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
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