home.

an honest prayer
God, which way is home?
Pack my bag again and go
home is You in me

I am “home”.  At least, I am back in America.  And yet I’m not sure I know what it means to be home.  I am reminded of this poem a friend wrote me years ago that resonates with me now more than ever.

As I walk through a park in D.C. I am struck by a deep sense of familiarity.  Homeless men are sleeping under trees lying on a bed of newspaper and wrappers as people step over them without notice. A woman is selling African dress—the same styles and patterns I would have seen on the streets of Freetown.  People are everywhere, the voices and noises of the city surrounding me like a patchwork blanket of life.  I pause for a moment and close my eyes listening to the sounds of the street, feeling the hot sticky air, struck by the similarities to a whole different world I left behind.  A horn blares and a man yells.  I open my eyes again to a world of business suits and Blackberries, high heels and high rises.  A man selling Street Sense approaches me and asks if I’d like to support the homeless as a woman with her Prada bag bumps me as she passes.

This is America.  This is my home.  A hodge-podge of cultures and lifestyles that mix and mingle as if in a dance.  And it is beautiful. It is messy.  It is chaos.  But, it’s not so simple.

Sure maybe we drive in the right lanes and have organized, well stocked supermarkets.  We have systems in place that claim safety and security, life and liberty—but many still fall through the cracks, slip outside the lines.

I feel the peace that I prayed to find back in America.  Peace that I have a place here, a calling here, a purpose.

But then that peace was shattered.

I woke up this morning to an email.  At 2pm yesterday, Hensley Wilson passed away from heart failure.

My heart too failed at that moment.  Failed to take in the reality of what my eyes had read.  Failed to trust in the faith that I know.  Failed to believe it could be true.

Hensley is the Wilson’s only son.  At 16 his smile brought hope for a future I often saw bleak.  At 16 his life had just barely begun.  But life in Africa is unmerciful, unforgiving.  Taking bodies too soon from those who are left behind.

I am

angry.

frustrated.

deeply saddened.

unable to understand.














I want nothing more than to be there with Henrietta as she mourns the loss of her son.  With Letty and Samretta as they cry tears for their brother.  With Euphemia as she grows up without a big brother, unable to remember his face.  I want nothing more than to hold them, cry with them, be home with them.  But instead I am here.  Thousands of miles away.

As I went running this morning, thoughts and emotions went senselessly running through my head.  I wrote this in my frustration…




bleeding tears of Africa

what is this life
    that so easily falls away?
it ebbs & flows, and flows & ebbs
    but where does it go but spiraling down
losing grip on the life line, that runs dry too soon

 if life can fall
    without permission, without consent
where does it land if we only see darkness of the place we have been?

there is a time, you say, a season for all
    to live and to die,
        to laugh and to cry
the cyclical rhythms of lifelines with nobody dancing
only marching the drudge of mourning existence

the sun rises and sets
hurries back to begin – but beginning of end is all in the same as tears of the weary,
torn part by injustice whose toil and trial bring forth absence of trusting

no respite, no answers, no breeze of reward
    for the work of one's hands becomes nothing to gain - all things are wearisome, more than can bear, in this life that can fall to the depths of what came

the wind blows to the south, the east and the west
    then turns to the north, only twirling and whirling back to begin
no avail to move forth beyond falling again
   
if we catch hope in the breeze, a breath of fresh life - then
    slipping and sliding through a fingerless grasp
           
Africa dies too soon.


…and yet, “we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him”
Romans 8:28

I can’t deny the comfort in the promises our God offers.  Henrietta often spoke of these promises.  Her trust in our God and her faith in His will inspire me always.  She had nothing, and yet she has everything.  And now even more has been taken away.  But I am comforted knowing that our God is by her side, when I cannot be.  He is her rock, her strength, her comfort.  Hensley is home with his Father.  Released from the toil of trials of life in Africa.  It is not for him I mourn, but for those he has left behind.  On this earth we are not at home.  Not in Africa, not in America.  Henlsey is home.  We are just here until our time comes to join him.

beauty.

“…a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair…instead of shame my people will receive a double portion, instead of disgrace they will rejoice in their inheritance, their joy will be everlasting.”    Isaiah 61:3

A child’s laugh, a child’s innocence, is the same in every language, in every country, in every culture.

I visited the WHI Assessment Center today.  An “emergency room” of sorts for girls who have been brutally used and abused, now given the chance for healing and redemption.  The AC provides physical and emotional care for girls rescued from commercial sexual exploitation or severe rape.  It is a place where they are given love and attention and the chance to be a child again. 

Every time I step through the gateway, I step into a child’s dream world.  Girls running and jumping, swinging and sliding.  Painted murals of children playing cover the security walls and brightly colored paper lanterns, made by the girls, hang from the rafters.  There is so much joy, so much laughter; it is so hard to imagine what these precious little girls have been through. 

The beauty of resilience.  The beauty of God’s love.  I see it and feel it in every part of me.  Beauty springing up everywhere out of ashes, the oil of gladness running like a flowing river of laughter and tears, the garment of praise wrapped tightly around each housemother who opens her arms and welcomes these precious little ones as her own.

I am disgusted, angered, defeated as I write stories I wish didn’t match with the little faces I see outside. I am delighted, inspired, humbled to see the love and compassion and hope that flows through each of the housemothers, counselors and social workers who give themselves completely to be used by God in the lives of these girls. 

It would be much easier for each of them to just give up, find other work.  To not have to face the daily struggle to keep loving the broken and weary and not become broken and weary themselves.  This work can leave you broken hearted, one of the staff said to me.  And yet, she continued, I know God has plans for each one of them.  God changes the bad to the good.  It is the hope we have to hold on to.  The hope and promise for all of us…

We will be His people, and He will be our God.  He will wipe every tear from our eyes.  There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order will pass away…He makes all things new!  To him who is thirsty, He will give drink without cost from the spring of the water of life…and we will shine with the glory of God and with brilliance like that of a very precious jewel, clear and pure as crystal.     Rev. 21

He has bestowed a crown of beauty on each of us with the promise to make all things new!

the view

 
what is that?!? robin came to visit from Vietnam to help me explore the unidentifiables of Cambodia! (look closely...you won't be able to tell what it is either)

  hmmmm...he fits right in

05.04.2010

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:  for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;  and for everything
which is natural  which is infinite  which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
ee cummings

***

I close my eyes, I take a deep breath and hold the life-giving air in my lungs.  The sweet air, fragrant with the scent of plumeria and mango.  Breath.  Life.  Beauty.  This most amazing day. 

I am in awe of what I am celebrating.  24 years?  How can I be this old, yet how can I not?  When I allow my mind to wander over and through the adventures and experiences I have tasted, touched, felt, heard, stumbled upon, climbed up, fallen down, drank in, photographed, painted…breathed…I am in awe and in love with every moment.  Every ‘no words can describe’ moment.  Every ‘how did I even get here?’ moment. Every ‘oh Lord when will this end?’ moment.  Every, ‘praise God for grace’ moment.  Every ‘close my eyes, trust, and jump’ moment. (those are my favorites)

I am in awe of and in love with this journey.  With every twist and every turn that has left me feeling dizzy and lost.  With every face and every name that has written on my heart, held my hand, pushed me along.  With every sweet miracle and every trying pause. 

I have no idea what lies ahead.  One month from today I will land on American soil.  The land of the free.  Home of the brave. One month from today I will be 24, broke and jobless on American soil with no future plans in sight. 

But is the soil I will return to ground my feet will run and leap and dance freely on?  Is the soil I will return to ground I will bravely and confidently walk toward my future on? 

As much as I yearn for the sweet fellowship with my family and friends (and I do, I really do), I truly wonder if America can hold my future in her hands?  Wonder if I can walk confidently and boldly in the freedom I have found from the binding, suffocating distractions of our culture.  Wonder if I can love each person who walks into my life and love myself as I have learned to love outside her borders.

Yet all I have to do is look back through the pages and pages I fill with words that could never do justice to the experiences they describe and know, with everything within me, that just as He has provided and protected and led me these last 24 years – the next 24 will be no different. 

I do thank God for most this amazing day. 
For every imaginable, tangible, memorable, infinite gift – and every unimaginable, intangible, unforgettable, illimitably wonderful life and love and wings. 

How can I even begin to imagine what comes next in this journey?  The empty pages in this journal are just an invitation for God to keep writing.

today I ran with an elephant...welcome to Cambodia

Yes, that's right.

I used to chuckle to myself when I would be out for my morning jog in Freetown and have to pause to share the road with goats or chickens who certainly believed they had the right-of-way.  This morning, while out for my jog, I suddenly ran up alongside an elephant.  Yes, a twice as tall as me, one foot could squash me like an ant, elephant.  Needless to say, I let him have the right-of-way.  I don’t think this is particularly normal in the hustling bustling city of Phnom Penh.  But then again, how should I know normal?  Welcome to Cambodia...

The city came alive today.  Motos (motor bikes, the most common form of transportation) zooming in every direction regardless of lane, traffic sign or light.  Cars, trucks, motos and tuktuks (a motor bike with a little cart attached to the back to carry passengers) fight for the road with bicycles and food carts selling everything from mangos to roasted corn, papaya salad to fried noodles.  Shops and cafés are filled with people darting in and out and the air buzzes with sounds of life.  The hustle and bustle of the city has awakened after a week of sleepy stillness when most left to go to their homeland, to their family who still live in the provinces, to celebrate the Khmer New Year.

The quiet, sacred, serene streets lined with little gold replicas of Buddhist temples wafting with sweet smells of incense and fruit became flooded with life.  I spent my first week here in a still, surreal haze, perfect for exploring the city.  Few stayed to celebrate on the lawns of the Royal Palace, dancing to music and indulging in sweet drinks, fruit and street food.  The fountains danced with colored water shows in sync to music and children played traditional games cheered on by family and friends munching on corn, roasted or popped, from street vendors.  The evenings were electric, while the days were quiet and still. 

The sights, the sounds, the smells…everything is so different here, and yet there is a small sense of familiarity.  Disorder and chaos seem welcome, linear and organized would be out of place.  Busy markets selling anything and everything you need, streets lined with stands selling small sweets, drinks and even packets of Ovaltine, vendors making their way between the traffic, calling out to you to buy their brilliantly bright yellow mangos.  There is something familiar, something welcoming about the seemingly similar chaos of these two completely different cities.

And yet, I am in a whole new world.  A whole new creatively inspired work of art by our masterful Creator.  An exquisite display of beauty and purity, to mask the brokenness of a poor and vulnerable nation, with a past as brutal as they come. There is a stunning respect for beauty in this culture, and an incredible ability to create it.  Gold temples reach to the sky.  Brilliantly colored flowers and brightly colored fruit line the streets.  The exquisite art of silk weaving makes walking through the market like walking on a rainbow. And even the deep respect and sign of gratitude shown with every bow and formal greeting carries a sense of beauty and peace amidst the hustle and bustle of city life.  The soft-spoken reverence of the Khmer people is as far from the loud, gregariousness of Sierra Leoneans as the countries are from each other.  And even in speech, the Khmer language is as far from any sounds my mouth has tried to make or ears to understand.

As I closed my eyes in church, what my ears could not decipher, my heart knew tried and true.  “How great is our God?  Sing with me, how great is our God?  And all will sing, how great, how great, is our God?”  The voices sang words I could not understand.  But my heart still stirred at the unfathomable question I knew the voices were asking.  How great is our God?  Hearing it sung by voices of a different tongue only greatens my wonder.  How great is our God?  How great is a God who speaks every language?  Loves every nation?  Died for every people?  How great is a God who brings light out of darkness, joy out of mourning, comfort out of suffering?  How great is a God who can bring redemption out of shame for the girls from a local after-care shelter who sit across from me?  How great is a God who brings me to a new country, a new culture – where I know no one and nothing – and provides for me here, blesses me here?  I may not understand it all, or any at all, but I know He is a Great, Great God who has met me here once again.

i wonder as i wander...

(thoughts from London, April 8)

As I rise from the depth of the underground tube I can feel the burst of cold air against my skin.  It is a stunning sensation that shocks my senses - the first of many. The air is cold, but the sky is clear. It is a beautiful crisp spring day in the hustling bustling city of London. The kind of day where cheeks glow red above scarfed necks and the warmth of breath can still faintly be seen in the air. The crisp air feels clean and fresh, my skin tight and dry.

The western world welcomes me in only the most appropriate way. At the top of the escalator, straight ahead, I am greeted by a Starbucks.

yes, I bought that sweater at "the junks" in Freetown for $2.50 (and it's lambswool) just for London ;)

As I sip my grande americano with half inch of steamed soy (certainly not words understood by Krio or English speakers from where I have just come) I watch as a busy world of order buzzes around me. Cars, buses, taxi cabs speed by on green, stop on red, and stay in their assigned lane with only the occasional beep of a horn. I feel as though I understand less in this world of order than in the beautiful, messy, chaos of Freetown. I just stand in wonder, not quite sure what to think, what to feel.

There are white people everywhere. The latest styles and fashions displayed on walking mannequins, straightened hair framing made-up faces. Everyone with somewhere to go, somewhere to be, bags in hand labeled with names and brands - some I recognize but had forgotten, some I don't.

No one stares at me. No one calls out to me. No one takes notice of me at all. For the last seven months I've been the center of attention...now I'm nobody.

I wander for a bit. I sit in a park where a crowd has gathered around street performers. I walk though an outdoor art market and buy some crisp fresh pears at a farmers market stall. I eat a measly little bowl of minestrone soup and foccacia bread that probably cost the equivalent of eight to ten heaping plates of rice and sauce. Yet it warms me from the inside out. I see a stunning performance of Billy Elliot, front row for half price. It is a beautiful day and I spend it doing all the things I love.

But how? How do I love this day and love yesterday when they don't even resemble the same planet? How do I not feel like I'm being selfish and overly indulgent? And what do I do if I am? It was only yesterday I held little Euphemia in my arms, kissed little Letty on the head, hugged Samretta and Henrietta with tears in my eyes, waved good-bye to my wonderful housemates on the platform as the water taxi took me speeding away. Only yesterday? Today is a different life, a different world. And tomorrow will be a different place, a different day, yet again.

The Freedom I Found in Freetown

(journal excerpt from April 7)

As we bounce and skid across the water, getting splashed by the cool spray of the bay that has been the backdrop of my life these last seven months, I can still see the lingering faces of those who have been in the forefront of my life—the landscape and the people who make up the wonderfully colorful painting of the freedom I found in Freetown. Faces of those I have lived with and learned from, gained wisdom and given support. Faces of those I have loved more deeply than I knew possible in seven short months. And faces of those I will never forget. I bump and bounce to a rhythm I reckon I will never quite dance to again and deep feeling of peace drowns out the techno/reggae music blaring from the speakers on the water taxi taking me across to the Lungi peninsula where the airport will beckon my final departure.

I take a deep breath of the cool salty sea air. The last week has been a blur. A blur of moments I wished would stand still, yet moments of great celebration and closure. Celebrations of Easter, good-byes and farewells blessed me with joy in celebrating this season of life, which has undoubtedly seasoned my life forever.

The beginning of the coming end started when Gwen and I celebrated the Messianic Passover with about forty people from our neighborhood and church. As a symbol of closure for Jesus and His disciples and preparation for what would come, I felt the night offering me a similar experience. As I knelt on the hard ground, my knees aching from the rough surface, I washed the feet of those who have served me, expressing my appreciation in a way I could never express in words. Mohammed, our day guard, whose faithfulness and steadfast smile brightens my day each morning, welcomes me home each afternoon and cares for and protects the place I’ve come to call home. Abraham, Abubakar and Desmond, the night guards, who diligently deny sleep, so I can sleep soundly each night. Marie, who tirelessly keeps our lives in order, clean and prepared, without ever a hint of resentment. Their feet are tough and calloused by the realities of their lives. Deeply marked by the strain of the load they must bear. The soap and water mean little, but I pray the act spoke louder than words ever could.

I shared my meal that night with the family that has become my own. The Wilson pikin have taken me in as aunty, Henrietta has taken me in as sister. We share in the bitter herbs of Israel’s enslavement and the sweet honey of God’s saving power. We drink together from the cup of sorrow and the cup of joy – cups we all taste in life in one time or another, although they look drastically different. We drink together from the cup offered to us by our Lord as the promises of eternal life, eternal togetherness. I felt the relief of knowing that life is bitter and sweet, sorrowful and joyful – yet always full of promises. I still don’t know why these with whom I eat and drink live a life so much more difficult than my own. Why I have dreams and opportunities that will be realized? Why I have comforts and assurances that I can always fall back on?  I am leaving this place for another chapter, another experience, another opportunity - while the hardships, challenges and strains of this life are their reality. Yet although I don’t understand it, I know the promises are the same for us all. We are all equal and precious and cherished in His eyes.

Sometimes I feel guilty or shameful for even saying that. The weight of what I have weighs me down, the unanswered questions of why pull me farther and farther away from the assurance of that promise. The heavy questions that are strung together like heavy beads on a frail chain that I anticipated from the first day I arrived. Beads that are so old, their origin is unknown and their answers never to be found. Beads that are a nuisance because of the weight that they carry. But then I am reminded that from what I have, I am able to give. As the weekend unfolded, the beads were lifted from around my neck. They are still just as heavy, just maybe not my burden to always bear.

Saturday was filled with the sweet sounds of songs and laughter of all my pikin! We had an Easter celebration and farewell to Aunty Crissa party for Pikin Club. Between songs and games and dying Easter eggs each pikin drew a picture for me which I have bound in a book and bound in my heart. Their proud faces as they each presented me with their picture are burned into my heart and memory forever. Sunday brought a celebration of Christ’s resurrection set to the tune of Krio worship I pray will continue to ring in my ears. An evening of fellowship with the international community who have brought me such wisdom, such friendship, ended the perfect weekend of celebration with all I’ve held dear. And just prior to departure, I received the gift of recognition for all I have done and all I have been on a team fighting the evil of modern day slavery in this country. Recognition of the encouragement and inspiration I was able to bring and the capacity I was able to build.

Pikin Club Farewell Party!

 last day at church with all my pikin!

our walk home from church

 my wonderful Scan Drive housemates!

So instead of feeling guilt and shame for what I may have that others lack, I hope and pray I have loved everyone in my path in ways I could only love because of all I have been given. I live and love out of the overflow and abundance of the life and love I have received. While the questions are not answered, learning to love lifts the burden. And it is by learning to love that I have found Freedom in Freetown. A freedom that is now letting me go.

It rained last night. I mean really rained. It rained like it did when I first arrived. With the roar of thunder, the roar of the lion, Sierra Leone, who welcomed me to this country and is now bidding me farewell.

My prayer was that God would bring me to a place of peace in this transition, and that He has. As I skid across the water, getting farther and farther from my beloved Freetown, I still see the lingering faces of those I have loved. The faces of those I hugged and waved good-bye, of my incredible housemates Heleen, Roz, Ashton, Gwen and Janet – who taught me things they thought I should know about life in Africa and gave me wisdom they may not have even known they have. And the tears I wiped away from the cheeks of the Wilson girls, who taught me that love can transcend cultures and understanding runs deeper than the surface of our realities. The sights and sounds, the names and faces of this country are an array of color splashed in simple, beautiful, messy, chaos across a page of my life that I will cherish forever. A page of my life that will color every page hereafter.

 how did I ever say goodbye?