Karen's story

My story goes back to May of 2005, when I went to Venezuela. There, God began to show me some remarkable insights about myself: who I am, what makes me tick, what makes me unique, how that has influenced my relationships – for better and for worse – and for what purpose God has planted me on this earth. It began with vivid, colorful movie-like memories – filled with all five senses – of my early childhood in Sao Paulo, Brazil, as I walked the streets, entered homes, ate the food, drank beverages, interacted with South Americans, heard the sounds, and saw the sights of Venezuela. In a surrealistic twilight zone, I had one foot in Venezuela in 2005 and another in Brazil in the mid-1970s.

One of the most important revelations from these memories was how deeply distressed I had been, at age 3, to see the shanty houses across the street from our home in Sao Paulo. Moving from that neighborhood to a very wealthy one in San Jose, CA only a few years later prompted a dissonance within me, a culture shock that was never reconciled, nor understood by me or anyone, which had been the source of some conflict in my life.

At the most basic level, the victims of the hurricane represent the type of people I have always had a heart for, people whose homes represent a life so much harder than mine. Also, my appreciation for my formative years in Brazil prompts me to want to give a similar experience to my children.

But the main reason I feel sent to Hurricane Katrina victims in particular is the most remarkable part of this story. My first day home from Venezuela began the most intense, terrifying, awe-filled, and indescribable 3 ½ months of my life. You don't realize how real the spiritual world is until you come face to face with it -- in awe, terror, awe, then back again to terror. No matter which it was, the intensity was exhausting.

Alongside the terror was an intense spiritual burden that felt like a small bowling ball in the pit of my stomach. I thought I was receiving some sort of demonic wrath against me for resisting something in Venezuela, and I sought release in desperation. Unable to find people to help, I cried out to God, prayed with a depth I didn’t know possible, deeply studied the scriptures, and fasted. Between the intensity of this time and the fasting, I lost 15 pounds (when a year of faithful dieting yields 5).

Independence Day marked 7 weeks of this and it did feel like a day of freedom for me. The burden – while not lifted – was at least under control, as I felt that I had learned how to “put on the full armor of God” enough to live a relatively “normal” life. This continued for another 7 weeks. Then, without warning, the burden returned with a deeper intensity. By this time, I already had the full armor of God on, and yet, it wasn’t enough to fight this mysterious burden. It came while my own family of four was meeting my parents at a cabin in Oregon. We were away from all the news and any outside source of information. I had just been telling my family how much better I was feeling, and then it hit with greater force. Each day at the cabin, the burden grew stronger and then finally it was so strong I literally ran away into the woods without telling anyone and cried out to God, “What is going on?!” When Chris found me, he says I was clutching my stomach and screaming to the sky, “I can’t take this any more!”

Both he and Mom were understandably upset that I hadn’t told them I “needed some time away.” There's an understatement. I tried to explain the burden hit with a force that defied rational communication. But Mom continued to be angry and I screamed at my poor mom: “If you want to be angry, be angry at the enemy because something is happening and I don’t know what it is!” With that, I ran into the bedroom and screamed into the pillow. Something was happening: Hurricane Katrina.

About a week after the hurricane, after processing its connection to the terror and its burden, the burden disappeared, never to return. I finally felt myself again (though totally transformed). More than anything, that burden was my calling for this trip to the Gulf. As I followed the story of Hurricane Katrina, I was grieved by it and yet awed by its connection to the themes of my turbulent 3 ½ months. The many “HELP!” signs from needy victims, already cast-away by society, appeared to yield no results and had the greatest impact on my heart. The people who should have been there to help weren’t there. So many were stranded and abandoned. Paul tells us to “Carry one another’s burdens” (Gal 6:2). “We’re not carrying one another’s burdens,” I thought. “Even in the church, we’re not carrying one another’s burdens.” The sheer volume of hurricane victims represented to me the desperation of people today and the lack of help coming to them (partly because we are all so needy ourselves).

So God out of His great mercy finds people to “carry burdens” of intercession for those in need, and I felt this was a critical role of mine for the hurricane victims. I felt I had already been bearing some of their burdens in advance, so I continued to pray fervently on their behalf. In time, I felt a deeper and deeper longing to “get my hands dirty,” meet these people, and carry burdens right along side with them. When Chris returned from his own trip to Mississippi, he told me how much he'd like to go back as a family. Confirmation. Thank you, Lord, for making it happen.