About

‘Write it down’ was her advice. Almost shaking I wrote the whisper on the top of my page. Then, true to my Christian nerdy character, headed my paper to take sermon notes.

The speaker’s message was, ‘your name is important in your destiny’. My sixteen year old mind was blown! He talked about John the Baptist and how he could not have been Bob the Baptist.

On and on he spoke about names. All was neat information, but more so it was alive to me because I felt I had heard directly from God. He had chosen my name, Linda Rose, and that name was important in my destiny.

Now, ‘fast-foward’ ten years. The summer of 2006, I joined some friends on their summer mission trip to Honduras. I was reluctant to go at first. I knew I would love to work with children at an orphanage but, somehow I thought it wasn’t enough of a sacrifice to ‘count’ to God.

I went that summer fully intending to give all I could but not fall in love with it. I told myself to be careful to not be tempted to stay. Silly little me.

By the second day, the children were calling me ‘Mama Tara Dos (2)’. I could barely hold back tears each evening as our pick up truck rolled down the dirt road with the kids draped in the trees chanting my name.

My name.

Well, despite all my best efforts, I had felt the deep throb in my heart for these people. This beautiful, generous, and kind people group with rich culture and history. I had connected deeply and in the most kindred way with Mama Tara and the children.

By the end of our short trip, I raised my hands in surrender and sang from the old hymn, ‘Here I am Lord, is it I, Lord? I have heard you calling in the night. And I will go, Lord. If you lead me. I will hold your people in my heart.’

The next summer, I went back. This certainly isn’t a manual on how to do missions, but I went without even enough funds to get back home. I had only ‘Sesame Street’ knowledge of Spanish and zero of their native language, Miskito.

I just showed up and asked Mama Tara if I could stay at the orphanage all summer. She graciously accepted. I spent the summer observing and writing things down. Kids’ names, their histories, what happened each day, and all of Mama Tara’s stories, even a few of her recipes.

During my summer being a student of life in the Miskito orphanage, I spent many hours sitting at Mama Tara’s side. We drank coffee, ate countless avocados, laughed together, and shared stories of God’s faithfulness.

One such afternoon, I decided to ask Mama Tara if she knew what her name meant? “Tara?” she laughed, “My name is not Tara.” She explained that ‘tara” is a Miskito term meaning ‘big.’

We shared a laugh as I realized why the kids had been calling me ‘Big Mama 2″. (Probably all those avocados.)

But, my curiosity continued. “If your name is not Mama Tara, what is your name?” I asked. My heart jumped

when she answered…. Florinda.

‘Flor’, meaning flower and ‘inda’ suffix of linda, meaning beautiful. In that moment I clung to that whisper I had carried in my heart.

‘He named me and my name is important in my destiny.’ Linda Rose and Florinda both meaning beautiful flower. I knew then, sitting with Mama Tara on the back porch that God had knit our hearts together.

I worked several years with the U.S. board of directors and spent as much time as I could at the orphanage. I continued to be a student of Mama Tara and the dream God had placed in her heart.

In 2012, Mama Tara fell ill. I had earlier felt God’s leading to go full time. And, in September, I arrived. The next few months were some of the most difficult I have ever experienced.

My once strong and full of spark friend had grown weak. I read His Word to her each night. I reminded her of the stories she had told me, the dream He had given to her. She passed into glory March 5, 2013.

She left in me the heart of the Father for the Miskito people and the dream of a home for the child in need. She passed to me the mantle of Mama.

That is the story of how I became Mama Linda. A beautiful flower in this little vase called La Moskitia, in which I am honored to serve.