Let's take a walk...Sponsoring a Dove kid!

Cinderella, golden pigtails, my cat, Amelia Bedeilia books, the color pink, floral dresses, my first ice skating experience, and climbing trees- all gems that flavored my life at seven years old. Just a spoonful of happiness kept me smiling for a week, my greatest concern being avoiding timeout during recess. How quickly we forget blissful simplicity. And even when we don't forget we easily release it to the wind, shifting our gaze toward complex splendors that stretch much farther than a bicycle ride around the block, freshly free from training wheels.

Meet Sara.


She's seven, and one of the newest little girls to join hands with Dove. She loves to hug and loves to give. She wears two pigtails on either side of her sweet face, and darts across the playground in a floral dress of blue. Her precious momma waits for her outside toward the end of the afternoon, unable to stop herself from smiling as her little girl pushes back the struggles of her life to simply and abundantly love. The pictures she paints, the songs she sings, the endearing way she embraces her little sister- these things tell me that the castles Sara builds in her head are far more magical than tangible ones grown ups chase, thinking themselves too old for fairy tales.

And though the path is beaten with time, and I can barely recall what it was like to have Sara's heart and spirit, I will grip her hand and try as hard as I can to repeat a walk. It becomes more familiar by the step. Yes, she thrives in a world completely different from the one I knew. Yes, financially there's contributions to be made by my family as a sponsor. But much more beauty exudes from this sprouting friendship. As a sponsor, you are vital for the road that exquisitely paves its way before your child of Dove Missions. It's not a stroll, and oftentimes the lamp is only bright enough to see the next step, but through it all, you share in his/her story, serving as a constant reminder that there is a light at the end of the tunnel.

As my parents and I begin to answer the call toward child sponsorship, my heart is completely warmed by two of our volunteers as they care for one of Dove's cherished boys CoCo. Kathy and Kara Lapso not only physically give to this amazing kid, but they visit his home and laugh with his family, trying more and more to learn his special heart, which is ever-increasing with thankfulness.



Here's a brief rundown of sponsoring a Dove child:
Cost: $30.00 per month
Provides for: Groceries for the familyof the child each month
Contributes toward: A school uniform, school supplies, medicines, microloans, and all programs associated with the Dove Missions Club (advanced English classes, jewelry classes, sewing classes, music classes, art classes, etc.) These programs are aimed not only at providing productive projects and goals for the kids, but also at better equipping them for the work-field. Furthermore, if you decide to volunteer with Dove Missions, you can play and visit with your child and his/her family personally! How sweet is that!
Need: There are currently 20 Dove kids who still need sponsors! Let's make it happen!
Contact: If interested, please email volunteer@dovemissions.org

Sweet friends, the walk you could potentially take with your sponsor child is one of marvelous adventure bathed in prayer, and probably the occasional happy tear! What a beauty it is to share in their precious stories as a giving encourager they will forever remember! Let's take a walk.

-Betsy Coughlin
Summer Volunteer for Dove Missions

This. Is. Haiti.

I take one last glance from under the arch of the border. Back toward the vibrance and contagious hope of the Dominican. Back toward Jose Antonio who held out his sandwich to me yesterday at lunch, thinking I had none. Back toward sweet Christina who placed her bracelet on my wrist after I commented on its loveliness. I suppose I expect these colors and sounds, fragrances and precious embraces to fade slowly, for Haiti is only a few steps away. But I hear a new chord entirely- one that only plays the harsh notes, summoning a darkness so heavy that I can grab it from the air and hold it in my hand. Venders stretch endlessly ahead, overflowing with fruits, candy, American Goodwill clothing, and scotch tape. No one is buying. No one can. Rocks are piled below the bridge of the border, tracing a murky stream. Hundreds of women press their clothes across these rocks after wringing out dirty water, piling dry garments in heaps on their heads. Everything is brown. Everything is dead. From the trees to the ground to the lake to the clothes to the stares people are giving us. Everything. Garbage invades any glimpse of surviving life, choking the earth beyond what my eyes can see, creating a stench of spoil and burning charcoal.

Dirt road after dirt road proves the consistent devastation outlining Haiti, marked with masses of people who wear the same loneliness, the same absence of hope. And just when I find myself convinced that no source of life could even begin to sprout, let alone thrive in the midst of such squalor, I enter Father Andre's orphanage. Squealing laughter erupts from twenty beaming faces as these precious children jump from swings and slide down slides, anxious to pile on our laps. Beyond this barring fence persists dry ground, but this is a garden- an oasis surging with joy and dreams that are indeed harvesting into fruition. My eyes quickly fall to a little girl alone on a swing, her arms tightly hugging her shoulders. She lets me pick her up and sit her on my lap, willing to share her swing. We glide back and forth, not too much, just enough to rock. I don't ask her name or how old she is, neglecting to put to use the handful of French I learned and forgot. We just sway to the buzz of screaming orphans weaving around us. And then it comes. "Turn you eyes upon Jesus,"I softly begin to sing, knowing she cannot understand even a word. "Look full in His wonderful face. And the things of earth will grow strangely dim, in the light of His glory and grace." Never have I felt more like a mother. Never have I wanted to be a mother more. She lets her arms fall, and I know she's asleep, but I keep singing until the minutes have linked hands into an hour. I'm crying, weeping, thinking of her parents dying in the earthquake, thinking of her rescue from the rubble. So though it's off key, hymn after hymn is all I can pluck from my shattered Spirit. The things of earth growing strangely dim. I forget. I forget the market combusting with desperate beggars, the frail garments spread out on the rocks, the smell of burning charcoal clinging to the seldom breeze. I forget the garbage that ices the ground. I forget the fights and the screams and the loneliness. I forget the heat and the mosquitos and the twirling clouds of dust, even the squealing voices circling this swing. The things of earth are growing strangely dim. Oh, the captivating purpose this frail child in my arms must have! How many times she could've died- should've died, but survived.

Father Andre paves out his aspiration for the orphanage over dinner that evening to myself, Melissa, and two other volunteers Kathy and Kara. Phase one was renting the current house temporarily for the children to be cared for. Phase two was purchasing a substantial amount of land to build the actual orphanage, which was accomplished in October. This land stretches for fifteen acres, and will be complete with a clinic, a school, and a church, along with fertile ground that will hopefully allow this mission to grow its own food and tend its own cattle.





Father Andre understands that each of these darlings holds a story as special as the sweet girl I swung to sleep. It is his ultimate hope and prayer that every boy and girl in this orphanage will grow into intelligent, compassionate, loving leaders who are fully equipped to take Haiti by the hand, ignited by a passion to see it change. Dove Missions has full intention to follow this project and serve in whatever capacity capable. Out of twenty children, seventeen are still in need of sponsors. We're asking you to ponder and pray toward this endeavor, as the entirety of Father Andre's orphanage is operated by donation. What an exquisite opportunity it would be to share in the second beginning for one of these children! I am fully convinced that each of them will be vital for the restoration of Haiti as they're compelled by consistent giving to give of themselves. They truly have been pulled from destitution and placed on a beautiful path lined with promise. Dove is absolutely thrilled to walk that path with them!

-Betsy Coughlin
Summer Volunteer for Dove Missions

Cheers for Health!

Dove is ABUNDANTLY THANKFUL to precious Kathleen and Kara Lapso for doing physicals on the kids these past couple of days! According to "Nurse Kathy," the blood pressures and heart rates of our sweet kids are normal, which is definitely a victory to be thankful for! Their height and weights were also noted in order to keep track of growth. Several of the older kids, especially Anamilka and Danessa, helped out with the younger ones when receiving their check-ups! We're incredibly proud of the older guys and girls who continue to step up in terms of responsibility around the club. They find undeniable joy in caring for the younger children, and it is our hope that their caring hearts continue to be beautifully cultivated. May they see the genuine love of their volunteers and shower that same affection across the little ones!

-Betsy Coughlin
Summer Volunteer for Dove Missions

Beauty from June 14th!

Sweet Kara Lapso and her momma arrived today, and just when we thought Dove couldn’t radiant with any more joy, their contagious happiness flooded the club. And what a perfect day for this exquisite bliss to occur: the day of our first water balloon war. Joan paired us up and formed two straight lines facing each other. The kids squirmed as they held their balloons steady, meticulous in tossing them to their partner under their legs, over their heads, or five steps away, erupting with laughter when they burst across the concrete, splashing cold water over our sweaty clothes and faces. No one was frowning, and few were dry!

One volunteer of the week, Patrick, whom the kids lovingly refer to as “Patricio,” allowed four preteen girls at the club to braid his hair today! Although he cringed from time to time when the girls tightly pulled each strand, “Patricio” held his breath and continued to wait patiently for the completion of his new due. Certainly worthy of a captured photograph!


Kara and I also had our hair extensively styled today while watching a basketball game following the water balloon fight. As sticky, sweaty hands experimented with various looks, oftentimes undoing something perfectly acceptable for the sole reason of repeating it, Kara and I flinched and laughed. “You’re beautiful,” they would say to us, “Your hair is beautiful! Your eyes are beautiful!” But sitting there on that hot concrete, knowing one another for a matter of minutes, Kara and I both can only hope to be as beautiful as they, with hearts just as alive in love.

-Betsy Coughlin
Summer Volunteer for Dove Missions

A Garden From The Ground

Hola! My name is Betsy Coughlin, and I’m beyond blessed to be serving at the Dove Missions Club this summer along with maintaining this lovely blog that follows our precious children! Thank you, thank you, thank you for supporting this beautiful mission that has richly poured its love into my heart, though I’ve only known it briefly! Pray that this summer is one of increasing love, encouragement, and intentional relationships for these darling kids; each and every one of them is truly a gem. Here’s my first response to Dove, written a couple of days upon arriving:

The porch alongside ours' stirs with life; younger couples mingle with friends, reclining in rocking chairs and laughing hysterically, oblivious to time or schedule. It's Sunday. Family Day in La Republica Dominicana. From morning till night the smiles of children are glued to their faces as they frequently let out a laugh, anxious to use their instruments for this thriving symphony. The colors are brighter. The joy louder. The music happier. The lifestyle slower. But the curtain peels back, not gradually, but abrupt, ripping the threads that conceal the tragedy struggling to survive in paradise.

I intended to dip my toes in the ocean, meticulous in not having my clothes splashed, though the waves were explosive. With all of her strength, Patricia gripped my hand and pulled, yelling over her shoulder to friends, giggling Spanish words I don't understand. Two seconds later, the water is over my head and I'm holding three, squirming, happy girls whose laughs resemble lullabies. Every second that passes I wish I knew their language, and as they huddle together, their arms wrapped around me, I want nothing more than to understand-to have them tell me their hearts and be able to encourage with words. A stray piece of hair blows in my face and plants itself to my cheek, sticky with sea salt, though I'm too absorbed in thought to care. But these thoughts are soon interrupted as an older girl, gentle and quiet by nature, tucks the wondering hair behind my ear, smiling as another wind sweeps through, nearly knocking us off our feet. "Betsy, I'm near. I'm so near," my Spirit whispers to me.

NiNi, our beloved housekeeper shares a cup of coffee with me, filling my mug to the brim and pouring herself the tad bit that's left.

I'm not out of our car for more than three seconds before six-year old Mickey flies into my arms, buckling his string-pea legs around my waist. I can feel every bone in his body.

Domingo offers me a bite of his popsicle and a drink of his grape juice, for nothing goes into his hands without his passing the blessing to the person on his right and on his left.

Anamilka holds one hand and Christina the other as we stroll with six of their best friends to the rocks along the shore, a castle abandoned in ruin, and a yellow light house. They help me over uneven ground, guarding me from raw sewage and neglected trash. I feel as if I'm made of glass, delicate and breakable. They're leading me through their places of adventure- places where my whimsical, nine-year old dreams would've linked arms with the closest of friends and pretended till their hearts content.

From the bed of the mission's truck, we cruise, no, stumble, through the Barrios, the poorest neighborhoods in the Dominican. Scents of garbage weave themselves through the wind blowing from the sea where stockpiles of trash are heaped together like mounds of snow. The motes circling the huts are sewage, trickling from the ocean where we watch children leap and swim, flip and splash. Pieces of rusted tar and wood are nailed haphazardly together for homes, sheltering even ten at a time.

The Barrio leaks love from every corner, washing away the garbage, eclipsing the crumbling earth. "HOLA!" a little boy yells from the side of the street, peering shyly from behind a hut. Domingo's mother doesn't bother shaking our hands in meeting, but embraces us. She has tears in the corners of her eyes- not the kind that cry, but the kind that stay there, saving themselves for only the happiest of moments when laughing is insufficient. They invite us into their homes, dusting off their chairs and welcoming us to sit. Tattered curtains hang from the ceiling, blocking off four shoe-box rooms with no air or light beyond the invasion of open doors. Any child will sit in your lap. Any grown up will happily meet you. Any stranger will smile. How is the Lord so thick in squalor, so alive in devastation? It wouldn't occur to these darlings that anything else is possible. They haven't been blessed or polluted by grandeur. As they recline on their porches, fanning their faces in silence, it’s inevitable to wonder what they're thinking, if they're painting story-book settings and dreams pertaining to the other side of the island- the other side of the island where tourists lounge in oblivion, visible to the Barrio beaches sinking in shadows. But do they think we’re from that side of the island? There's not a trace of bitterness in their words or embraces, not an ounce of covet to be found. Just love. Only love.

Lord, how is it that these people who are exquisitely alive in love- these people who so extravagantly give and hug and smile. Give and hug and smile. Give and hug and smile. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Why must they be the ones to go hungry? Why must they be the ones to wear Goodwill clothes America doesn't want? Why must they be the ones to pile garbage together and call it a home? Why must they be the ones to live like this?

You lived like this.

I'm sorry for always forgetting.

There will be a dawn when all of this perishes. As surely as the daylight the Lord will return to us, faithful in His promise to make all things new, to build us up from the ashes. But until then, may the core of hearts be to do justice to the hands of Christ. The hands that healed the lame, cleansed the dirty, fed the hungry, nourished the sick, and embraced the prodigals. That's what these small lights of ours'-these brief sparks that fade with the midst of approaching Paradise-are destined to do.

-Betsy Coughlin
Summer Volunteer for Dove Missions