping from staring at the sky for too long. For the first time, I understood. The answers my dad was looking for really were in the sky. They were in each shooting star and in me. God was there and seeing his creation meant seeing him. We had no need to wish on these stars. Everything we could ever desire was hanging all around us, waiting for us to look up and find it. No, we didn't have to wish. Our wishes were already realized. All dad and I had to do was drive, drive away from the city and away from shallow petty problems and just look up. Then we had everything. We had a real God and family, and most importantly, out there on the dark deserted rocky road, we had ourselves.

My dad and I aren't that different. We both have stardust inside of us. My sister outgrew star parties, but I know that I never will. I know that I, too, will drag my family out in the middle of the night to see the sky. I'll be like my dad. That's how I want to be, and I know that when I'm gazing at the sky, he'll be there, too. All that I have to do is look up.

Stardust
Haley Michelle Heath
12-03-02