A Place at MY Table

Here I am, all warm and cozy in my chair, wrapped in my blanket, checking my email and Facebook. I am sending messages on another kind of Facebook used in Eastern Europe.
Me: How are you tonight?
It's not really night there, but he understands the time difference, having been here twice before. Well, not to MY house exactly, but to my country, where my fellow countrymen have loved on him and treated him well.

The reply: My stomach hurts.
Are you sick? Hurt? Upset? What is the matter? All of these are things that can be comforted by words. The right sentiment, the right thing said to make everything okay. A quick prayer, "Please, Dear God, give me the right words to say".

The second part: Hungry.
Oeuf! A feeling of wind rushing from my lungs. Forced air, winded, gasping. How can he be hungry? He lives in a place where there are adults to take care of him, publicly funded, where there are people monitoring these things, surely.

Me: What was for dinner?
I have just finished chopping celery and carrots, then used my Cuisinart to chop up the onion so I would not be reduced to tears. I boiled the free range chicken I got from my local farmer in fresh spring water collected from a natural spring. Wafting from the oven is the tantalizing smell of fresh baked bread. Amish ground wheat flour, hand-kneaded, risen, and almost ready to dip in the hot soup, cooling it slightly so I won't burn my tongue.

The reply: Boiled meat and bad potatoes. I couldn't eat much.
What can I do? An ocean away, even if I sent him food right this minute, it would not arrive for two weeks, if it arrived at all. Two weeks is along wait for food.

I am sending necessities with another Mom who is traveling to adopt. her son. She has some extra room in her suitcase to hold necessities such as food, toiletries, and warm clothing.

In the meantime, I am processing information on spaghetti dinners, local craft shows, Both Hands Foundation and other fundraisers to try to adopt. There is extra in my house, and I am creating  A Place at MY table.

James 1:27 Pure and undefiled religion in the sight of our God and Father is this: to visit orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself unstained.

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