It is day 2 on the lake, and we attempt to arrive at Sabonjeda early. Somewhat accomplishing that, Hailey and I are able to go out on the lake almost immediately to meet some of the "list children" working. A fisherman and JP take us out in one of the wooden canoes sitting on the shore, barely above water once we all sit down, and I'm not sure how we're going to manage to keep 4 adults afloat for any length of time, much less be able to move without fear of tipping. At least the water is calm along the shoreline. I imagine the children who spend 8-10 hours a day in this boat, hauling in heavy nets, trying to balance, fearing the water.

At least I know how to swim.


We paddle out in a shallow area, much closer to shore than I anticipated. It's eerily quiet, and as we round a bend, there is Michael, the boy we have been looking for. The light is catching his net just perfectly, but all I notice are his eyes. Hollow, empty, almost angry. His body is rigid. Is he scared? Has he been told what is happening, or have these white people just appeared out of nowhere like paparazzi? It's horrible. While I still believe in the need to tell the story, in some ways this is harder. Thankfully, I know. I know the hope on the other side, that one day very soon this boy will have a different story to tell. We circle all the way around the boat, and Michael gives us a parting look.




My friend Dotse from yesterday has been brought down to the lake as we return. We swap boats for our large one and follow Dotse and his master further out for additional footage. Their boat reads "God Bless" on one side and "Pray for Life" on the other. How appropriate.




As we finish up and head back to shore, I notice that a group of kids have come out to pull in a net that is close to shore. We've seen these nets before – a few trips ago, 8-10 grown men labored to pull one in. This time, it is 12 children and 2 men. It takes them a solid 45 minutes, with no break, to wrestle the 100+ yard net, gathering it into a canoe as they go. The youngest children are untangling netting in the boat while the eldest heave on the net sides over and over again. Perhaps the children gathered once our filming presence was known, perhaps they are the kids of fishermen and not all trafficked children, perhaps they are putting on a bit of a show for the Obrunis. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because children should not be working like this. 8-year-olds should not be throwing their entire body weight into a fish net, muscles bulging. And the little boy in yellow, sitting in the boat? He can't be more than 5.







I have seen enough in these 45 minutes to last a lifetime.

The rest of the day is spent under the mango tree, where our social workers question and interview masters and village leaders. They are fantastic at what they do, and I am reminded how incredible it is to watch Jesus followers leaning into their gifts for the Kingdom. Later, we prepare to leave, and the village children follow us down to our boat. Sam asks for the "list kids" to gather for a photo. They don't really understand what it means to be on "the list" yet, but Lord-willing they will soon. Soon. I'm hurrying, trying to get a headshot of each child, hearing their names for the first time, and then Sam is saying "here is Michael". I turn and do not recognize the boy from this morning standing in front of me. For this time, he is grinning shyly, the emptiness in his eyes replaced with a glimmer of hope. Soon, Michael, soon.

*********

It came down to this for me:

If I look at the mass I will never act. If I look at the one, I will. – Mother Teresa

For this trip, this trip was about the one. The individual faces looking up at me – Dotse and Michael and others. 7,000 is an incredibly overwhelming number, and the vastness of Lake Volta is indescribable. But instead of remaining paralyzed, I am learning to focus on the one. One village, one master, one child.

It's time to act.

Ghana trip continued...

Justice means moving beyond the dichotomy between those who need and those who supply and confronting the frightening and beautiful reality that we desperately need one another. – Rachel Held Evans



Our approach towards working with the fishermen in Ghana has always been holistic; we don't sweep in, gift them with our great Western knowledge, and try to put a band aid on the challenges they face. We've chosen a route and process that is long and arduous, that is challenging and ofttimes frustrating. But it creates a unity and partnership within the villages and within our interactions that is deeply rooted, that is equal. It is the simple acknowledgement that we need each other. The village needs our support and a "manual" on cage fishing; we need their partnership and a decision to change generations of economic hardship. It's a balancing act. Not without mistakes on both sides, but with just enough understanding and grace for each other.

***

We spend two days out on the lake and in the fishing villages. Most of the time is spent at Sabonjeda, our second partner village; the final afternoon we check in with Adovepke, our first. My main purpose this trip is to capture footage of the Sabonjeda "list kids" so that we have some documentation before the next rescue. I have an agenda, a very clear idea of the shots I want, angles and backgrounds, how it all fits together in my head. And within 5 minutes of stepping in the village, I recall the stupidity of that planning, for there's something about Ghana that renders agenda useless. It's the simple nature of a culture where time is irrelevant. It's frightening to my list-making self to be bound by nothing save epically long mango tree meetings and waiting hours on so-and-so to tell so-and-so to go get so-and-so. But this is the part of the journey in which we need them. We (I) need to be taught to slow down, to forget time for awhile, to share a meal with each other, to be patient, to learn to see others as same. We are greeted warmly by Merci, the only female committee member in the village; she speaks minimal English and has been waiting to receive us. So we settle in and spend the day just "being". And low and behold, it is beautiful.


The boy's name is Dotse (do-che), and he's wearing a long red Puma shirt with a hood. It reminds me of my nephew, who loves Puma and is about the same age and size. Dotse is beckoned over to our circle, asked to join in, and hesitates at the offering of a plastic chair reserved for the nicest of guests. His ducked head and wary eyes speak volumes. Questions are asked and answers debated, and then suddenly we go, dismissed for him to show me how he spends his time during the day. I follow his bare footprints down a dirt path, his master leading the way to a small open-air hut where fish nets are spread out in every direction; Dotse immediately starts to work. I change lenses and do the same. It strikes me that he is so very good at what he's doing. His hands work quickly, methodically, and without mistake as he gathers and weaves the netting. I wonder, is he proud to show me what he can do? Does he have any idea what on earth is happening? Is he embarrassed that all the attention is on him? Scared and anxious as if on display? After a time, he rises and goes to another net, adding weights down one end using his small fingers and teeth. He moves to a third net, never so much as glancing up, working hard to impress, his fingers flying over the netting. The fact that this child's motor skills are ridiculously advanced is not lost on me. It's rather frightening.





Later, lucky for Clint and Hailey (!), one of the women offers us banku and tilapia sauce before we depart. This is such a culturally generous offer that we cannot help but accept. The village is a total maze of huts and paths, and it seems we walk all around it, only to end up right back where we started. And then I realize we're in the same open-air hut in which Dotse was working earlier in the day. It is his "family unit" that is offering to feed us. To be vulnerable, to share life, to give to strangers in order to become friends, to trust. This is the justice that transcends.

Gathered around a small wooden table, I look up and am rewarded with a slight grin from Dotse, who is standing off to the side with a few other kids, just watching. He doesn't know it, but this little boy has changed me. A beautiful justice.

Another Ghana trip complete. Chris and I returned on Monday, somehow surviving the final 10-hour flight from Germany sitting two rows in front of a snoring sumo wrestler. We were at least armed with unlimited chocolate bars. And chocolate pudding. After chocolate cookies and Nutella for breakfast. All true. The next few posts will be some thoughts from the week, and yes, pictures.

*******

As we leave on these 8-10 day trips, it's always with the knowledge that we're coming home. We go, get our work done, and return. Only this time, the perspective was a little different. For years now, we've dreamed and planned and hoped for the day in which we'd have an American team in-country to join our Ghanaian staff and further our work in the fishing villages. That process has been long and often challenging. But last week, it became reality. Chris and I journeyed over with our friends Clint and Hailey, spending a great week together navigating ridiculously bumpy roads, exploring villages, making introductions to staff and in villages, shopping for household needs, and staying up late so the girls could dominate the guys in Spades. Then at the end of the week, we returned, and they stayed.

One of the biggest lessons I'm learning in working with Mercy Project is that we are called to be a people who say "yes" to the Lord long before all the details are worked out. I'm not often good at that, that living under an umbrella of trust. I'm a detail person, and I like to have everything figured out, lined up, and on a list before I jump in. But time and time again, the Lord is leading me to trust more fully and just say "yes". Even then, I don't know if I'm quite to the point of literally packing up and moving across the ocean (though don't tempt me!), but I'm so grateful for those who are doing just that.

It's been such a blessing to see the path that Clint & Hailey (and the soon to join Weber family) have taken towards moving to Ghana. From short survey trips, to selling their homes, to language training, to learning about raising goats and chickens, to saying goodbye to friends and family – they have been committed and steady. They are adventurous in the best kind of way, loving people of every tribe, armed with vision and purpose, believing in Mercy Project and in changing the world. They are risk-takers, simply because they are choosing Kingdom over "known". And I want to be like that more and more.

The first leg of our journey last week was spent getting to and seeing the missionary house for the first time in person. Here's a glimpse:













The house is nearly complete, but we are making one final call for finishing it out and furnishing it with the things the missionaries will need. A generous donor has agreed to match up to $15,000 through the end of this month. Read more here and please consider helping us meet our goal by Thursday!

slow down.

slow down long enough to breathe, long enough to feel, long enough to listen. this is the story that the Lord is weaving into my heart this summer, that He is speaking over me, shouting at me when i refuse to listen. naturally rebellious against that, i am. there is something stifling about sitting and doing nothing, the opposite is ingrained in my very being from the time of you're burning daylight and half the day is over when it's just 9am. slowing down means wasting time in my vocabulary and though there are times to rest it can never be for too long. i have to do and prove and attain, more for myself than anyone.

yet in slowing down, He speaks.


the moment i called out, you stepped in; you made my life large with strength. ps 138


so i call out. i flee the house bound for retreat, armed with only essentials. coffee to welcome the sun, an old quilt, pen and paper. i sit still for 2 straight hours and possible set a new record for myself. i read and i think and i get wrapped up in thought deeper than i have in quite some time. conversation in my head, stringing paragraph and verse and thought.

i read words of gratitude intertwining with salvation stories, with the healed leper of soul and not just body because of his thanks. words of thanksgiving bringing about the fullness of life. and then i think of the future, where the majority of my fears are held captive, heavy and binding, and the childhood memory work returns:


do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. phil 4:6


and it suddenly makes sense, this interweaving of thanks and praise and communication and letting go. and suddenly He is here. and my quiet space is quickly filling with noise and chatter as the world wakes up around me and i'm not really one to chase the supernatural but there is something about this presence.


i look behind me and you're there, then up ahead and you're there, too – your reassuring presence, coming and going. this is too much, too wonderful – i can't take it all in! ps 139


and this idea that God is in, really in, everything around me, strikes. it's easy to see where He's led in past, and Heaven knows there has been some traveling and searching and wondering. and it's not unfathomable to feel Him here in the now, though it comes in waves between distraction and busy and tired and worn. but the fact that He is already in the future, that He is present there and paving the way. that is what gets me. and it stays with me and washes away the fear and anxiety that have been taking up space in my territory for far too long.

the heat climbs and i trade books for water pouch and head into the shade of the trees. here there is not a stitch of sound save the occasional bird chirp and my shouting thoughts. slow down has come in many forms lately. it's come physically for quite some time when all i crave is to pound the pavement for as long as i want while the world sleeps in for that used to be my quiet space. it's come in canceled plans revealing open weekends and time to soak up peace when i otherwise intended to plow ahead. it's come in wrestling with hard things and realizing i need more of Him and less of me and the sure-fire way to achieve that is to s l o w  d o w n.

i traipse down the trail, passing only one soul in the next two hours. the trail map is ironically on my phone which is about to die and maybe that's intentional because sometimes you just need to get lost. so i do. and watch the sun come streaming through the trees, dancing light on beds of leaves and pine needles, visible of His presence. and i chastise myself for not listening to my mother better when she walked alongside us on the trails pointing out plants and flowers by name, all different and uniquely made and He is here.

i'd like to think that there are better ways to tap into Presence than needing to surrender to complete quiet and silence off the map and there are and i must find them more in the day-to-day living. learning. but they always say that if you want to be creative if you want to hear if you want to see, then go spend time with the Creator. why this alludes me too often, i am ashamed to think. but for today, for this moment, this is right where i need to be as i debate turning around and going back but the trees finally part at the end of the trail right where i set out to be. and those worries have turned into prayer and this reassuring presence, coming and going, i can scarce take it in!

The last few weeks and weekends have been pretty chill around here. Several small celebration times for friends moving, welcoming little ones, etc., but for the most part it's been a quiet transition from summer into fall. And oh, how I'm ready for the fall! As much as I don't like change, I do appreciate new seasons, and what's there to not love about soup and chili, cooler temps, and camping? Sooo ready for camping weather!

So I've had a little more time on my hands lately, and surprisingly, have not crammed it crazy full as is the usual temptation. There's something calming about taking time to listen and be still and live life a bit more organically. And so I have.

Here's where I've landed recently, soaking up these tidbits from Psalm 119:

I'll stride freely through wide open spaces
As I look for your truth and your wisdom.


You are good, and the source of good;
train me in your goodness.


I see the limits to everything human,
but the horizons can't contain your commands.


Everything's falling apart on me, God;
put me together again with your Word.


You're my place of quiet retreat;
I wait for your Word to renew me.


The way you tell me to live is always right;
help me understand it so I can live to the fullest.


And should I wander off like a lost sheep – seek me!
I'll recognize the sound of your voice.

30.

Whatever this dreaded fear of joining the 3-0 club is, I'm not getting it. I guess there's the reality that things are starting to break down, and I'm craving 10 hours of sleep at night instead of 6, and the appeal of filling life so full that it's hard to breathe is starting to lose its luster. But aside from the obvious, I'm actually quite excited about a new season, about leaning into the next few years.

There's a freedom that comes with feeling as if you know a little bit more of who you are at the age of 30 than you did at 20. And there's a freedom that comes with the acknowledgement that though you never fully stop growing and adapting and learning, you've done enough searching and digging and molding for enough time that it starts to feel as if it counts. There's a freedom that comes from feeling stronger and more confident and being able to release the idea that you have to have it all figured out and instead start to really live into who you are at present, who God created you to be. It's a gift.

So here I land, three weeks into 30, and I have been poured into so much in that time.

30 thoughtful little gifts from my family. Tasty cupcakes from a dear friend. Beautiful flowers from some of my very favorite littles. Cake and sweet prayers from my ComGroup.

 

And then these:



"Happy happy 30th birthday dear one! I LOVE my thirties. I pray you will continue to stretch into the full potential of who God made you to be."


"May the Lord grant you a year of unexpected gifts."


"Happy birthday friend! Hope it involves a bowl of ice cream as big as your face!" (by one who knows me a little too well!)


"So thankful for your friendship and praying today will be full of love and blessings. Hopeful for the good things to come in year 30!"

And on and on. And those words are exactly what I think everyone should hear most on their 30th. Words of encouragement and excitement and "the best is ahead".

I also stumbled upon this as I was forming these thoughts. It's raw and it's real, and I don't feel like the anti-aging parts represent me at all, but it speaks of being known and loved as we are, and I am soaking in these lines:

The point is that your life is meant to be spent.

You have to let your life wrinkle. You have to let hope get into the fold of things. You are here to be spent. Saving yourself up isn't how the saved are meant to live.

There are days in which I toy with the idea of a safe, contained life, of this "saving myself up". A normal schedule, a larger budget, an 8-5 job. Career success in artistic endeavors. Owning a nice home. Buying furniture that actually matches! A nice, clean, cookie-cutter existence does at times appeal. But when I compare those things to this "me" that I know, well, there's no real comparison at all. (Read: NOT a knock on those who choose those things; it's just not me.) I am unconventional, I am appalled at white picket fences, and I would feel trapped working 8-5 in a high-rise office building and attaining a larger-than-life paycheck. But this idea of spending life, of using life, of growing and aging into who God created us to be – that I can get behind. The idea that it is enough to just be known – by ourselves and by others.

Life is meant to be spent!

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.

***

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.

Our days up on the lake were relatively flexible. We had a loose itinerary and things we wanted to do and show the group, but we had some time to play with as well, which has not been the norm on most of the trips I've been on. Additionally, for the first time with a group, we finally had the entire process in place and the ability to show each step. Such an exciting point to get to and one we've longed for.



I knew that several of our reintegrated children lived in Yeji (attending two different schools) and had hoped to get to visit one or two if time allowed, but I didn't share that with the group ahead of time so as not to disappoint if it didn't work out. I inquired of Sam if we could visit one of the kids before we left, and he said that would be wonderful, but that we should just visit the schools so as to see all 14 of the children and not just a few. Yes please!

So on Monday morning, we visited both schools and received quite the welcome:

We arrive at the first school, and the children are lined up in the courtyard, in their classes, tallest to shortest. I am searching, searching the sea of faces for the 10 that I know here – hoping they will know me as well. Before the last line has marched away to their classroom for the day's learning, I have made eye contact with four of them. And they are grinning back from ear to ear.

One at a time, they come from their rooms to greet us and say hello. They have grown so much! Kennedy and Louis can't stop smiling, and Samuel is trying to hold it in. Then there's Grace. Grace is crying because she got in trouble for wearing the wrong shoes with her school uniform. One of the older boys tells us that little Jacob, the youngest, is missing a few buttons on his shirt and needs to get them sewn back on. I hug them tight, secretly thanking God that the few tears and small uttered requests are over everyday, "fixable" things. This was certainly not the case last summer, and it speaks volumes of the fact that these children are finally getting to be just that – children.



Before I can blink, all 10 are standing in front of me. Sam and I introduce them to the group, talk to them for a short bit, and take pictures. (They really are excited – just don't offer cheesy grins like the Americans do in pictures.) They are shy to reply in English, but I can tell they understand my words. I don't really need a response; it is enough to see them, to see them doing well and thriving, to hear that they are happy and making friends here, to know that they are caring and watching out for each other. I can walk away now, knowing they are in such good hands.

***



As soon as we're within sight of the second schoolyard, the children are leaning out of the open-air classroom windows to get a glimpse of the group of O'Brunis headed their way. They are loud and excited in their welcome; I wonder what they are saying to each other, and make sure to give props to their teachers for taking on 90+ kids in a classroom. Yes, 90+.



The Director of the school greets us warmly and chairs instantly appear for us on the porch area. Before we are all seated, it's decided that we should move inside so as not to be a disruption, though I'm fairly certain there wasn't much learning for the remainder of the day! We gather is a small dusty room near the back of the complex and make the round of introductions, our team and the school staff. They affirm our work in every way, that Mercy Project is doing things that matter and make a difference, that they are happy to join us and help in any way that they can. I learn more about the ways they are helping our 4 here and assure the Director that their caring and watching out for our children is more than we could ask. So grateful.



I look up, and four familiar faces have arrived at the door: little Daniel, Jacob, Francis, and sweet Ruth. They walk all the way around our circle, shaking hands with each person, showing expert manners. But I am done with manners at that point and jump up to hug them. I ask Sam to ask Ruth if she remembers me. She leans back, looking into my face, and grins, nodding yes. They all sit and the Director makes the connection that I was on the rescue trip. He asks me if I remember the children. YES! Oh yes, I do. Each and every face. He turns to the children and asks if they remember me. They duck their heads, shy, and all nod. It's the closest I've ever been to a parent looking with pride upon their children. The Director then says to the children, "then these are your people". In that moment, I'm not sure a more profound statement has been uttered.

For being two worlds apart, for two vastly different cultures and lifestyles, for the very fact that these children are now back with their own families, that they now have Ghanaian people to care for them... how is it that we still get to be their people, that we are deemed worthy of that? I can think of no higher honor – and no greater task. We continue to be their biggest fans and advocates, and we continue to speak on behalf of those still without a voice on the lake; and as we do, they have – and will – teach us more than we could ever impart to them.

Before we say goodbye, Sam asks the kids if they are having any problems or need anything. Silence. And then Francis pipes up from the corner. (I can't play favorites, but this one... that sly little grin!) Sam laughs and relays that Francis is asking for "futbol boots" because he wants to be a futbol star when he grows up. Ah, that we could go buy boots for everyone in this school! But oh dear child, if I could only tell you how much my heart sings to hear your request for play, to know you are free to dream of a future that doesn't involve nets and fishing.

That, friends, is new life.

Alright, time to crank out the trip report. This one is rather long, but I just couldn't deal with splitting it up further. I solemnly swear the rest won't be so lengthy. Maybe.

I truly cannot say enough good things about our group this year; they not only made the trip easy for Jared and I, they made it so very enjoyable! We spent three full days up on the lake – speaking in our partner villages, meeting kids working on the lake, and visiting several of our reintegrated children.



Here's a little glimpse into the first two days:

Once again, I'm walking back into Adovepke. The boats lined up on the lakeside, the layout of the thatched huts, the greetings and smiles on faces I know – it's all familiar in the best of ways. It's good to be back. We sit in on a "short" church service so that the group can experience African worship at its finest. And coincidence-I-think-not, the lesson preached was from none other than the book of Micah. I'm not surprised when the people ask us to "bring them a song". Thankfully, they quickly join our croaks with solid accompaniment. Here, in a mud brick building, I find true worship.



We meet with the chief and several of the fishermen, impressing upon them once again that we are in this for the long haul, that we will continue to visit, check up, and partner with them on the fish cages. They recognize me as "the one with the photos". Here, under the mango tree, I find friends.



Fishing cages are worked on over the course of the day, and the group spends much of the time playing with the village children. There are coloring books, candy, pictures, and... jump rope! The first time we brought one, and it was a huge hit. One of my favorite moments. Here, among smiling faces and laughter, I find joy.



******

The next day, we walk into the village of Sabonjeda, my first visit. It strikes me as even more authentic African than Adovepke (if that's even possible). It seems simpler, more widespread and much larger. The people gather quickly but are at first hesitant to join us under the mango tree – the children especially. In a few short hours, that certainly changes, but the questions are present in body language and demeanor: what is your business here? Can you be trusted? Why so many of you? And yet, we are brought the finest chairs, while they take the wooden benches across from us, the village secretary and the chief seated to my right. A grand display – nothing but the best – even for unknown guests. Here, sitting in a plastic stacking chair, I find true hospitality.



Jared and I greet the crowd that has now gathered, introduce our group members, and explain our visit as one of merely checking in to see how they're getting along, to play with their children, to affirm that we are "with them" and excited for their partnership. They receive us well. I have the privilege of sharing that JP, our usual spokesman, is not with us because he has gone to get materials for their fish cages and will soon be arriving, ready to build out the project that we have promised. The watchful eyes grow large and clapping erupts. All hesitancy melts away in that instant. Here, in newly charted waters, I find partnership.



But then, then there are questions. Many questions. I am floundering in my head to come up with the best answers and praying as the words come out in response that they are right and good and exactly what needs to be heard. I've always been the observer, never the communicator, and I immediately have much more respect for this task! I've never been more grateful for the language barrier that at least allows me time to think and toss around answers before responding fully. Questions of timing and hypothetical 'what if's' in regards to owed payment for children (in the form of a cow) and to trafficking family members. My soul breaks a little; this moment of discussing buying and selling children is forever ingrained in my memory. Here, I find myself grateful for the ability to shelve emotion. Yet even in the midst of the conversation, I tell the fishermen that they ask good questions, because this affirms that they are on board, that they are equally in the partnership, that they desire to learn and understand, that they care. And in that realization, here, in the middle of the chaotic exchange of words, I find two worlds colliding for good.



As we leave the village a short time later, I feel more like a friend and less like a stranger. But this process is hard. It's not glamorous. It comes with mistakes and questions and tough moments. It's long and often daunting. And sometimes it's two steps forward and one back. But each step comes with equal part gift, short glimpses of light and a richness that cannot be described or bought. We hold fast to that.



Here, as always, I find hope.

Coming home is the worst part. I thought by now I'd be used to it, but I find myself still needing a few days to adjust. I'm pretty sure all I've done this weekend is eat, marvel at having clean feet, and stare into space. Part of that is the usual overwhelming trip to the grocery store that has too many choices on too many aisles, crossing the goat-less street without the fear of getting run over, and sleeping all night long without waking up at 4:00am for the morning prayer call by the Muslim mosque across the street. It's the little things. And the little moments when life "back home" is just too much. I have to ease back into things to preserve sanity.

But my heart has to adjust as well. It is full and desiring to live richly (not in a monetary sense) and seeking a deeper and stronger meaning that doesn't always line up with the life I find here. Somehow, my heart grows bigger with each trip to Ghana; and with each journey, I return to wrestle with the ways that life here needs to align more consistently.

My heart is bigger having spent time here:



Lake Volta never fails to give me chills. It is the life-source for so many people in Ghana; they wash their clothes and cars, bathe in, drink from, and cook with water from the lake. Having access to water – regardless of the filthiness of it – is everything. And yet, there is so much hurt and pain associated with it as well. Broken families, stolen childhoods, lost friends and loved ones in the water, never-ending work just to survive. I don't think it's an accident that it takes 1-2 hours by boat to get to the villages we are working in. We spend a significant amount of time out on the lake. It allows for the best contemplation and the best conversations about how we are trying to bring new life to an area that is so desperate for it.


My heart is bigger having spent time here:



Challenging Heights is one-of-a-kind. They are faithful in their pursuit of rehabilitating and empowering children and their families. I thought quite a bit this week about the fact that the staff waves goodbye to children just as soon as they say hello. It's a constant revolving door as groups of children come in and out. It is selfless work. The staff could not be more welcoming or wonderful, and they inspire me to be meaningful with my relationships and to spend my life in ways that matter – even more so when there's no return on the investment.


My heart is bigger having spent time with these guys:





Pure joy is seeing a child in slavery, rescued, reintegrated, and in school. It is recognition by them and being greeted by a hug. It is the pride in their eyes when we ask about their school uniforms. It is seeing shoes on their feet and hearing they ate a good breakfast that morning. It is seeing them pick up a pencil and write their name with pride – instead of picking a fish out of a net. It is knowing they will walk down to the lake to fill a bucket of water for their family – and not get in a fishing boat to paddle. This is joy.


More photos and stories to come, but suffice to say, it was a great trip!

This season. This season of a super short spring melding into an already-too-hot-summer has flown. Not every day; there are always those that stretch so long I feel as if time has stopped right when I'd prefer it not too. But the last two months have been packed with goodness and waiting and full life all rolled into one:

I attended a sewing night, organized by a sweet and talented church friend. We kicked off marathon registration (how is it time already?!) in mid-May and hosted the first Night Trail Run at Royalty Pecan Farms. A new favorite for sure; it was a blast. And then in the last three weeks... I've traveled to Dallas – partly for work but also to see good friends – and was reminded that I am surrounded by such good people near and far. I've traveled to Houston on a day trip to visit a Ghanaian Consulate. We successfully hosted our first live Art Auction online and were blessed by so many generous supporters. And I've traveled to Abilene for a quick weekend with the fam – time with my favorite two littles, exploring a downtown festival and spending time on the golf course.

Now it's departure day. Thankfully, last week/weekend was just hectic and frantic enough wrapping things up that I have had the morning to breathe. Even carved out a little "coffee break" before stuffing the camera equipment, snacks, and a few sets of clothes (essentials, in that order) in my carry-on bags. My days this week are already running together – which does not bode well for the next 10 – though losing track of time in Africa only aids the cultural transition. I'm not much for historical/political holiday celebration in general (don't shoot). [I do always find it ironic to be in Ghana over Independence Day; our last two group trips landed us there during that day and has changed my view of the way we celebrate and view freedom in America.] And so it never occurred to me until this morning that we're leaving for Ghana... on Juneteenth.

Today Juneteenth commemorates African American freedom and emphasizes education and achievement. It is a day, a week, and in some areas a month marked with celebrations, guest speakers, picnics and family gatherings. It is a time for reflection and rejoicing. It is a time for assessment, self-improvement and for planning the future. Its growing popularity signifies a level of maturity and dignity in America long over due. In cities across the country, people of all races, nationalities and religions are joining hands to truthfully acknowledge a period in our history that shaped and continues to influence our society today. Sensitized to the conditions and experiences of others, only then can we make significant and lasting improvements in our society... Juneteenth is the oldest nationally celebrated commemoration of the ending of slavery in the United States. (via)

And yet there are more slaves in the world today (including the US) – an estimated 27 million – than at any other point in history. God, help us.

So we continue to go. We leave families and jobs and comfort and "easy" because we believe in freedom, and we believe that we cannot see the 27 million and turn a blind eye. One of the greatest lessons I've learned in working for Mercy Project is that we can easily be paralyzed by the magnitude of the problems, by the idea that a few average people cannot possibly make a dent in the brokenness for fear of failure. Or, we can choose to simply go and dive in because we are called to. Lucky for me, there are people who push me to "go" on the days it seems too overwhelming.

I love that this God I know is not a God of coincidence or happenstance. He is not idle or distant, and He finds ways to speak to us when we most try to keep Him at bay.

Our group trip crew of 9 embarks for Ghana this afternoon. I am anxious but cannot wait to share this week with fresh eyes and hearts who will meet the children on the lake for the first time. Not much is certain except that I am never left unfilled upon return. And for that, it is always worth it to "go".

who is worthy? none beside Thee.
God Almighty, the great I AM.

This song challenged me tonight. I often think I am worthy, worthy of making my own decisions and doing whatever I want, whenever I want. That's proven time and time again to provide a pretty terrible outcome. And yet, it doesn't keep me from trying to take control. This time it'll be different. This time I'll get it right. I never do. And each time I attempt to do it on my own, I crash and burn. And each time, I am saying that God is not worthy of my trust and surrender. That He does not want better for me, that He does not have better intentions for me than I have for myself.

And yet,

the mountains shake before Him, the demons run in fear,
at the mention of the name King of Majesty.
there is no power in hell, or any who can stand,
before the power and the presence of the great I AM.

Who is worthy? Not I. Certainly not I. Though He need not prove himself to me, He continues to reveal full life in the simplest of ways. For this, I am grateful.

I want to see dry bones living again, singing as one,

Hallelujah, holy, holy
God Almighty, the great I AM.
who is worthy, none beside Thee,
God Almighty, the great I AM.

Loving the springtime weather and activity around here. So many fun things to be apart of, so many new things to try out, so many signs of God's presence.


Joined a hilariously fun crew in our 80's gear for the Girls Just Want to Have Fun 5k. Our first race of the BCS Marathon Race Series, and it was a huge hit! Over 1,000 women came out for the morning; our awesome group of all-men volunteers served the ladies and helped with chocolate fountains, course directing, costume judging, and handing out roses at the finish line. We're excited to build on this race for years to come.




Made a trip to Abilene to see the crew over Easter weekend. Lots of zoo time, play time, cooking, and Apples to Apples. Love getting to all be together...



... and love giraffes.




Working on designating more quiet time in the middle of these busy weeks. Time to unwind, regroup, and spend some time in peace with minimal distraction. Challenging for me, yet so good when I create space to just sit and listen.




Spending more time outside! It's been a beautiful spring here with bursts of cold and hot nearly every week. It's the perfect time to soak up creation.






Trying new recipes... like tortillas and pillow cookies! I highly recommend both.






And then we had one incredible Guinness Baseball Bash for Mercy Project! 50 hours of non-stop baseball, and the weekend could not have gone smoother. 56 supporters of MP and lots of volunteers, all coming together to spend a full weekend doing something totally crazy to make the world a better place. We always call it a time of "thin space", and so it is. This has become one of my favorite MP events, and I am so blessed to be part of it.










And most recently, I have put these up...



... in exchange for this:



Going on 11 weeks of no running, and it's been challenging to say the least. Lots of PT work, stretching, and cross training. I'm learning to embrace new forms of exercise – even yoga! – and have enjoyed trying new things, even though I wouldn't choose it. I even bought a bike!




The past week has found me here, lots of screen time putting together the Run For Boston book. Culling down 5,000+ photos to ~2,200 to fit in a 150 page book for thousands of folks to see and purchase. Yikes! It's been a long process, but one in which I have continued to be reminded of the ways ordinary people can join together and change the world. Good triumphing evil. Light overcoming the darkness.




May you do something today to make the world a better place.