Compassion International, Peru 2012

Love Like This

Todd will be the first to tell you I’m a terrible unpacker.

I traveled a lot this Fall, and more often than not, my suitcase sat by my bed untouched until I was preparing to leave again. I would take out a few things and put a few more in, but the suitcase was never empty in between.

As a child I used to watch my father fold his business clothes neatly, one shirt on another, breathing in the smell of his aftershave as the zipper wound around the edges. While I hated the fact that he was leaving, I loved the way it was packed. It was so organized and simple. It narrowed a complicated life into sections and pockets, and it was so manageable that way.

There’s something to be said about a freshly packed suitcase.

But there’s always the mess of coming home. Trying to make your life fit back on the hangers and realizing it isn’t as easy as reaching in and tucking away. There’s washing and ironing and folding to be done, and the closet already seems full. It’s so much work to make it all right again, and it makes me imagine life looking like it did a few days ago.

It’ll never be the same, I think.

I’m tempted to leave it alone and let the memories steep a little longer.


I didn’t know how I reached for her until I saw the photographs, and my heart crumpled at the shape of my hand on her head. I’m cupping her face as I would any of my own children, but I’ve only known her for an instant.

Who can explain a love like this?

I hold a backpack we brought for her, and tell her I can’t wait to spend time with her. We spend hours at her school and I follow the backpack left and right, down the corridors and stairs that know her fingers and feet.

We learn that we will get to see her house today, and I feel every shade of emotion possible. My family sponsors many children through Compassion, but I have never seen their beds and their tables. While I am aware that it will affect me emotionally, I can’t prepare myself for the moment she points and smiles, saying “Here it is!” while Abby and Ellie follow her in.

I watch the backpack in the doorway and I take a minute to breathe before I go in.

I finally do, and find a place on a couch in the main room, smiling as she plays with the girls and soaking in the reality of her world. Before I can take it all in, she sits beside me and takes the backpack off. She points to the zipper and I remember that we told her we would open it when we got to her house.

I nod and we all watch as she pulls out the crayons, the coloring books, the slinky, and all the other art supplies and fun things we packed away late one night in Nashville. Her face lights up as she spots the nail polish and before I know it, the three girls have settled at the table and are giggling and painting like it’s any other day with any other friend.

Then the coloring comes out and they relocate to just outside the front door as I learn from her brothers what life looks like here. It’s hard to hear the details, but I am grateful to know what she’s up against. Eventually it is time for us to leave and the girls come back in so we can say goodbye to her family. Fernanda sits on my lap and I reach to zip her backpack, fighting tears as I realize she has put all of the cellophane, empty boxes, and meaningless tags inside with the rest of it.

Then again, who am I to presume I know trash from treasure? 

I tell her I am afraid to fly. I tell her that I do it because I know God has a plan for my life and I want to be obedient to His calling. I tell her that He has a plan for her life too, and I don’t want her to be afraid. My fingers unclasp a necklace Todd gave me to encourage me in a difficult season, and I slip the chain around her neck. I tell her what it says (“I am not afraid…I was born to do this” {Joan of Arc}), and I see her expression change for a moment before she buries her head in my chest and hugs me. It’s the first unprompted hug we’ve shared, and I get lost in it.

It’s real.” She whispers, and the translator gives me her words.

She tucks it under her shirt and I pray over her.

We will be taking her to the zoo the following day, so we know it’s a short goodbye. Still, as we board the bus and look out the windows, she is watching us intently. As the motor starts, the girls wave and we see her reach in her jacket as we pull away.

She pulls out the necklace, holds it up like an unspoken promise, and then hides it deep again while we drift out of eyesight.

Although I may never find the words to describe this moment (I can’t imagine I will), something in me shifted.

Try as I might to empty this suitcase, I know one thing for certain.

It will never be the same.


She wears her backpack to the zoo the following day, and I smile as she sorts through it all. She has obviously taken everything out and played with it, but has taken care to put every last bit back inside.

An airplane flies over and she points to it. I tell her that I will be riding on one that night and her face drops. She asks if I can stay for one more day and I tell her I wish I could. I tell her I will write and pray and God willing, I will see her again. She smiles at that and asks “How?” I tell her God can do anything, and she nods like she believes me.

When it’s time to say goodbye, I try not to cry. I do pretty well until I tell her not to forget to write us and she lifts her pinky in the air, smiling. I had taught her about “pinky promises” during lunch and apparently she wanted me to know she took it seriously.

We must have hugged and said goodbye twenty times or more, until finally her backpack was so far in the distance that it was just a speck of pink to my eye.

It was so arranged when we came, I think. So orderly and neat.

It’s better this way, though…

As the days pass, I think of Fernanda and her fingers smoothing her sweater over her new necklace while she grinned like a sweet little Cheshire cat.

She loved the necklace, but not because it was something she could show off.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

Oftentimes we share what should be sacred, and shout what was more beautiful in the silence.

The deepest, most valuable moments of this life are not given to us to be given away again.

We tell our stories, we share our hearts, we live passionately and openly with the community the Lord gives us-absolutely.

But every now and then, we recognize that He has given us a moment, a word, a glimpse of Himself, an unspoken promise that is far too wonderful to try and explain.

So we smile, smooth our sweaters, and honor Him, fingers tracing the outline of grace.


His fingers are delicate and swift, clasping the ends together while I read the words through tears.

Don’t be afraid, love. You were born to do this…

“It’s real,” I whisper, pressing into Him with gratitude.

It will never be the same.

He knows I don’t feel worthy of the gift, and He reminds me gently that I am no position to recognize trash from treasure.

His fingers cup around my face, and I feel deeply known despite every reason I shouldn’t.

It’s home, this place so far away…

Who can explain a love like this?

Sponsor a child today.

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  • Reply JD in Canada November 28, 2012 at 4:47 pm

    Love the way you shared the parallels, especially the end… tears… The emotion of meeting a sponsored child — so exquisite. My 11 year old daughter Jillian and I were in Haiti the week you were in Peru, and we met her Compassion child, the whole family, saw their house, and took her to the beach… I’m still not sure I’ll find the words… some things are sacred indeed. We’ve met 7 of our 17 kids so far, and it will never cease to amaze me and touch me to the core.

    • Reply qian November 28, 2012 at 11:12 pm

      wow 17? 😮

  • Reply Melissa Douthart November 28, 2012 at 4:48 pm

    I read this moments before I teach an after school kid’s club here in the US. I’m sobbing. I need to pull myself together. OR maybe I don’t.

    God bless you and thank you, deeply, for sharing this with all of us, Angie. God has changed you and through you, changed me. Bless you.

  • Reply Amy November 28, 2012 at 5:35 pm

    I’m a mess, two minutes before naptime ends. Thank you for this, Angie, and as I read over the last paragraph again, I can’t help thinking — isn’t this exactly how it should be? To receive from Christ, to give to His children… to widely spill the cup of overflowing grace while it’s filled again, brimful? Thanks again for this taste of His beauty.

  • Reply Jessica November 28, 2012 at 7:06 pm

    That last paragraph were especially touching as I am struggling with that acceptance of God’s unconditional love for me.

    Maybe it’s time to unpack my suitcase and let God take care of the baggage that is too heavy for me.

  • Reply Connie L Amato-Mahle November 28, 2012 at 8:07 pm

    Beautiful, Angie. Very moving. I have no words that will suffice. So extraordinary how perfect strangers touch and change lives. And you have done so with me. Thank you, friend.

  • Reply Jen Martinson November 28, 2012 at 9:41 pm

    Oh Angie, I just love your heart. your words move be to love, serve and give. thank you!

  • Reply Yvonne Reynolds November 29, 2012 at 1:59 am

    I don’t know if any of us can explain the love we have for these children. A couple of ours have asked if we will ever meet them in person. It breaks my heart to read their words, because I don’t know if we will ever have a chance to meet. It is such a blessing to read stories like yours, of people who have been able to hug and spend time with their sponsored children. Thank you for sharing about your time in Peru!

  • Reply November 29, 2012 at 7:45 am

    It was something to share life with those special girls,wasn’t it? Miss you, friend. Thanks for sharing her story. It was a hard transition back into the busy Thanksgiving week, and feel I still haven’t had time to unpack it all (literally and figuratively) 🙂

  • Reply Jen Sparks November 29, 2012 at 8:09 am

    Wow. Wow. Just… Wow. {{you are infinitely precious}}

  • Reply Kristin Hill Taylor November 29, 2012 at 9:07 am

    Thank you for unpacking your heart to share with us. This is beautiful.

  • Reply Wick Anderson November 29, 2012 at 9:38 am

    Wow….great words, images, and testimony of love. Have you read “Love Does” by Bob Goff? I think your story hear smells a lot like his stories. I reviewed it this morning on my blog…hope that’s not too self-serving to post. May God fill each of our lives with love like this, and more…

  • Reply Jean Marie November 29, 2012 at 11:55 am

    The last picture of her does me in. You touched her and blessed her, Angie. What a gift!

  • Reply Natalie Witcher November 29, 2012 at 1:36 pm


  • Reply Jennifer Ciarletta November 29, 2012 at 3:53 pm

    Undone. Your pictures were stunning. Your words did me in. His love covers us all. So thankful.

  • Reply Julesmpg November 30, 2012 at 12:22 am

    So beautiful. I love the way God uses your words. Beauty comes from obeying God.

  • Reply Friday Five | Elizabeth Hyndman November 30, 2012 at 2:39 am

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  • Reply Lauren Cunningham November 30, 2012 at 3:57 pm

    These words are simply stunning! You have one gorgeous heart, Angie!

  • Reply Michaela November 30, 2012 at 11:47 pm

    I was in tears throught the whole thing!! Absolutely loved it! You are such an amazig and gifted women Angie. You are one inspiration after an other.

  • Reply Sunday Link Love 12/2/12 — Geek Mama December 2, 2012 at 6:02 am

    […] Love Like This – She always makes me cry, in a good way. […]

  • Reply Katie Axelson December 2, 2012 at 9:47 pm

    I pinky promise there are tears in my eyes.

  • Reply Natalie McLeod Elrod December 3, 2012 at 12:22 am

    Oh my word… God’s timing is always so perfect. This is exactly what I needed to read tonight. God has been so huge in my life, my marriage, my family. I have wanted to scream to tell the world of His goodness and how He still moves stones. HAve struggled with what to share and what not to share. Gosh I really needed this~ your words spoke volumes to me! Thank you for being so obedient to Him!!!

  • Reply Sheryl December 3, 2012 at 4:37 pm

    LOVED this.. every word.. through the tears.. smiling like a Cheshire cat myself..

  • Reply Terry January 4, 2013 at 7:49 pm

    How beautifully you write–how deeply you feel. I was moved to tears by your blog and it makes me want to go visit our Compassion child!

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