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?

through my eyes

As I prepare to find closure in the midst of a dream I don't want to wake from, I often find myself just closing my eyes and reliving the moments, the memories, the sights and the sounds of these past months.

Join me on my journey through my eyes. Nicole Chin just did an incredible job posting some of the images I will take with me forever from this beautiful country and beautiful people on my website www.thecallingvoice.com (you can also read a few of the stories I have writen.) Enjoy!

His daughters

 

"My daughter,

You may not know me, but I know everything about you.  I know when you sit down and when you rise up, I am familiar with all your ways.  Even the very hairs on your head are numbered.  For you were made in my image.

In me you live and move and have your being.  For you are my offspring.  I knew you even before you were conceived.  I chose you when I planned creation.  You were not a mistake, for all your days are written in my book…

My thoughts toward you are countless as the sand on the seashore.  And I rejoice over you with singing.  I will never stop doing good for you.  For you are my treasured possession.

I desire to establish you with all my heart and all my soul.  And I want to show you great and marvelous things.  If you seek me with all your heart, you will find me.  Delight in me and I will give you the desires of your heart.  For it is I who gave you those desires." 

As I sit on the floor reading these words to the girls who surround me I can’t help but pause for a moment, close my eyes, and let the words speak to my soul too.  Words of truth that we rarely hear amidst the voices that tell us different. 

"I am your greatest encourager, and also the Father who comforts you in all your troubles.  When you are brokenhearted, I am close to you.  As a shepherd carries a lamb, I have carried you close to my heart.  One day I will wipe away every tear from your eyes.  And I’ll take away all the pain you have suffered on this earth..."

I look up and into the eyes of each of the girls.  Five of them surround me - Samretta, Salimatu, Mariama, Adama and Debie.  They all turn away when my eye catches theirs.  But they don’t giggle as they often do when you ask them something about themselves.  They hear it, I can see it in their faces.

Heleen and I have invited the older girls in the neighborhood to come each Saturday for an afternoon of discovering the beauty in which we were each created as special and unique women and then using painting or drawing to reflect it.  These young women are all between 13 and 17 and have already lost any childhood innocence they once had. 

Women in this society are good for two things.  To cook and have babies.  While the culture and society is progressing towards women’s rights and equality the message is still so clear, so bleak.  It can be seen in the number of young, husbandless girls pregnant with their second or third baby.  It can be seen in the emotionless face, straining to carry a large load on her head up our steep hill, a baby on her back, calling out the food she’s trying to sell for mere pennies. It can be seen in the way these girls turn away and giggle nervously when asked anything about themselves.  Life as a women is hard in this country.  To live up to the roles you are forced to keep. Your value based on how well you can fulfill these roles in one of the most difficult economic environments in the world.

But today these girls heard a different message.  One of the beauty in which they hold.  We had them stand in front of a mirror and then paint self-portraits.  It is incredible.  They love it. 

We plan to do little art projects each week and put them together into a book the girls can keep.  A treasure they can hold on to, to help remember the sparkle they are in their Father’s eye.

Please help me pray for these young women.  That they would truly know their worth – not defined by this world but by their Father in heaven.  That they would gain new revelation of how they deserve to be treated and hold tight to this not allowing anyone to compromise them.  And that they would gain a deeper understanding of how beautiful and loved they are and learn to love and value themselves.

   Salimatu, Marie, Samaretta, Adama

bitter goodbyes, sweet hellos

I have some exciting news to share--news that makes me anxious with anticipation of new dreams and adventures while at the same time brings me steps closer to the dreaded day of my departure from Sweet Salone. 

I have been given the opportunity to go to Cambodia to work with the WHI anti-trafficking program.  World Hope runs an aftercare home for girls rescued from sex trafficking and prostitution.  I have been asked to do work very similar to what I have been doing here, writing stories of survivors, the work of WHI and to assist with other communications needs.  This is an incredible opportunity and encouragement for me in the work I've been doing.

I have always wanted to see this part of the world and since my passion and work in anti-trafficking, I have  desired to go to Cambodia and directly support the work being done to fight this atrocious bondage so many are forced to live in.

So, I jumped at the opportunity - with only one reservation.  We have decided my time will be most fruitful if I have adequate time to get aquanted and adjusted.  I've been asked to go at the begining of April so I will have at least two months before I need to be back in DC for my dear Betsy and Isaiah's wedding at the beginning of June.  This leaves me only one month more in SL.

I am truly experiencing the definition of mixed feelings.  Part of my heart is ecstatic at the thought of all I will see and do and live and learn in Cambodia - while instantaneously my heart sinks at the thought of having only five short, short weeks left in this country I have grown to love.


I also know this will be a drastic transition.  I will certainly not have time to adequately process all of SL before jumping into Cambodia.  The cultural transition as well as the work will be more than I could ever anticipate.



So I ask for your prayers.  Prayers for peace and not anxiety.  Prayers for time to slow down and not speed up in frenzy.  Prayers for divine understanding and transition.

Tanki, tanki, tanki!  I am so thankful for all the love and support I feel everyday.  I truly feel your prayers and rely on them. 


Here's a little overview of prayer request:
-Prayer for peaceful closure for my time left in SL, that I would be able to accomplish all my work and spend adequate time with those I have created relationships with
-Prayer for a smooth transition and the ability to process one experience while jumping into the next
-Prayer for additional funding for Cambodia

a rhythm of life

Pound, pound, pound, pound, pound…the rhythm continues throughout the day. At times I notice it, but often I don’t. Pound, pound, pound, pound, pound. Even when I hear it, do I really know what it means?  The sweat and effort that goes into every pound. The backbreaking pain of every pound. The never-ending rhythm, hour after hour, day after day--the never-ending pile of stone she is pounding into tiny fragments of gravel. Even when I hear it, do I really know what it means? No. It is but another sound of life. Another desperate attempt to make a little money. At least enough to feed mouths. Pound, pound, pound, pound, pound.

the sounds of sadness

As the coffin dropped into the ground, a slow deep wail filled the silent air as if a swirling wind had brought it up from the grave.  A moan that could be felt stirring deep down in my soul.  The sound of mourning.  I look out across the graveyard built on the slope of Freetown’s hillside in Wilberforce, named for the man who fought to bring Africa back her people, freed, as the mass of people, all dressed in their finest white, surrounding the hole that was now being filled in with earth begin to disperse, making their way down between the grave sites.  The reality of life and death in this country is as fluid as the people walking among the headstones.  In a country where the life expectancy is only 41 years (risen from the lowest in the world in the last three short years) the leading causes of death are from easily preventable and treatable conditions, Anthony Jr. didn’t even make it to the cut off point.  At 38 years he left this world with the gift of two beautiful young boys (2 years and 5 months) and a beautiful young wife (only 21 years) who now must battle the hardships of living in one of the poorest countries in the world, alone. 

Anthony Jr. was one of our night guards.  He would stay awake all night to ensure I got to sleep without worry, without fear.  He was quiet and soft-spoken, with a youthful face and timid smile.  He would bundle up each night as if snow was in the forecast and I would greet him each morning in my athletic gear and tank top to go out for a run, he in his zipped jacket, stocking cap, gardening gloves and socks pulled up over the bottom of his trousers.  This is the image I will hold in my heart of Jr. and a smile will always spread across my lips.
 

Janet and I trekked across a deep crevasse littered with makeshift homes of corrugated iron dodging the children running and playing football or fetching water.  We slipped and slid down one side and up the other to greet Jr.’s wife and mother only a few days after he passed.  Osha, osha.  The krio word for I am sorry.  What else is there to say?  We sit for a while, in silence.  I smile at little Anthony, Jr’s namesake, and make a face that makes him laugh.  Janet discusses the best way we can support them and then we make the trek back - leaving a woman with sorrow and fear engraved deep into her eyes as she anticipates a life she does not know how to live.  With a baby at her breast and a child on her hip, her deeply furrowed brow makes her look years beyond her age.  Her mother-in-law offering what little comfort she can amidst her own grieving until she must go back to her village to attend to her other children. 

At only 38, Jr. complained of intense stomach pain one day while at our compound and Janet took him to the hospital.  Emergency surgery for a ruptured intestine was determined his need. 

Yet while emergency surgery translates to hope in our language – the connotation reflects a fearful unknown in this one.  Emergency surgery itself could easily kill him.  Recovery in an inadequately cleaned facility could kill him as well. The risk of surgery practically equals the risk without.

No one is sure why he died.  No autopsy will be done, no information from the doctor disclosed.  But that is the way most pass here.  No one knows for certain the cause. 

But while death is far too frequent, it doesn’t make the mourning easier to bear, it doesn’t change the hardship for those left behind. 

The service was beautiful.  His image preserved in pure, loving memories.  His creator praised in pure, loving choruses.  The words said, the hymns sung, carried him to the site on the hillside—enshroud in a white cloud of those who loved him—to where he will lay, looking out over his city, his family, forever.
 

bearing the stain

As he appeared in the doorway, we both looked up. Her body stiffened. She stopped coloring in the flower, heart and star I had drawn on her paper. The man in the red cap. The man who is the reason we are sitting here in court today. The man who did an unimaginably terrible thing to this little five-year-old girl sitting beside me.

He appeared in the doorway, looked at me, and then turned around and walked out.

Little Letty didn’t go back to her drawing. She didn’t say anything or even turn to look at me. She stared straight ahead, her eyes starting to water.

I leaned down and whispered in her ear. Should we sing the song again? She nodded almost unnoticeably. “Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so. Little ones to Him belong, they are weak but He is strong…” Her eyes don’t move, but she doesn’t start to cry. Soon enough we are back to coloring.

"A wan go na os," she says in a little squeaky voice.

I can't imagine what this would feel like to her. Five-years-old. Sitting in a big court room, with big people in uniforms walking in and out, just waiting. I would want to go home too. We talked about how when the big man comes she needs to tell him what happened and then she can go home. But not really go home. Not go home to the way things were before she was raped.

Letty no longer lives at home with her mother and father. The man who raped her lives next door. Her father decided it best for her to live with her Grandmother on the other side of town. Away from the man in the red cap. Away from the scene where it happened.

He says he wants to move the family to another community, so she won't have to bear the “stain” of shame from what happened. Her bear the stain?!?

But the family doesn’t have the money to move and he has a reliable job working security nearby—alongside the man in the red cap, the man who traumatically violated his daughter and stole her innocence. But a job is a job.

The presiding Magistrate agreed to allow Letty to give her testimony first thing in the morning, 10 a.m. It was now 12:30 and he still hadn’t come. Finally around one o’clock he arrives. We all stand, the perpetrator takes his place in the front of the room, and with no reason given the Magistrate adjourns the trial until tomorrow. 11 a.m. sharp.

Surprised? No. Frustrated? Yes. Little Letty will once again have to wait in a big, scary courtroom anticipating having to relive what happened to her.

But to my surprise, her eyes light up and a smile brightens her beautiful little face when she sees me from across the crowd the next morning. When we sit down to wait - an ambiguously indefinite length of time - for the Magistrate to arrive, she begins to talk in her little squeaky voice, although today, a little bit louder. I give her a sparkly heart sticker and she is instantly captivated.

When the Magistrate finally entered, we all stand. He orders everyone out of the room except the police prosecutors, the perpetrator, Letty, her mother, and me. He asks Letty to take her place on the witness stand. When he realizes he won’t be able to see her over the railing, he allows her to stand on a bench near by.

He begins with questions she can easily answer. What is her name? Where does she live? Where does she attend school? She is answering, although quietly, but it's more than she was able to do the last time in court. Baby Love is the last witness to testify in the trial. She was unable to speak without crying the past four times the case had been called to court.

Earlier this week she came to the office and Mameh, the FAAST rapid response officer, and I talked to her about how important it is for her to be brave and talk to the big man about what happened. She sat on the couch fidgeting with her fingernails, her mouth moving but no audible sound coming out. But today is different. Today little Letty is being so brave.

She is ashamed, her father had said at the office. At five-years-old, she already knows the stain she will bear in this community for the rest of her life. The stain she will bear because of a man’s desire to overpower a little child by taking away her innocence. Letty was brutally raped by a neighbor man whom her father worked with. Although the man was arrested, he has been released on bail and continues to blatantly provoke the family. Her father determined it would be best for little Letty to live with her grandmother to avoid facing her abuser.

As soon as this is all over I want to move from this place, her father said. I don’t want her to have to bear the stain.

Bear the stain? Letty bear the stain? The stigma resulting from rape rests in all the wrong places. Little girls feeling shame for the abuse they are forced to suffer. It disgusts me, yet it is why FAAST is here.

Not only do these little girls need someone to sit with them, sing with them, love them and tell them of their worth – but the communities need to understand it too. The communities need to understand the worth of a child, of a young woman. The beauty they possess and the vulnerability they exude. Only through education and sensitization can the understanding and mentality toward trafficking, rape and abuse become that of protection, prevention and redemption.

That is why it was so important for little Letty to stand on the bench that day and relive a traumatic past. So everyone will know she is not to blame. So the man in the red cap will understand there are consequence for his actions. And I waited with her for hours in that crowded, stifling hot courthouse so Letty would know she is precious and beautiful and worth it.

the power of a story...

(written for the WHI anti-trafficking blog)

There are stories all around us.  We each have a story.  Stories of life, experience, joy, love, turmoil, hardship…lessons learned, lessons to be learned.  We live our stories and we share our stories.

Stories are incredibly powerful.  Through a story we see into a life that is not our own.  We can experience things beyond the boundaries of our own world, peering for a moment into the vast world of another person, another time, another place. 

I have discovered the powerful gift of writing God has given me.  The opportunity to unveil realities of this world to those who would otherwise not know or see.  To take people to experience another world, beyond their own.

It is easy to live in the context of our own stories.  To get caught up in realities of our present condition, present situation.  It is easy, especially for us in the West, to lose sight of the stories that compel us to follow Jesus’ teaching to love and care for the least, for the poor, for the widows and the orphans.  Number and statistics can be compelling, but also pushed out of sight and out of mind, our attention changed as easily as the channel on the TV.  But a voice, a story, is hard to ignore.  It is an invitation to imagine, just for a moment, what it would be like to walk in another’s shoes, to live another’s story.

***

I have been living in Freetown, Sierra Leone as a Hope Corp volunteer Field Writer for WHI anti-trafficking program Faith Alliance Against Slavery and Trafficking.  My job is to write the stories of trafficking survivors.  I often tell people I have the best job, because amidst the dark evil of modern day slavery that still exists and enslaves hundreds of thousands throughout the world, I get to tell the story of hope.  The story of freedom.  The story of beauty in the resilience of humanity.

I have been here in Sierra Leone for over four months now.  I have written stories that make me cry, and stories that make me laugh – I have met children who have experienced more injustice, exploitation and horrors in their short lives than I can even imagine – yet I have seen them smile, as a child should, and it is in this smile that I am reminded of why I am here.  I want the world to see this smile.  To experience, if just for a moment, the joy and peace and freedom of a child who has been redeemed. 

At the beginning of December I led a training workshop with the FAAST staff on story and report writing.  Earlier, in November, I traveled to Makeni to lead a training on story writing with the WHI staff there as well.  I have loved these opportunities to teach for it is in these moments that I get to share my heart, my passion, my love for writing the story. 

For the staff, it is about the chance to take a moment and reflect on the reason we do the work we do. The story of the face behind all the hard work, the long hours, the frustrating challenges. The story of the one.  The one reason we believe that little by little this work is changing lives.  And if I can teach and empower them to write these stories, I truly believe it will not only give others around the world a glimpse of why prayer, emotional and financial support is extremely necessary for more of these stories to be written, but I believe it will also give my colleagues a chance to realize the power behind what they do.  The smiles that are renewed because God has placed them here to do His work. 

I believe God has given me a powerful tool in the gift of writing.  But as with all of His gifts, the true power comes from taking the opportunity to share them.  I hope and pray that when my time comes to leave this place, I will leave more than a few stories I have written.  I hope and pray I will leave knowing that the stories will continue – continue to be lived, and continue to be written.

tis a season to remember...

Oh, mi belle full! As I lean back in my plastic lawn chair looking out at the breathtaking view of Man of War Bay from the ledge of an unfinished concrete building the Wilson’s call home, I bask in the warmth and joy of a perfect day. It is Christmas Eve, and I cannot think of a better way to be spending it.

After taking a refreshing swim in the ocean this morning, wondering to myself if there is anywhere else in the world as beautiful as this, the Wilson girls, Letty and Samarata, come to collect me. I’m already hungry for lunch and so looking forward to the groundnut stew we are about to make.

I have become especially close to the Wilson family. They live near my house and the whole family attends the church I do. The two girls, Samarata (13) and Letty (10) are my favorite neighborhood kids (don’t tell), Hensley (15) is a smart boy with potential and promise, and little Gwendolyn Hanna Euphemia (we typically use any one of her three names) is the sweetest little thing…who is immediately handed over to me, any moment I am within arms reach.

We arrive at their home, an unfinished cement structure where the Wilson’s occupy two small rooms. We enter through a door leaning against the door frame without any sign of hinges, with all the necessary ingredients for delicious groundnut soup, one of my favorite Sierra Leonean dishes. Henrietta appears from outside on the veranda, a thin ledge along the side of the building facing the water, through the brightly colored gara cloth hung in the doorway that splashed a pink and green glow throughout the tiny dark room. She immediately ushers us outside in a haste that may have been motivated by her seemingly embarrassed demeanor toward their home or maybe just the beauty of the view from the hillside.

We spread out the food on an old wooden table outside being held up by a crate on one end. The fresh vegetables that are laid out in front of us are much more than the average person would ever get to use for cooking one meal. It’s good to be reminded in moments like these of how much I take the food I eat for granted and treat as so disposable. When I asked Henrietta to teach me to cook we both agreed groundnut soup would not only be the easiest but it is also one of my favorites. I like it with bocu vegetables and chicken—so I supplied all the goods!

We first boiled water in a big coal pot. All Sierra Leoneans use coal to cook, even Marie our house help, although we have a gas stove. We add the groundnut paste and allow it to bubble and boil. Groundnuts (peanuts) are a major crop grown in Sierra Leone and you can see them everywhere piled high on plastic trays a top women and children’s heads selling them boiled and in the shell or raw and already shelled. Groundnut soup is made out of groundnuts ground into a paste — peanut butter — which you can watch them make at any market. Unfortunately, based on the cleanliness of the grinding machines and the markets I wouldn’t recommend spreading it on your toast.

The girls make sure I take part in all of the cooking. From pounding the pepe (peppers which Sierra Leoneans LOVE and thankfully they appropriately reduced) in a wooded mortar, to chopping each of the vegetables, not on a cutting board but directly into the now rapidly boiling groundnut paste. We add garlic, spring onions, carrots, green beans, eggplant and lots of salt. As it boils, the soup gets thicker and thicker and smells of the rich aroma of nutty garlic. We cook the rice in another coal pot—no measuring cups, no recipes, no timers. It’s amazing to watch. As if they are just born knowing how much and for how long.

It has become an all-afternoon endeavor and by this time I am starving. When the rice is finished and the soup has been tasted and approved we fill a huge bowl with rice and pour the soup over. It is normal for everyone to eat out of the same dish…with your hands. Today we used spoons, a gesture made just for my sake. It was the best Sierra Leonean food I’ve had since I’ve been here! And the company made it so much better.

mmmm...groundnut stew!

This family has become my own. I’ve laughed with them, cried with them, prayed with them. Taught them things and learned so much from them, far more than just how to cook. Sitting there, at their own home, eating together, laughing together, holding baby Gwendolyn Hanna Euphemia I am completely taken back by how much I have come to love them, despite the short time I’ve known them and the worlds apart that we live. But there is something in Henrietta, an understanding I don’t feel with other women here. I feel truly loved by her, not just for what the color of my skin might promise, but as a sister.

***

In many ways it is still so hard to return back to my compound, filled with electricity, fans, running water, a full refrigerator. To snuggle up on the couch in the soft glow of the Christmas lights sharing Dutch chocolates while sipping tea and watching the Nativity Story with my housemates. It’s hard to know that most of the people around me will go to bed tonight without so many of the necessities I have, the traditions of this time of year I enjoy.

But on Christmas morning, as we gather together in our little unfinished church home, filling the air with dissonant, off key carols, I feel so much joy that God would merge my world with this one.

Letty, Samarata, Hendry and me with baby Gwendolyn Hanna at church on xmas morning

Christmas evening was a whirlwind of old traditions with new friends! The expat international bible study group met together for a potluck dinner. It was so fun to watch Remi, Saidu, Mohammad and Maka (four Sierra Leonean boys who live part-time with friends of mine in expat community) decorate a Christmas tree for the first time, to see the closest thing they’ve seen to snow from a “just add water” kit, to exchange white elephant gifts and see Maka’s determination to keep the huge plush towel probably meant as a gag gift. It was a Christmas of good friends, without all the excess (although we certainly had plenty of food). It was a Christmas of singing carols and taking time to truly reflect on what they mean, what it means for Christ to enter this world as a baby, lying in a poor and feeble manger...yet as the King who came to teach us how to love.

me and Remy at Christmas dinner

It was a Christmas that warmed my heart to the most important things this time of year and how God is letting me discover how truly blessed I am. Blessed by my Sierra Leonean family, who are teaching me more about this country and this culture than I knew I had to learn. Blessed by the chance to share my own traditions—tortilla soup with my housemates, coke floats for the FAAST staff, decorating Christmas trees with twinkling lights and shiny ornaments. Blessed by new friends who share in the desire and struggle to figure out how to balance the abundance we have with the lack we are surrounded by and give of the love we have to give.

***

We rang in 2010 with praises to God for another year of life given. It is common for Sierra Leonean Christians to go to a Watch Night service on New Years Eve. To count down to the New Year in fellowship and praise. I’ve never gone to church on New Years, but I don’t know why we don’t. It was a wonderful way to thank God for 2009, for the endurance and the strength, the providence and the blessing of one more year of life. And to praise Him for what is to come!

The streets were filled with crowds singing and clapping as we made our way home. We filled the air with sparkles and light, laughter and smiles – to put the finishing touch on 2009 and give a hearty welcome to 2010! Happy New Year!

Twas truly a season to remember…