If like you true stories about living out the Christian Faith please read Tears Water the Seeds of Hope.....
Tears Water the Seeds of Hope is the inspiring true story of a Midwest husband and wife that become disenchanted with the relentless pursuit of the American Dream and embark on a journey that spans six countries and redefines their values and lives. The story begins in a small town in Wisconsin and weaves its way through South and Central America as the couple gathers an army of supporters and establishes an organization to save the lives of children in the end stages of starvation in eastern Guatemala. The narrative is filled with action-packed adventure and heartwarming victories as the characters face incredible odds and seemingly hopeless situations, while hundreds of volunteers join mission teams to offer help and hope through the programs of the ministry. Readers of all ages will enjoy the roller-coaster ride of emotions-from laughter to tears to sheer joy-as they realize that ordinary people can make a difference one life at a time. Sample Below.
Chapter One
Wrecked for Life
The setting sun painted a backdrop of cotton candy pink
clouds over the roadside bar and grill where we would soon
hear our favorite acoustic guitar duo sing Jimmy Buffet songs.
It was an idyllic Wisconsin summer night late in June of 2005.
Under normal circumstances, I would have enjoyed the warm
breeze and the glow of the festive colored tiki lights on the
outdoor deck with the sense of carefree recreation that
midwestern families enjoy when school is out and the days are
longer. Randy shook his head, smiling as our two daughters
took turns throwing harmless jabs at one another, each
laughing hysterically at her own jokes. I felt as if I were
watching the scene from a distance, fighting back tears as my
mind returned to the children I had seen two days earlier in a
squalid hospital in drought and famine-stricken eastern
Guatemala—a scene that would change me forever and wreck
me once and for all for the relentless pursuit of the American
Dream. I was haunted by the forlorn faces of two children
whose hopeless situation had laid the framework for the rest of
my life.
Elias, the severely starved two-year-old boy, was scarcely
more than skin and bones. Hair was a luxury his body could
not afford, as the nutrients available to him were barely enough
to keep his vital organs functioning. His face was sunken and
pale, the outline of his ribs and spine clearly visible through his
thin layer of skin. He had been carried by his barefooted tenyear-
old sister from El Volcancito, their remote mountain
village several miles away, into the small town of Jocotan, in
hopes that his life could be saved. The mother of the children
was bedridden with a debilitating illness for which she could
not afford treatment. My heart broke as much for the boy,
barely hanging on and suffering miserably, as for the young girl,
exhausted and saddled with the crushing responsibility of
keeping her baby brother alive.
A frail little girl sat weeping on a tattered bench at the
entrance to the facility, her body emaciated and her abdomen
severely bloated, revealing the presence of parasites within her
weak, trembling frame. She had been brought to the hospital
for nutritional rehabilitation, and because she was four years
old, and her mother had two smaller children to care for at
home, she had been left alone. Lidia could not have understood
why she had been left behind by her family in this unfamiliar
place. She had been sitting on the bench since early morning
waiting for them to return. In her hand she clutched what was
probably her only toy, a comfort and reminder of home. The
lump in my throat returned each time I recalled opening her
tiny hand to find that she held a black plastic vulture.
Randy and I were married in May of 1993. During our
early years together, we were blessed with two beautiful
daughters and were pursuing careers in real estate, climbing the
ranks among our colleagues in terms of sales volume. We
purchased an enormous house on four acres, and although it
was only four years old, we completely remodeled it to suit our
tastes. With luxury vehicles and an ever-increasing income, we
were living the American Dream. There was much to be
thankful for, but something was missing.
Randy and I had both grown up near Madison, Wisconsin,
in middle class families, Randy’s Methodist and mine Catholic.
We had attended Sunday services and believed in an all-powerful
God, but faith and religion were not playing a major
role in our adult lives. Having agreed as newlyweds to raise our
family in faith, we dutifully attended services at a congregation
near our home for seven years. But we eventually felt that we
needed a change and in spring of 2000, we set out in search of
a new church home. With no predetermined denomination in
mind, we experienced a variety of church cultures, some too
formal, some too weird, others seemingly insincere. We
eventually stumbled across an Evangelical Free church on the
west side of Madison, near our home in the suburb of Verona. I
was surprised to find that instead of an organ and a choir, this
church had a band that played upbeat contemporary Christian
music on keyboards, guitars, and drums. The young pastor
spoke with passion, bringing the Bible to life by applying
scripture to issues faced by the generations of the twenty-first
century. It was at this church that our faith came alive.
Our new understanding of the gift of salvation through
Jesus Christ and the resulting sense of love and gratitude we felt
toward God, inevitably began to pose problems for us. We were
embarrassed to invite our new Christian friends to our
supersized home, and conflicts began to surface in our hearts
about how our time and money were being spent. One of the
many bedrooms in our home had been turned into my
personal closet and was loaded with clothing and shoes, most of
which I did not need. I had become so busy in my career as a
Realtor® that I began to feel like a gerbil on a wheel. My twelve hour
workdays did not leave room for the peace and joy I had
heard should come with our newly authenticated Christian
faith. One frantically busy day I decided to return phone calls
while waiting in line for lunch at the McDonald’s drive
through. When a voice came over the speaker saying, “Can I
help you?”
I was so preoccupied that I mistook it for a phone call and
said, “Hello, this is Kim Tews with the Tews Team Realtors.”
During the awkward silence that followed the kid must
have been thinking, “Yeah, who cares? What do you want for
lunch?”
That night I arrived home from work late in the evening to
find our three-year-old daughter asleep on the couch clinging
to a shirt I had worn the day before. When I asked Randy
about the shirt he explained, “She said it smells like you, and
she misses you.”
It was time for a change.
Chapter Two
The Price of a Child’s Eyesight
Recognizing our need for a vacation, we booked four
tickets, packed our bags, and headed to Mexico with Randy’s
parents for what we thought would be a relaxing and
inconsequential break from our hectic lives. The trip was a
typical vacation filled with sun, fun, and sand castles, except for
one thing. One day we took a van ride with several other
tourists to an attraction several miles from our hotel. The lighthearted
conversation between the passengers eventually arrived
at the question, “What would you do if you won the lottery?”
The answers ranged from sailing around the world in yachts to
telling bad bosses where to go. I thought we had left our
conflicted hearts at home to enjoy this break from reality, but
when it was my turn to answer I heard myself saying, “I would
like to make a difference for the poor people of the world.”
The other passengers looked intrigued as Mike Milbach, a
friend of Randy’s parents, spoke up saying, “You don’t have to
win the lottery to do that.”
The remark would have sounded condescending had he not
continued in a kind tone with an invitation. “I am a member of
the board of directors of a Seattle-based organization called
Public Health International (PHI), and we are working in
Ecuador to place drinking water systems in villages plagued by
waterborne disease.” He further explained that he wanted to
put us in contact with a friend who would be traveling to
Ecuador to visit villages that were being considered for the
installation of water systems. We exchanged email addresses,
and the wheels in my mind began spinning. Did he mean that
he wanted us to actually go to Ecuador? That was in South
America, right?
Within days of returning home I received an email from
Mike’s friend, Frank, a civil engineer who indeed formally
invited us to join him on a trip to visit some of the poorest
villages of the Santa Elena peninsula in western Ecuador.
Randy’s immediate reaction was, “No way! This is
dangerous territory. There are civil wars, guerillas, banditos . . .”
He mentioned various other scary things that I now refer to as
“monsters under the bed.” But we knew that the resources God
had given us were intended to be used for His purposes and,
eager to put our faith into action, we offered to sponsor a water
system. It was November of 2001, and we were on a plane
bound for Ecuador, only a few months after the van ride in
Mexico that had become the first of many stepping stones
toward God’s ultimate plan for our lives. We fell in love with
the Latin American culture. The simplicity of the lifestyle and
the kind, gentle nature of the people were inspiring, as was the
gratitude they felt for the little they had. We wondered how so
many in our country could have so much and be so miserable,
while the people of this country could be so poor, yet so
content. We had not seen the suffering of Guatemala, so with
our limited perspective, the poverty of Ecuador seemed
extreme. The idea of living without indoor plumbing alone
seemed like hell on earth to us.
On our first day on the Santa Elena Peninsula, we settled
into Manglaralto, a small oceanfront fishing town where we
would be based as we spent the next few days visiting villages
being considered for water systems. Frank took us to a local
hospital to illustrate the contrast between the health care in
rural Ecuador and that of urban America. We were appalled.
The floors of the few small dingy rooms were caked with dried
blood, and the striking lack of medical equipment and supplies
called into question what, if any, medical care could be
provided in the facility. A lone nurse passed from patient to
patient, but there were no doctors present. We happened upon
a nine-year-old boy whose eye socket was swollen to the size of
a tennis ball with infection. His mother sat helplessly by his
side in a state of despair, having been told that her son needed
an antibiotic costing nearly a month’s worth of her husband’s
wages, which she did not have. Without the medication, the
infection would most likely spread to the other eye, and the
boy could be left without sight in either eye. To make matters
worse, the boy’s mother was living with the remorse of having
tried various home remedies that had worsened the condition.
The situation was translated to English for us since we then
spoke very little Spanish. Tears welled in my eyes as my
thoughts turned to our own daughters and how easily we
would have been able to solve this problem for them. I thought
of the life-threatening illnesses common in this country and
how often parents must watch their children suffer and die for
lack of resources to purchase medications that would have
saved their lives. They loved their children as much as I loved
mine, and it occurred to me that I had done nothing to earn
my lot in life. My life of privilege was a result of the geographic
location of my birth and the opportunities that my country
had afforded me. I had always been aware that thousands of
children around the world died each day due to unsafe
drinking water, starvation, and preventable disease. But now
the problem was becoming real and personal to me in ways I
could no longer ignore. Apathy, preoccupation with “the good
life,” and the responsibilities of home would never again be
sufficient as an excuse to live as if the suffering in the world was
not my problem.
The medication the boy needed was available in a
neighboring town, and we asked the nurse to determine the
cost and send word to us at Manglaralto’s small rundown ocean
front hotel where we would be waiting at a table outside. The
sun was setting over the sea as a few tattered fishing boats
returned to shore, their captains unloading meager rewards for
a long day’s work. The sound of rhythmic waves lapped upon
the shore while wild dogs searched the beach for food. They,
like the fisherman, survived from day to day on the outcome of
their quest for sustenance.
Eventually we noticed the boy’s mother slowly approaching
us, her downcast eyes expressing no hope or expectation of the
miracle she needed. In her hand she held a scrap of paper on
which was written the cost of the medication needed to save
her son’s eyesight. She handed it to me without making eye
contact. Twenty-five dollars was the insurmountable sum of
money that would save her son from a lifetime of blindness. I
stood up, reached into my waist pack, pulled out $25, and
handed it to her unceremoniously. She burst into tears. Randy
was next, followed by the members of the hotel staff that had
been standing on the front steps of the hotel observing. As all
within earshot watched in tears, the boy’s mother gushed
expressions of appreciation in Spanish, most of which we could
not understand. Her repeated phrase, “Que Dios les
recompense,” were the only words I could decipher, which
meant “May God repay you.” After several minutes exuding
heartfelt expressions of gratitude, she hurried off to purchase
the medication. We were amazed to find ourselves overcome
with emotion over such a miniscule contribution given at so
little sacrifice. The $25 would have been spent without
hesitation on a few scones and lattes back home, but here it
meant the difference between vision and blindness for a child.
Evening fell, and Frank led us to the humble household of
a family that had invited us to dinner, having heard we had
come to help their villages. This was a large family that would
have been considered wealthy in this culture, but as we entered
the small dimly-lit cinder block home, we were confused to
find that we were being seated at a table set for three. A mangy
rat the size of a small raccoon scurried around the perimeter of
the room, as Frank explained that they wished to honor us, but
could not afford to feed their family the meal they were about
to serve us. The fare was familiar: a small slice of beef, a mound
of white rice, and refried black beans. Apparently, it was
considered a privilege for this family to have us in their home,
and as hard as it was to bring ourselves to eat a meal that would
have been such a special treat for them, we had no choice but
to enjoy their generous gift and express our gratitude for their
hospitality. In reality, it was we who were honored to have been
treated so kindly.
Leaving our gracious hosts we shuffled back toward the
hotel, exhausted while at the same time wired from the
emotional impact of the day. The next day would be actionpacked,
and we needed rest, but knew we could not possibly
sleep. Frank bid us goodnight and disappeared to his room, so
Randy and I walked the dusty streets alone, reflecting on the
day. We enjoyed the ocean air blended with the aroma of
burning wood wafting from the kitchens of the humble homes
that lined the streets. The world seemed to move in slow
motion, and I relished the sense of peace and calm. At home I
would have been dealing with the tyranny of email, paying
bills, doing mounds of laundry or possibly collapsing to read a
magazine, feeling lazy and guilty for taking a few moments to
relax while my endless “to-do” list waited.
Eventually we happened upon a small dimly-lit tienda
cluttered to capacity with snacks, cigarettes, and sundries. We
bought a couple of beverages, and as we sat on the cement steps
to unwind, three generations of the family that owned the shop
emerged from the living quarters behind to greet us and
welcome us to their town. The little Spanish I had learned thus
far was nearly useless, but the five years of French I had taken
in high school and college was helpful in communicating
general concepts, since many verbs and adjectives are similar
between French and Spanish. Randy, armed with his endearing
sense of humor and a few vague memories of high school
Spanish, led the conversation with a comedy of charades. The
language barrier was extreme but the mutual sentiments were
clear—we were happy to be there, and they were happy to have
us. We had brought simple gifts: candles, nuts, candy, and
Bibles which we pulled from our back packs and offered as a
sign of our gratitude for their warm welcome. We laughed until
we cried like life-long friends, amazed at the bond that could so
quickly be formed among strangers from distant lands speaking
different languages. We were having “fun” in the deepest sense
we had experienced in quite some time, and, although we did
not yet realize it, the wheels of change were turning within us.
Weariness finally caught up with us, and it was time to
return to our tiny hotel room, joyfully exhausted, to collapse
and try to sleep. As we approached the dwelling, however, we
realized that our rest would be postponed a bit longer. The dark
silhouette of a thin man on a bike in front of the hotel caught
us by surprise. When we were within earshot, softly spoken
words of gratitude poured forth from the visitor, at which point
the communication barrier became a serious problem. I vowed
that my top priority upon returning home would be to become
fluent in Spanish. The man was the father of the boy who had
received the benefits of our paltry $25 donation. He had ridden
his bike into town from his mountain village eight miles away,
after ten hours of work, to personally thank us for our
generosity. His family had been praying for a miracle for his
son, and he considered us to be the answer to their many
prayers. Tears streamed from his eyes as we again heard the
phrase, “Que Dios les recompensa.” I wished I had been able to
communicate to the man that God had paid us in advance. He
had blessed our lives immensely, and we were there to express
our gratitude to Him and to be a sign of His love for this
family.
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