Church and a Chair

Well, I had this naive notion that life would stop, or at least slow down, in time for me to write and read and rest up and regroup before continuing on full-speed ahead. You'd think I would have learned my lesson by now! But, the week wrapped up rather nicely, and it's finally time to roll out some trip posts.

As I said before (start here if you've no idea what I'm talking about), this journey is best summarized by moments. Moments that were pivotal and meaningful to me, even if I didn't realize it at the time. That's what photographs are, right? An instant of time, frozen so that we may remember it just as it was.

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We follow the villagers into their little mud-brick church. They've clearly already discussed and organized a system, and the kids are sorted according to the list of trafficked children. We are grateful for the preparation that has already taken place before our arrival. By the time I catch my bearings and figure out what's going on, there they are. Lined up on a wooden bench – hesitant, uncertain, questioning. Our first group of Mercy Project kids sit right before us. And they are beautiful.



Moments later, I'm standing in the corner, watching as village masters, one right after the next, come forward to sign a contract handing over their children. The "emancipation" as Chris refers to it. And so it is. Many of the masters cannot sign their own names – they've never been taught to read or write – and so they ink a fingerprint signature on the contract. I am reminded that we are indeed in the far remote of Africa. I am also reminded how important an education is for these children. It is essential to breaking the cycle of slavery in this country. Then the village Chief himself comes forward to sign away two trafficked boys. And I know in that moment that these people really do understand what's at stake, what we're all about, what this means for the future of their village and their own children. And it is so good.







The following morning, I'm standing on a plastic chair under the mango tree, gazing down at a group of 23 children. They have been called by name and separated for counting. Some of the women leave to gather the few belongings they possess. But wait, there's one more. He's no older than 6 years – smaller than my nephew of the same age – and little Jacob is pushed forward to join the group, making 24. 24 faces who stare at us with wide eyes, unsure what is to come. Likely questioning why on earth that white girl is not only snapping pictures of them but doing so perched high up on a chair. And it is for this:





And I think "Yes!" – this is the first of many, many more to come.