I have to admit, I'm excited to see quite a few visitors here over the last week as this is not typically a highly-trafficked blog. (I guess it doesn't hurt to have photos of cute African kids!) Regardless, welcome, and thanks for stopping by. I hope you find words here that are relevant and challenging. Perhaps there's even something in this little corner of space to help make the world a better place.
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The final post was all written out, finished, ready to add photos and click "publish". It was pretty stellar. A nice and tidy wrap-up to a successful week in Ghana.
And then I deleted every single word.
We had a short window of time that last afternoon up north in which to try and meet a few kids working out on the lake. This was not my first, second, or even third time meeting children on the lake, and it likely won't be anywhere near my last. Chris always says it's the best and worst part of his job, and I can't help but adopt that thinking as well. These lake encounters always leave me in a bundle of emotion and swirling thoughts that never fully land until I am home and staring at the faces, frozen in time. (More on that here.) I often wake up wondering if the haunted, questioning eyes that we have met will know rescue in my lifetime.
Our group met boys in two boats that day, and in the first, was Kwame.
The little wooden boat is still a ways off, but as we get closer, our driver cuts the motor. Two seconds before, we were having to yell back and forth to each other to be heard; now, it's eerily silent. Water laps at the side of our boat as we draw near. There is an older gentleman in the front, a denim jacket-clad boy in the middle working nets, and another boy in yellow towards the back with a paddle. Sam begins talking to the master in the front, and I quietly lean over and speak to the boy in the middle of the boat.
"Ete sen?" A nod.
"Eye. Ye fre wo sen?" (What do they call you?)
"Kwame."
"Ye fre me Akwasia. (I am called Akwasia [my Ghanaian name].) Me firi America."
He smiles shyly.
He speaks a little English and tells me he is 12 years old.
"Sukuu anaa?" (School?)
Another nod and barely audible "yes".
"What class? What level?"
Silence.
And then there is the blank stare. Not the "I don't understand what you're saying" stare, but the one that communicates "I don't know". And in that moment, I know that Kwame doesn't really go to school, which is confirmed by his master. Kwame doesn't go to school because he paddles and works with fishing nets all day. If I understood more than a few scattered phrases of Twi, Kwame could tell me all about the fish he's caught and the other kids he works with and the village he lives in. He could tell me that he's been up before the sun, that the wind and choppy waters make him fearful to be out on the water, but that he will go out after the nets regardless. But he wouldn't be telling me about his friend at school that is always cracking jokes, how his mom cooks the best banku in the village, or about the kids on his street that gather to play futbol with him each weekend. At the age of 12, those things are simply unfathomable.
We visit with the master and the two boys a little bit longer and then let them return to the lake while we continue our journey as well. Only now? Now, I know I will wake up wondering what Kwame would say if he just knew a taste of freedom.
And so I had this other post written out about visiting Challenging Heights, our rehabilitation shelter. How we had such a fulfilling time with the staff and children there, which we did. It truly is the best way to end a trip, and everyone enjoyed it immensely. (Really, what's not to love about this guy, though I may be bias?!)
But if I'm honest with myself, my heart is here today. And while we are intentional about not painting the typical "sad, starving kids in Africa" picture, there's an emptiness found in the faces on Lake Volta that reeks of an undeniable reality of hopelessness – for the fisherman as well as the children working. I know that even now, Kwame and thousands of other children like him are still out there working. That thought is sobering and yet unequivocally motivating.
I am beyond excited about the progress being made in Ghana and continue to feel God's abundant favor and affirmation through my work with Mercy Project. Thinking about how far He's brought us is amazing and humbling, and I can't wait to see what the journey ahead holds. I can't believe I get to participate in the ways that I do.
But just in this moment, I am asking God to come quickly and bring rescue and freedom to his little ones.
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