Guatemala, for me, has been a series of yeses I wasn’t quite looking for—but now deeply look forward to.
I was dreaming of creating a company that serves women artisans in a developing region. I just didn’t know anyone in a place like this.
It started the way these things often do—with a conversation. One friend, who had a cousin… and as the story goes, that was enough.
That’s how I was connected to Karlie Ruiter.
Karlie had been working with two women in rural Guatemala to make leather bags as part of a fundraiser for Casa Tabito—a clinic that saves severely malnourished babies. At the same time, she was navigating life as a new mother herself, raising two young children while trying to source materials, manage production, and run a clinic serving mothers in desperate situations.
She was at a juncture—and she was ready to pass the project on.
And I said yes.
When I traveled to Guatemala with a mission group to pick up my first order—tote bags, messenger bags, purses—I began to understand, though not fully, the realities Guatemalan mothers face every day.
We spent days filling bags of food and delivering them to meeting places where families would walk—miles, I imagine—to receive their portion for the month: rice, beans, corn flour, a few vegetables, eggs, soap, dried milk.
They would wrap it all carefully, lift it onto their heads, and begin the walk home.
Most wore shoes with thin soles.
Every mother carried a child—babies tied to their backs, older children walking alongside.
Before distribution, there were songs and prayers.
The songs were heavy—dense with sorrow—and yet filled with a kind of faith you don’t just hear… you feel it in your bones.
Back at the clinic, where we stayed, I would sit alone in my room—often on the floor.
Sometimes I would find myself on my knees without intending to be, overcome by a kind of knowing I didn’t yet have words for.
Before the trip, I had signed a document encouraging us to write down our thoughts, ideas, even judgments—but to wait until we returned home to speak them.
I came to appreciate that deeply.
Because what I felt wasn’t judgment.
It was discernment.
This is something I’ve wrestled with my whole life.
The tension between believing in God—and witnessing a world where children are starving, where people go unseen and untended.
Why do some of us have so much… while others lack even the most basic needs?
I’ve lived on both sides of that question.
A few nights ago, I was talking with my children during a moment of challenge. I shared part of my story with them and said something I believe deeply:
Every part of my life—the trauma, the hunger, the mistakes—has shaped how I show up today.
Not because I understand it all.
But because now, I know how to meet people where they are.
I know how to sit with someone in pain.
I know how to listen without trying to fix or save.
I don’t always get it right—but I can hold space.
I also understand that this mission isn’t for everyone to carry in the same way.
But I do want to invite you in.
I can share statistics—and they matter.
In Guatemala:
Infant mortality is staggering—and many losses are never formally recorded.
But statistics only take us so far.
The reality is this:
Mothers are raising children without clean water, without secure homes, without reliable access to food. Some homes don’t have front doors.
Some mothers are forced to leave—to try to earn money elsewhere—while their children are left in the care of others, or in orphanages.
These are not distant stories.
They are daily realities.
And still—there is something else.
There is strength.
There is dignity.
There is a kind of faith and fortitude that is impossible to ignore when you look into these women’s eyes.
Women who once believed they were unseen—
and who deserve, deeply, to be seen.
I have been entrusted with their stories.
And I hold them the same way I would hold their babies—
and my own.
With care.
With reverence.
With responsibility.
I want us all to understand the reality.
But even more, I want you to see the hope.
To see their artistry—their skill, the colors they choose, the designs that bring them joy.
Because what I’ve come to believe is this:
We are meant to hold both.
To acknowledge the pain—
and still choose to celebrate the beauty, the love, and the possibility that exists alongside it.
This is what we are building at Grace & Fire.
Not just products.
But connection.
Dignity.
And a way forward—together.