"What we hunger for perhaps more than anything else is to be known in our full humanness, and yet that is often just what we also fear more than anything else. It is important to tell at least from time to time the secret of who we truly and fully are... because otherwise we run the risk of losing track of who we truly and fully are and little by little come to accept instead the highly edited version which we put forth in hope that the world will find it more acceptable than the real thing. It is important to tell our secrets too because it makes it easier that way to see where we have been in our lives and where we are going. It also makes it easier for other people to tell us a secret or two of their own, and exchanges like that have a lot to do with what being a family is all about and what being human is all about."  – Frederick Buechner

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Several weeks ago, our ComGroup started telling our stories to each other. By this, I mean that we have set aside intentional time for each person to share a little bit about their lives, about their background, about the ways the Lord has been at work. I've done this before in small groups, and while I tend to despise anything related to being put in the spotlight, I think it's a really needed and beneficial part of journeying through life together. To really know one another and be known is such a gift.

So I made my notes the other night, a bit of a timeline of my life. Since I didn't grow up in College Station or even go to school here (shameful, I know), it made more sense to relay a synopsis than a few specific highlights of life. It's amusing now to look back and think about which moments were actually life-altering and which ones I just thought were at the time and to filter content that would fit within an hour and still convey "me". In the end, I'm not sure whether or not that was accomplished, but the neatest part was tracking the way the Lord has weaved provision and grace and purpose into seasons of life when it was least felt or realized.

I've never really thought I had much of a story to tell. There are events and moments of note and worth, sure, but nothing mind-blowing in comparison to some of the struggles and successes of others. But I guess that's ok, because my story is MY story, and it's important in it's own right because no one else has it and because it is also God's story. It is, and continues to be, a story of redemption and growth and learning to trust in pain-staking ways in the mountaintop moments as well as in the dark valleys. So after sharing last week, I actually felt like it wasn't enough, that there was more to tell, more about relationships – both healthy and broken – and marathons and singleness and art and my need to be outdoors and need to pray more and on and on and on, this need for more time to call out the ways the Lord has changed and shaped me and maybe that's the sweet spot. That recounting of the past as well as the expectation of what's to come. Because the Lord has been at work.

One of the stories in Scripture that always comes to mind in reference to "story" is the reference to the Ebenezer stone in 1 Samuel 7. Samuel implores the Israelites to turn to the Lord fully and with all their hearts. They do so, and when the Philistines come to attack, the Lord answers the cries of his people and throws the Philistines into a panic, saving the Israelites. Samuel then erects a stone, names it Ebenezer (stone of help), and proclaims "thus far the Lord has helped us". Perhaps this sticks with me because my dear creative Mother once constructed an 8' tall wire mesh and paper mache Ebenezer stone for a church event. We paper mached for hours, and then she painted the entire structure to look like a real rock. True story. And while I'm sure it ended up in the dumpster after all that work (because really, what do you do with that?), it made the story come alive for me. I love the ways that it was important to the people of the Old Testament to mark the times in their lives in which they knew they tangibly experienced the Lord at work, and I think there's something very powerful to be found in that still today. To stand and say, I'm not done yet, God's not done with me yet, but thus far the Lord has carried and delivered me.

I would say I'm in a season of not knowing what's ahead and really wanting to know, but then, that's the norm around here. I get impatient and concerned with what life might look like in 10 years and will I be a better person then and will I accomplish what I want to and will I love others better and will I trust the Lord more and will I be making a difference and will I feel like I've failed and will I be leaning into Him more even when I do? I guess if the last 10 years are any indication, I shouldn't be as worried about the next decade. For thus far has the Lord helped me.

So tell your stories. Tell the ones that make them laugh at your audacity, the ones that make them question your motives, the absurd and the silly, the scary phone calls that rocked your world, the highs and the lows, the times of tears and longing and broken hearts, and yes, even the utter ridiculous happenings and sacred glimpses of sheer joy. Tell them all and be known.

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And to my story-sharing people here, proof that this happened. And it's worth mentioning that my first email address was hurdle_hopper@hotmail.com. You're welcome.

 







If we want to foster community, we are going to have to make a conscious effort to go against the flow. – Kate Hurley


I guess you would consider attempting to set a Guinness World Record every spring as something that goes against the flow. (Seriously, who does that?) Though admittedly I'm taking this quote a bit out of context, I think it's quite true; our culture is not set up in a way that encourages and promotes community. Thoughts of self, self, self scream much louder than give, give, give. And yet, there are these rare moments when we step outside of that and collide with the idea that maybe joining together could just very well be more powerful than standing alone.

I honestly don't remember the conversation that first got the Guinness events started; I guarantee it included something to the extent of "I've got a wild, crazy idea" and "this could gain the attention of people who wouldn't look twice otherwise", and "after all, changing the world ought to look unconventional". At least, that's how those conversations typically go! But I'm not sure that we (Mercy Project) could have imagined the gathering of support that would come from this event back in 2010 when we attempted to play 50 hours of kickball one weekend. In fact, Mercy Project didn't even exist as an official entity at that point in time.

Yet now, after 50 hours of kickball, 24 hours of flag football, 49 hours of baseball, 50 hours of baseball, and 24 hours of a mile relay, I'm beginning to see it. I'm beginning to see that the Kingdom takes all kinds of support, and it doesn't look anything like we tend to imagine. The Kingdom certainly does look like feeding the hungry, praying for hurting people, sharing clothes with those who have none, and showing up at church on Sunday morning. But it also looks a lot like playing sports for a ridiculous amount of time, rejoicing in efforts of all skill level and confidence, and running next to a friend in order to encourage them to give their very best. It looks like sharing conversation with someone who believes differently than you and thinks differently than you, but in whom you find the common ground of grace and running. It looks like staying up all night, cheering on the underdog, and giving of hours and effort to be part of something greater than yourself.

This past weekend, I witnessed community and Kingdom support in so many different ways, in so many different people. An army of 180 runners joined forces to run the most continuous miles in a 24-hour period, beginning at 7pm Friday and ending at 7pm Saturday. Many of the runners I knew well, while many I met for the first time. But I witnessed acts of kindness and selfless giving in each one. I saw it in...

• The young man, barely old enough to participate, who showed up alone – not at all a runner – and was so excited to achieve more than he thought he was capable. His smile lit up the track.

• The running club team who wore garishly bright colors at 5am and cheered and paced and encouraged each of their teammates – whether new runners or veterans.

• Families who drove in from hours out of town, kids in tow, because they believe in us and in our work in Ghana.

• Two guys who could look at most of us as mere amateurs and instead gave of their talents and effortlessly ate up 4 laps quicker than most of could finish two. Their humility of their gifts astound me.

• Several friends who had to gather much courage to step on the track at all, much less run a full mile. But they showed up, pushed themselves to do their best, and showed me what it means to do hard things.

• Several young men with endless energy who brought humor and excitement to the middle of the night.

• Many who showed up to support and help and bring coffee, church friends who lined the bleachers towards the end of the night Saturday, friends who have become my family and community here.

I could honestly say something about each of the runners and volunteers who came out this weekend, all giving of their time to support Mercy Project and each other. These people – both mere acquaintances and good friends – teach me a lot about myself and a lot about our need for community – both in everyday life and in the life of an organization that is always grateful to garner support, whether through awareness, encouragement, or financial means. We were made and designed to live life together, not alone. Nothing makes me more aware of this than Guinness weekend when I all I have to do is look around at the broad spectrum of people collected for a single cause and marvel at the way the Lord is working. Maybe there are easier ways to foster community than trying to break a world record, but if that serves the purpose, I'm ready for the next one. Here's to 5 more years of wild and crazy dreaming.

To be honest, I don't know that much about Lent. I get the general idea behind it and the basic historical/biblical significance, but the tribe I grew up in didn't practice or really even talk about Lent, so I don't know that I have a deep, foundational understanding or connection with it.

Much of what I've witnessed surrounding this season has been more about "what I will give up" and less about connecting with the Lord. Proclamations of anti-caffeine/meat/facebook/fill-in-the-blank sentiments are all fine and well, but I want to know: how does that draw you closer to the Lord? On Easter morning, how will that make you different from the person you were 40-some-odd days ago? And more often than not, those questions are harder to answer than the decision to not drink a Dr. Pepper every morning.

That said, I've had some good experiences with Lent as well: group commitments to read through the Sermon on the Mount each morning, to choose 40 people to pray for or write notes of encouragement to, to dedicate prayer on the Hours. These I love, these I connect with more fully and have made a positive impact on me. But I struggle to find a balance between what I will actually stick to in a season that is way too busy to begin with but that will also be more meaningful than checking a box to say I completed my Scripture reading for the day. And yet, I think this is the point, isn't it? That if we make this season about us, about what we can manage and complete, about what we are able to resist or add to our schedules, we've missed it altogether.

It's not a season about us, it's not a time to see how strong and sacrificial we can be and how that stacks up to what anyone else is choosing to do. It's not about selecting water over soda, vegetables over a pint of Ben & Jerry's, or silence over the latest sitcom. The giving up and adding to and tangible decisions to act are mere catalysts to draw us near to Him, to deepen our focus on Him. So that's where I want to point my heart for the next several weeks. I'm asking tough questions of myself: in what areas of my life do I need less of me and more of Him? And the disguise of busy, while true and legitimate, is often a means of packing life so full and overflowing that it's way too easy to dodge thinking about the parts of me that need, well, less of me. And so perhaps this is the very best time indeed to lean in close.

******

I'm (rather impatiently) waiting for Bread & Wine to arrive in the mail this week and am excited to dive into it over the coming days. I've planned some other ways to engage this season of Lent – but only ones that will actually spur and encourage drawing near. Less of me, more of Him.

If you want to read more, these two articles really resonated with me and helped wrangle my thoughts a bit:

What God’s graciously given you is always enough to be abundant grace for someone else. (Ann Voskamp)

Lent is not a self-help program. It’s a crash course in getting real with God. (Susan Isaacs)

And this is another great post by our pastor who comes from a similar background but is a much more brilliant writer than I.

Our hope is not that God will keep us from death, but that Jesus, acquainted with the way, will walk with us in our dying. (Thad Norvell)

What I love most right now is learning how this season means different things to different people. It's as if God intentionally meets each of us where we're at....

I was riffling through a stack of books this morning that have been sitting next to my bed waiting to be read since... oh, sometime last fall... and found a copy of a selection from an Advent book that a friend shared with me back in December. Meaning to reread it, I had printed it out and stuck it in with said books; now, it makes a timely appearance.

Intended for the Advent season, yes, but it resonates with me now, this day. This day, I see broken and messed up and wrong. I see it, and I focus on it. And each time, each bit of news or negative word enables that focus. And it's true – our world is very broken. But sometimes I forget to look for the good, to look for the light. So I find these thoughts quite appropriate, and I want to learn to watch for the light, to dwell on the ways in which God is coming quietly and redeeming, the ways in which He is making right, the ways in which at just the right time, He will fulfill everything that is scattered and longing – the ways in which He has already done just that.

******

This is adapted from an Eberhard Arnold selection in Watch for the Light: Readings for Advent and Christmas, bolded words my own.

"When the time was fulfilled..."
You came to us at Bethlehem when the time was fulfilled.
What insight there is in these words!
We are concerned day in and day out
with lesser or greater matters in the service of your kingdom.
We work sometimes until we are weary
and yet we see so little result.
Does everything remain as it was?Haven't we gone forward at all?
And then we see again the light
shining from the stable in Bethlehem.
Christ came not after a great mass of people had accomplished something good,
but as a miracle, as a gift from you
which you lay into those arms that are stretched out to you in longing.
So we wait sometimes for years to be freed from some need.
For a long, long time we look out from the darkness
in search of the light.
And then when the time was fulfilled,
a solution,
a light,
a deliverance comes quite unexpectedly
though perhaps quite differently than we expected.

So it is with our yearning for the salvation of the world,
for a new shining forth of the kingdom of God.
When we are discouraged,
this we can still know:
the time shall be fulfilled.
In all the noise and activity and work,
we often do not hear the hidden gentle sound
and the movement of the life that is coming into being.
But here and there,
you let us see how everywhere you are at work
and how your cause is growing and moving forward.
The time is being fulfilled.
The light shall shine,
perhaps just when it seems to us that the darkness is impenetrable.
But the miracle comes not only from above,
but also through us,
waiting for the hour when we open our souls up
and let them flow out into the world.
Wherever love proceeds from us and becomes truth,
the time is fulfilled.
Then your divine power floods through our relationships and all our works.
Then everything that is lonely and scattered
and longing for you
shall be bound together in you,
and then shall the world be born
in which Christmas is fulfilled as reality.

A final post about our last rescue trip in Ghana; if you need to catch up, start here.

As soon as we stepped onto the sand, I started looking for them. Had I known the faces of the other 20, I would've been looking for them as well, but all I knew for sure was to find the 2. The 2 boys from October, the ones I had met and shadowed as they worked. (You can read about that here and here.) The 2 who had shot cautious glances my way, not sure what to make of me, fearful of this stranger.



We sat under the mango tree and waited as the village gathered. One by one, children came out of huts along with teens and babies and adults, elders and fishermen and women of the village – everyone gathered. Hailey spotted him first – there's Dotse – but I hardly recognized him. With a fresh haircut and a striped shirt far improved over the stained, ratty Puma hoodie from before, he looked like any ordinary 11-year-old ready to take on the world. He hung back, acting shy, staying behind the crowd with a few other kids. But watching, always watching, and I wondered what he was thinking.

Michael appeared too, and I knew him immediately; though I hadn't seen them interact with each other in October, I could tell now that they were friends. They sat together on the front row of benches with the other 20, watching us and taking everything in. At 11 and 12, they were among the oldest, among the leaders in the group. When it was time to leave and get in the boat, they were the first of the group to climb aboard, talking excitedly.



I continued to watch the boys on the journey south. Their shyness slowly seeped out, replaced by smiles of confidence. Every now and then, I would catch one of them stealing a quiet moment away.



Once at the shelter, there was so much excitement: a nice meal, new beds, new school uniforms, new friends, new school books. They could not stop smiling/giving me the "why are you taking another picture of me" look. 

 

Before leaving, we had a chance to sit down with the boys and interview them, asking about life in Sabonjeda, what they liked about Challenging Heights, what they were most excited about, and what they wanted to be when they grew up.

Dotse, especially, was very open in our interview time with him, answering some pretty tough questions in front of us, whom he'd only been around a handful of times. The last question we asked was "what do you think about all the children who are still working on the lake"? JP translated his answer as this: He actually doesn't feel like going back there again so he doesn't even want to talk about how he feels about that. Touche.

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I don't know that I give enough credit to a God who creates such resiliency in children. In a world where youth so quickly become jaded and scarred by their pasts – whether chosen or inflicted – I feel as if God has protected these little ones and covered them in a very special way. Though they have quite a long journey ahead – one that will not be easy and will not be handed to them – and they will always have memories of the past, they are quick to love, quick to forgive, quick to begin again. In just three days time, they are becoming kids again. Michael dreams of being a famous soccer player when he grows up, but if he cannot, he'd like to become a teacher. Dotse also would like to become a teacher.



The separation of past and the welcoming of dreams wasn't even possible when I met the boys in October. One of the greatest gifts of this work is getting to see the transformation that is taking place in their lives. We acknowledge that it is a slow transformation of healing – physically, emotionally, relationally. But a price cannot be placed on the ability to begin dreaming.



Michael and Dotse now have a future. They now are the future.

And so it began... I like to think that sometimes the Lord wants to just keep us on our toes, remind us who is really in control. In fact, I'm pretty confident of that! A few days before Saturday, we got word that additional paperwork was needed to complete the rescue and be able to transport the kids to the shelter. Long story short, we were able to get what we needed, but there was a bit of anxiety surrounding whether or not we would be able to stay on the projected timeline. That's the beauty of Ghana – with a limited window of time in country because of significant travel, we're to a large degree at the mercy of a culture which doesn't exactly place time as a high priority. But we were ready, the village was ready, and the Lord showed His favor once again.

After that, the rest of the journey went incredibly smooth. Much of that was a testament to the fact that Sabonjeda really has adopted the partnership that we initially presented – and not just that they're willing to work with us, but that they've taken on ownership of the project as a community. They've shown in tangible ways that they choose to live a better life – to give their own children and their trafficked children a better life as well.



This was evident in the ways they blessed the children and joined our team in praying over them as we met under the mango tree. This was evident in the ways they had many of the children dressed in clean clothes and with fresh haircuts. It was evident in the ways they walked with the children down to the boat, making sure they were safely settled in and ready for the journey. Perhaps not every village will respond in this manner, but so far we're 2-for-2, and that may just be a lesson of trust for us – that if we continue in seeking the highest good of each village, our established relationships will make all the difference in the ways we are received and sent off.





Watching our team walk out of the village with the children is always so surreal, and it happens so very quickly. I left the mango tree meeting in time to get down to the boat to shoot the group walking out. One of the fish cages was out of the water, so I climbed up to stand on it for a better view. And in about 3 minutes, the group was down to the shore area and all the kids were clamoring to get on the boat – and I was still standing 5-6' in the air realizing I should be on the boat too! I wish I could freeze that moment and look at it from every angle, see every child's face, every master's expression. It truly was a release, a celebration.





Once we climbed in the boat, the village waved and cheered and sent us off in great spirits. I can't imagine what the day was like for them. Happy to know the children will be able to go to school? Fearful of the future and the reality of no longer having the children to help them work? Wary of whether we really will be back, despite our promise to return the next week? Sad to see the children go, many of whom have been with them since infancy? I'm sure a mixture of all of the above. But I am so incredibly grateful that they are choosing new life and trusting the process. What a gift. We call this part of the process "rescue", but it's not just for the children; it's a true rescue for the entire village as well.



My favorite moment of the day, and perhaps of the entire trip, came right as we all settled in the boat and pushed off a little from the shore of the village. We had a comprehensive list of children – their names and ages – leading up to the trip, but those are never 100% confirmed until we're actually in the boat pulling away. We all counted the kids multiple times (making sure not a one was missing – and that we didn't have any stowaways!), and then Samuel called them all by name, one at a time. And that moment for me was so very rich. Hearing their names, matching those names with faces, placing identity on each.

Dear child, you are no longer a number on the lake; you are Kingsley and Dorcas and Hannah and Ame and Albert and Dotse and Roland and on and on. All 22 of you.

Yes, so much more than a rescue.

A few things are staple occurrences for me post-Ghana: One involves buying out the produce section at HEB and eating everything in sight. God help me when that eating happens to also include Grub burgers and fries followed by vats of Blue Bell (cheers to my juice-cleansing friends). The other involves a bombardment of cold air. Now I know it's wintertime and all, but what is this icy/snow business that has everyone running for cover? And for the love, can we turn off the air conditioners in the airports and restaurants and office buildings? Can't. Get. Warm. Yet truly, the physical adjustments aren't a big deal anymore. Two days of waking up at 4am and wanting to crash by 8pm, a few extra layers and bowls of ice cream, and I'm good to go. It's expected now, and life goes on. Except there's also this:

Much of our work involves "high points": annual fundraisers, world records, sold out races, moments in Ghana of walking out of villages with formerly trafficked children, watching them go to school and reunite with their parents, reading letters from those children a year later, the partnership of a new village, taking cage-raised fish to market, etc. I dare say few people get to experience things of this nature in everyday life like we do. God has been so faithful, and we want to shout it from the rooftops – so we do! These are the moments we proclaim and share; nothing brings more joy than telling the ways that God is bringing the Kingdom through Mercy Project; it's why we do what we do. The Lord has shown up and invited us to participate in His work time and time again. There's no greater gift.

But I, especially, tend to forget that the high points do not come without moments from the opposite end of the spectrum; I rarely confess that portion of the journey in as much detail. I've been dwelling on grace since the beginning of this new year, desiring to practice more grace for others in my life, wanting to better understand the ways the Lord is gracious to us all. Yet sometimes I forget that I need to allow myself some grace as well, that I need to name the times when I am far from the perfection I seek, when I can't do all and be all and need to just say that THAT'S OK. It's ok to admit that this work is hard, that the path isn't easy, that sometimes relationships are hard and change is hard, that there are days when it feels like I'm getting nowhere fast.

Yikes.

Perhaps that's a terrible thing to admit immediately following a rescue trip – the pinnacle of high points – but let's be real: the pressure to succeed and measure up is often greatest in the wake of jubilation, and I've felt the weight of it this week. To be clear, this is a pressure that I place on myself, fearing failure and incompetence. I don't want to admit it, because it makes me feel weak. I've needed to ask for a lot of grace this week, and I'm so grateful for those who have walked through that with me. The problem with pouring your heart into something so fully is that only the Lord can fill it back up. 

What I'm learning is that it's okay to ask for help and ask for grace, even if it’s embarrassing, even if you disappoint people, even if in the process people find out (gasp!) that you’re not a super-person, but just a regular person, a person who gets. . . emptied out sometimes. -Shauna Niequist

And so.

I'm learning, and He is filling.

I continue to believe that in many ways my own story of rescue and redemption is tied up in the lives of these children in Ghana. That I don't "save the day" for them more than they save me – through their dreams and hopes to be teachers and doctors and futbol players, through their carefree dancing and singing and sheer joy, through their wild abandon for living life to the fullest each day regardless of what they've been through. Over and over and over, they save me.

So I have to start these stories with that honesty, that reality. Because if we don't let our stories change us, they are for naught.

And those high points from last week? Friends, there were so, so many. Without further ado, meet the FORMER trafficked children of Sabonjeda. Aren't they beautiful? Oh, how God is breathing new life and redemption into us all.


(click photo to enlarge; and if you're better at math than I, you'll notice there's only 21 in this photo. our friend Clifford had a rough morning as all little boys do from time to time and joined in for a later shot. keeping it real. :)

How do you recount those moments that really dig into the core of your heart? Not the kind where you think "that was really meaningful", or "I'll always remember this", but the kind that you know is changing the very nature of who you are in that moment. I continue to experience these moments in Ghana. Surprisingly, it's not the "highlight" moments that stick with me. Don't get me wrong; it's incredible to experience formerly trafficked children climbing into our boat and watching the same kids enter a bunk room at the shelter to pick out a new bed for the first time. Those are all special too, but for me, it's the look on the 15-year-old girl's face when she is told through translation that her mom loves her and wants her back, it's turning around to see a group of Americans and Ghanaians who don't have much in common culturally quietly praying under a mango tree together, it's watching your friends endure and pour out over and over again so that others may have abundant life. These are the stories I want to tell. They are the ones that bring light into the dark places and proclaim that in the midst of shadow, hope is present.

This past week renewed my hope. I often get bogged down by all the brokenness around me. We're surrounded by hurting people and devastating situations that are unfair and crippling in a world that proclaims "self" and confuses God's goodness with the desire for comfort and perfection. I've been burdened by that lately. But these kids and these moments – they are filling my heart up with a lasting hope. Hope that God isn't done yet and He is always bringing redemption and rescue in ways big and small; we need only to look for it. I'm anxious to share a few stories from our trip in the coming days. I want to be the kind of person who tells more tales of hope than of hopelessness, who focuses on the light instead of the great darkness, who continues to believe that we can all change the world one smile, one word, one moment at a time.

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.

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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.