This New Year didn’t arrive with fireworks or finished plans—just a lot of waiting, learning, and grace I didn’t expect.
This month has carried both weight and wonder.
The boat arrived in November, but the supplies still haven’t made it to the Mole. Every day it’s tomorrow or next week.
For the first time in 22 years, Santa didn’t come on Christmas Eve. We stayed up late instead—playing games and watching movies until 3 a.m. The older kids understood. The younger ones didn’t. And Malaya definitely didn’t help when she explained Santa had been kidnapped by the gangs after they noticed how full his sleigh was. We quickly pivoted to the elves negotiating his release. Crisis averted… temporarily.
Many of the orphans, staff children, and families we support spent Christmas without anything special this year. And somehow, they met it with more grace than I know what to do with.
We delayed activities as long as we could, hoping the boat supplies would be delivered. After moving the staff Christmas party twice, we finally went ahead without the gifts, the prom-looking dresses for the women, or the unique games we had planned. And yet, it was still beautiful. We laughed anyway. We ate a lot. We played bingo. We handed out IOUs—promises that the gifts would come later. It wasn’t what we envisioned, but joy still found its way in.
Tonight, we’re hosting a big New Year’s celebration for 300 of the most vulnerable children in our area. This wasn’t a last-minute idea. Back in August, we spent three weekends driving to every Dollar Tree within a 50-mile radius—filling the SUV from floor to ceiling each time, clearing out shelves, breaking items out of boxes just to make them fit. Store managers eventually started offering us the warehouse dollies so we could get everything to the car. It became a whole thing. People watched, asked questions, and genuinely seemed to love what we were doing—unless they were behind us at checkout. Those people had immediate regrets.
We wanted this New Year’s to be extra special. Through our school outreach, we’ve gotten to know so many of these kids personally, and we’ve been building toward this celebration since their school started in September. That’s why it’s been hard knowing the backpacks we prepared—stocked with toiletries, water bottles, glow jewelry, baby dolls, Barbies, balls, kites, Legos, rackets, swords, dominoes, cars, etc—won’t be going home with them tonight.
Instead, we did what we could. We put together small ziplock bags with candy and popcorn, along with a simple carnival prize—a yoyo, a bouncy ball, a spinner top, or a bracelet—so every child could still walk away with something.
Not knowing when the supplies would arrive, we had the foresight to have parents fill out permission forms listing where they live or which school they attend. Each child will wear a numbered bracelet that matches their form, so when they win a prize, we can take their photo and personally deliver their gifts to them in January. It’s the best solution we could come up with to make sure every promise made is a promise kept.
Living here means holding two sets of expectations at the same time. On one hand, Christmas paused in our own house—no stockings filled, no gifts opened, a quiet agreement that it “wasn’t really Christmas yet.” On the other hand, there were sugar cookies in the oven, cold drinks in the fridge, matching shirts pulled from drawers, and Christmas lights glowing around us.
I found myself watching both worlds side by side: the small disappointments my children felt, and the way others gently worried over them—over dolls not opened, toys still waiting—while carrying far heavier absences of their own.
And here’s the part I keep turning over in my heart.
The people I’m most afraid of letting down are the ones gently telling me it’s okay. The ones with the least are comforting the ones who have more. The ones who would be the most blessed to receive are the ones offering reassurance instead.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about waiting in Scripture—about how often God’s people lived in the space between promise and arrival. Israel waiting for deliverance. Elizabeth waiting for a child. Simeon waiting to see the Messiah with his own eyes. None of them waited casually. Their waiting was active. Expectant. Heavy with hope.
I’ve felt that same urgency in my own heart these past weeks—checking updates, listening for news, longing for the moment the supplies finally arrive. I want them now. Not out of impatience, but out of care. Out of love. Out of knowing how much hangs in the balance.
And it’s forced me to ask a harder question: have I ever waited for Christ like this? Have I ever anticipated Him with this kind of focus, this kind of ache, this kind of readiness?
There’s a quiet honesty here for me. I often wait for God’s provision more urgently than I wait for God Himself. I long for what He brings, sometimes more than I long for His presence. And yet Scripture reminds me that waiting is not wasted when it draws our attention back to Him—that hope grows in the space where control ends, and that desire can sharpen faith if we let it.
“I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits, and in his word I put my hope.” Psalm 130:5
I’m learning that waiting isn’t just about what we’re waiting for, but how we wait. With trust. With patience. With open hands. Anticipation changes us when we allow it to. It teaches us to hope without timelines and to believe even when the evidence hasn’t arrived yet.
Christmas is my favorite season, and this year stretched me more than I expected. And yet, in the middle of delays and unfinished plans, I find myself being ministered to by the very people I came to serve. That feels holy. And it feels like grace.
This New Year feels unfinished because it is. And maybe that’s the invitation—not to rush past the waiting, but to let it do its work. To learn how to wait not just for supplies, or answers, or outcomes… but for Christ, with the same urgency I feel right now. With my whole being.
Happy New Year… in progress.
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Below are pictures from our staff party 🥳
