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.

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.