Name Change = Blog Site Change

ORPHAN HOPE has changed it's name
to :
LOVE'S DOOR!
Why?

1. Because as we grow, we do not want to infringe on other similar organizationswith similar names.
2. Because, although the word "orphan" is wonderfully descriptive,
it is not positive to the children themselves.
3. Because as our organization has grown, so has our vision.
We see the Spirit of Love moving us to create
Transformational Communities
all over the world.

Where orphans will have forever homes with loving, forever moms;
Where the lost will be found - simple churches dotting the landscape.
Where schools and clinics and gardens will transform disciples.
Where jobs will be created.
Where people will be trained for taking the Good News to the world.

This is LOVE'S DOOR.
Open it and find the answer to your wildest dream.

• Our new blog site is: www.loves-door.blogspot.com
• Our personal site for our thoughts and travels is: www.danandregina.org

This will be the last blog on this site, though we will leave it here for a time as a testimony to God's work in this world.
God bless you,
Dan and Regina Bumstead

BELOVED

We left amid a flurry of packing and goodbyes to those-we-love-the-most, and here we are in Cape Town, beginning the adventure again. I tagged along with Missy and Michelle yesterday, buying rice and sardines, spinach and soap, then separating it all into food parcels for selected needier families in Masiphumelele. It’s all about sustainability, but in some cases a hand-out seems the only answer.

We visited in the home of one recipient, Nofirst, possibly 40 years old. It’s hard to guess ages here—we had to ask to determine if the five-month old on her back was daughter or granddaughter. Granddaughter she is, child of the woman’s 16-year old daughter, who is in school. Nofirst also cares for two teen-aged nieces. Her older son, the family breadwinner, was recently shot to death in an act of random violence. Out of desperation, she’s been encouraging the girls to drop out of school and try to find work. We hope that this weekly food parcel will allow them to continue schooling. Without education, there is little chance of the generational cycles being broken.

Nofirst’s home, a 12’ x 12’ wooden shack, is neat and tidy. It contains two single beds (for four adults and a baby), a smallish refrigerator with TV perched atop, suitcases storing clothes, a two-burner hot plate and some cooking utensils. No stockpile of groceries—people here live day-to-day.

Nofirst sits gingerly on the bed. She is in obvious pain from arthritis in her legs and hip. Missy explains the food program, and that her sponsor will be praying for her. Michelle takes her photo and we pray for relief from the pain, both physical and emotional, for awareness of the One who knows her and loves her. I tease and smile with the little one on her back, and our translator Wendy tells us the child’s name, Luthando, means “I Am Loved”.

I Am Loved! Could I too be known by the love bestowed upon me, could this be my identifying label? Jesus, could your eyes be the mirror that tells me who I am? It’s only in experiencing your Love for me that I am able to speak to I Am Loved, and to Nofirst, of their own belovedness. That Love does not shy away from these drab, maze-like alleys, these neglected children and countless bored youth. That Love encircles the five young men from Masi who were baptized in the Indian Ocean days after we arrived. That Love embraces them, and me, together. We are the beloved, children of a Father beyond imagining.

“Love us, God, with all you’ve got—that’s what we’re depending on” (Psalm 33:22).

DAN AND REGINA MOVING TO AFRICA

Here is a video of our ministry - where we have been and where we are going. If this is something you want to join in with, contact us - orphanhope@gmail.com. If you want to get on a short term team to Zambia in March; or help to pioneer a base in Zambia next year; or info for CPX; or contribute - let us know. Hope all will just say a few prayers for us, and some will take us on as a prayer project. Thanks. Dan.

Zambian Jewels

--posted by Regina (Zambia travels July/August 08)

A lookout spies us as we approach on the dusty road, and scurries back to alert the others. The sea of excited children breaks into song to greet us, and in a moment we are surrounded by happy mayhem. We come from a world they can only imagine, and their lives are just as incomprehensible to us.

We are in Luanshya, Zambia, visiting One World Vision, a fledgling orphan-care work that feeds 165 children daily and plans to open a school in September. Luanshya is located in the Copperbelt, a mining area whose economy went south a few years back as the mines closed due to mismanagement. The children come from a squatters' camp of 17,000 people. Fifty percent of those are considered the poorest of the poor, with no income at all.

The leaders here are local men and women who have deep concern for the children of their community and serve out of love for Jesus. They come from various churches and volunteer their time around other responsibilities. Vincent Chumya retired from a government job as an electrician a year ago. He and his wife Petronella now pastor a church and care for a household of 22 persons. Morgan Mumba is a school teacher, and an energetic creative thinker. Partially because of his experiences as the parent of a handicapped child, he volunteers with several ministries to children. Katherine Banda's heart for children is obvious in her banter with them--she plays a daily supervisory role. Aaron Mulenga, founder of the group and the youngest at age 25, is a man of passion and sacrifice. Because of his own struggles as an orphan, he is touched by the plight of those around him. As a single man, he cares for eight orphans in a very poor area of town. Their dilapidated rental home has a roof only over the bedrooms. We are exploring income-generating options with Aaron.

What does this ministry need? They need everything! Large cooking pots, school furniture and supplies, sewing machines, carpentry and gardening tools, school teachers and tutors, builders, nurses. But even more, they need people with a vision for transforming a community through the love of Jesus--people who will mentor and share life with others, who will in turn pass that love on further. Is this you? We're looking for a few good men and women who will commit to three to six months, who will trade in McDonalds and Starbucks in order to share the lives of the many desperate children of Zambia.

These are the ones who pull on me--children in tattered clothing, children with ringworm on their heads, with hard bloated bellies because of intestinal worms, with leathery reptilian skin from lack of bathing. These are the same children who are overjoyed to see us, who are fascinated to trace the dark blood vessels in our arms, who fight for the privilege of holding my white hand. Aaron Mulenga's group dreams of nurturing, caring for, providing a solid foundation for these. If you'd like to donate or volunteer, contact us to become a part of this venture of faith.

The Face of Hope

--posted by Regina

I’m starting to recognize the look of extreme hunger—starvation, if you will. Huge eyes stare out of a face devoid of emotion. Body movements are slow and calculated—energy is conserved for more important matters, like breathing. This hopelessness was written on our little Haitian girl’s face nine years ago, and I’m seeing it again in children’s eyes here in Mozambique.

Last month, xenophobia in South Africa sent 40,000 Mozambicans living there pouring back over the border—leaving their hopes for a better livelihood and opting instead for the relative safety of their impoverished home country. In a land devastated first by civil war and now by AIDS, this only adds to the staggering numbers of needy children. All Nations Mozambique, run by South Africans Pieter and Rika Boersma, provides two family-style baby houses near Maputo. I am privileged to spend six weeks investing in these babies’ lives. Let me introduce you to one of them:

Hawa arrived at the baby house three weeks ago, wearing the stoic face of hunger. Although she is almost three years old, she weighed in at 17 pounds. Claw-like hands dangle at the ends of arms that are frighteningly thin. When I pick her up, I instinctively move very slowly—the ribs so close beneath her skin feel terribly fragile. Her hair is light and reddish, another indication of severe malnutrition.

AIDS has bulldozed through Hawa’s family. Her father succumbed recently to the disease, leaving behind a sick wife (20-year old Felizmina) and three children. And now Hawa’s frail little body shows the stark effects of the illness. Pieter and Rika gave Felizmina food for the healthy children at home, offered her a jewelry-making class that could lead to a job, and received Hawa into their house—mom’s face brightened considerably. Smiling now, she turned to go, embracing every one present except her little daughter (who now has a new home). As Pieter says, “She already abandoned Hawa long ago.” I can’t pretend to understand these things—maybe detachment is the only coping mechanism left to her.

Hawa is now on anti-retroviral drugs, beginning an upward journey. Because she is still so weak, I’ve had the privilege of being her “mom”, giving her special attention. She sleeps beside me at night, her little hands grasping to find mine in the dark.

What excitement to see the first smiles, to hear her impish giggles as she splashes me at bathtime! It will take time to erase that impassive mask completely, but there is hope for Hawa, as evidenced by many of the other children who came here severely malnourished but are now flourishing. These are lives literally being saved, these are children who, God willing, will one day be men and women of integrity, transformed by the love of Jesus and influencing Mozambique for the kingdom.

(For more information about All Nations baby houses in Mozambique, see http://www.allnationsmozambique.com/.

Love Trumps Victory

June 9--posted by Regina

I’ve spent a fair amount of time in third-world countries over the past number of years, and yet my heart is breaking anew tonight as if it were the first visit. Last week there was Hortencia, the feverish young mom writhing in pain for days on a grass mat covering the dirt floor of her hut. At least we were able to get her to a hospital, but diagnosis was unclear—something involving her ribs and spinal column.

Yesterday several of us made our weekly visit to the TB ward of a local hospital. It’s a safe bet that almost all of the residents here have AIDS. Because of weakened immune systems, they usually succumb to tuberculosis or pneumonia. The facility had a “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” feel to it—quite clean, but appearing to be a few decades behind modern medical science.

A staff person announced our arrival, and a dozen women shuffled out of rooms-for-four in slow motion. The majority are walking skeletons with impossibly long, thin limbs. They settled into chairs around small tables while the worker served up tea. Through an interpreter we shared words meant to uplift and encourage. We prayed with them for healing, for comfort, and to know that One who passionately loves them waits at the end of the journey with open arms.

My friend Regina (a common Portuguese name) slipped back to her bed early, feeling worse than usual. I stood by her bed praying, crying, gently stroking her back as the frail feverish body convulsed again and again with coughing, then spitting into a cup. Do these women realize they are dying? How is it that the one Regina is blessed with abundant opportunities and resources, while the other seems so doomed?

This morning several of us accompanied Luis, a young Mozambican staff member of the All Nations baby houses, on a home visit to a very poor village. The mother is HIV positive and is interested in giving up her two-and-a-half month old baby, Antonio. After leaving the road, we walk on footpaths for 15 minutes before arriving at a simple reed shack that is home to eight people.

Mom is 16 years old and seems amazingly detached, considering it may be the last day she sees her son. Grandma is holding a blanketed bundle, and consents to let me have a turn. I can only weep when I look inside. Two alert eyes look up at me out of an emaciated little body, as tiny as my premature son at birth. He can’t possibly weigh over several pounds. Antonio’s arms and legs dangle limply, and his head is covered with a nasty cradle cap infection. Grandpa is concerned about child trafficking, and so Mom and a cousin bring the baby with to visit the baby house and see for themselves how the children are cared for. Pieter and Rika offer to care for the child only until he is healthy, or to keep him long-term, never cutting contact with the family. The final say rests with Mom.

It feels like there are missing pieces to this story, but in the end Mom bends to pressure from her father and nonchalantly decides to keep the baby. Her lack of responses and her strange detachment make us wonder if she is mentally delayed. The village footpaths are lined with ditches filled with standing water, perfect breeding grounds for mosquitoes. If AIDS or starvation don’t claim little Antonio, then surely malaria will. Outside of a miracle, I can’t believe this child will survive without intervention. And yet I’m told that the Mozambican government cannot take him without Mom’s consent…


I am broken, I am undone by the suffering I see. Where is the God of Elijah? I want to see miracles! It’s hard to feel so powerless. I’m doing a lot of crying these days. That seems to be about all I can do.

But maybe that’s the point—perhaps love is the greatest gift I could give, trite as that sounds. Maybe my tears can somehow begin to convey the heart of Jesus, broken for his Mozambican children. Maybe that’s the starting point from which all other ministry flows. It’s not always about victory—but it IS always about love.

“Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress…” (James 1:27).

(POSTSCRIPT: good news! Little Antonio's mom changed her mind, and he is now the newest, tiniest resident here, bathed and wrapped in clean clothes and much love.)

The Fatherless, The Oppressed

Adoption stories are always close to my heart, but our South African friend Raymond’s is exceptional—so much so that it deserves a separate blog on another day. For now, let it be said that his quest for the Mozambican relatives he never knew has resulted in parents he thought were dead, who understood Raymond had met the same fate as a child! There was excitement, there was thanksgiving, there was emotional exhaustion in this unexpected reunion. Yesterday was eventful on a number of fronts.

Since their son had come home, Raymond’s family decided to kill the fatted goat—but somehow, Abram and Dan were elected to do the butchering. The gory deed was captured on video, a piece of corrugated tin underneath to direct the flow of blood away from our team’s tents pitched nearby. By the time it was all said and done, there seemed to be more substance in the tub holding the entrails than on the kid’s scanty carcass. [Over the next days, Little Goat was to provide three meals for us: cleaned innards cooked up in a sauce over rice, other meat and bones the next night, and an honorary lunch just for the three older men (Dan included) consisting of the cooked head with cornmeal mush.]

Dan and I left the goat suspended from a tree, and walked with Raymond to visit Isabel, a village widow struggling to raise her two boys alone. Three old men sat under her tree enjoying a glass of something that appeared to be corn whiskey, served up by her eldest son, about 12 years of age. This is how a poor widow fills her children’s stomachs—she peddles one of the few things other poor people will buy.

Isabel is hoping we can help her. She picks through a pile of overgrown green beans from her garden, shelling the biggest ones and snapping the smaller ones into short lengths as we talk. We speak of helping her oldest son go on to secondary school. As is usual, her face is emotionless, but I see her shoulders slump—school is important to her, but I think she also hoped for more immediate relief. Our goal is not to give handouts but to think in long-range terms…but it’s very difficult to walk away from people who are struggling for daily bread. God, show us how best to use the resources we’ve been given! [Several days later we drop off 25 kilograms of ground corn, laundry soap, clothes and blankets—which seems woefully inadequate.]

Before we return home, we stop by the house of Raymond’s new-found sister, Hortencia. She lies on a mat in a windowless stick-and-mud hut with her one-year old daughter Nina and new boyfriend. We met her the night before when she came to greet Raymond. She wasn’t feeling well (headache and fever), and we prayed for her then.

Now, Hortencia is worse. She has a lot of pain near her ribs, has been to the clinic and has a handful of pills but is obviously not doing well. We make amateur guesses as to diagnoses, plead again for God’s healing, and promise to return in the morning.

Today some of our team transport Hortencia to the hospital in Maputo. Her breathing is shallow, she is in intense pain and seems almost delirious with fever. We sing softly and sponge her face and neck with a wet cloth while she moans. We suspect malaria on top of broken ribs from a fall. Baby Nina goes with—she is still breastfeeding. Nina is a chubby little darling with two reasons for flies to love her—a dripping gooey nose and constantly-damp cotton panties (no Pampers here).

It is a struggle not to be overwhelmed by the staggering needs on every side. How does one not become jaded or cynical? I will choose to believe there is a God who knows Isabel and her boys, who sits with Hortencia on the dirt floor in the darkness of her hut. “You hear, O Lord, the desire of the afflicted; you encourage them and you listen to their cry, defending the fatherless and the oppressed” (Psalm 10:17, 18). I will not look to the pitifully small lunch that I carry, but to the One who holds unending resources. I will plead with my Father not only for provision and healing, but for mighty streams of justice and mercy, for eyes and hearts to open to his transforming love.