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.

Back. Blogging break of the century, or at least it feels like it. What it doesn't feel like is Christmastime. It's like 80 degrees today. Guess I won't waste time asking Santa for snow.

What a heck of a month. A good month. It's been crazy and non-stop and intense, but it's been so fun all at the same time. I'm still amazed that I'm doing what I am, with the people I am. Don't get me wrong, we are all exhausted and ready to regroup going into the new year, but it's been a good season in so many ways.

Here's a bit of life leading up to the marathon:

• Girl's Night at my place with the ladies in my small group – an evening of colored cake in a jar. We wrecked the kitchen and had a lot of fun in the process.



• A quick trip to Dallas (like... 10 hours round trip) for Kathleen's baby shower. Seriously one of the coolest showers I've ever been too, and I've been to my share. Safari animals, omelets and fruit, and fun gifts for Baby Lee. What an honor to spend time with my sweet friend – who looks amazing! – and is going to be a fantastic Mom. Kathleen and I met at CotH in 2004 and became good friends in 2006. Roomies from 2007 until she and Matt got married, and still best buds. What a joy to share life together! I can't wait to meet the new little one!







• An update from Ghana... the final fish cage went in the water at Adovepke last month. The 24 rescued kids remain at the shelter and have even been visited by some of their parents as they prepare to make the transition home. I can't imagine what that must've been like for them all!



• Some of our sweet friends and MP supporters put together an Amazon wish list of items we'd like to take to the rehabilitation shelter for the kids to use – art supplies, educational items, etc. I checked the mail after race weekend and had 15 packages waiting for me! Another 6-8 have arrived at my house since then. There are still several items on the list if you'd like to send a few things to Ghana for the kids. And how are the kids? This:

(And so we reach the end of the Ghana saga... this time around; here's the start of the series and more pictures can be found here. Cheers!)

The door bangs open and a flurry of color and giggling girls fill the space – eyes wide as they take in the room and choose their new bunk beds. They are theirs. "Have you ever had a bed like this before?", Chris asks through the shelter manager who translates. "No, never" comes the answer. And in unison, "We love it! We love it!" rings out, reverberating pure joy from the walls. It is life-giving.



I am watching Ruth.

She was wary when we first left the village, caution and anger in her eyes. What was she thinking about... Who am I to be handed off to now? Where are we going? Who can I trust?

I hear her voice over and over saying "Thank you, Madame" as she runs through the rain and darkness next to me that first night; as the oldest girl, she has assumed a caretaker role over little Jacob and is grateful for my carrying him through the storm. She remains cautious, but her guard is slowly coming down. Though we cannot exchange words, I see the anger in her eyes meld into a shy smile for the first time.

Then I catch her in this moment on her new bed, the prized top bunk, and all inhibitions are gone as she flashes a "thumbs up".



Ruth is interviewed at the shelter before we leave. Her story is utterly heartbreaking. She tells of abuse and watching a friend drown in the lake among many other horrors that we suspected but had not been able to confirm with this particular group of kids. And though it matters not how well these kids were treated; a human being as a commodity is wrong any way you spin it, our purpose has come full circle. Every moment has been worth it for this one. Every moment has been worth it for Ruth. She says she wants to be a nurse, and God is redeeming her life before our very eyes. He is rewriting her story as one of hope and freedom and future.

We play clapping games next to the futbol field and the girls attempt to teach us their dancing game. They laugh at my failed attempts at coordination and switch to teaching us words in Twi. I struggle to make the right sounds, much less the right words, but they think it's absolutely hilarious. Out of the corner of my eye, I am watching Ruth. She cannot stop smiling and laughing and hugging us.

And so I leave with an insatiable desire for more. More children, more freedom, more stories of rescue and redemption. It occurs to me later: this is technically near the end goal of our overall process and the time we've worked towards for two years. It felt so much like the ending until now. Now I see that it's truly just the beginning.

These precious 24 are the most beautiful beginning to this journey.

(Start here if you're just now checking in on the Ghana trip recaps.)

No pictures with this one, just a story worth telling. I'll finish the series out with a final post by this weekend. Thanks for reading along!


I'm bouncing around in a bus full of excited children as we search road after road for the temporary overnight shelter, where we will stop for the evening before making the long drive south the next morning. In true Ghanaian fashion, no one seems to know where the shelter is, and it is nightfall when we finally discover the unmarked building hidden inside a high wall behind several abandoned buildings. It is hidden for a reason, and we are actually grateful for the secrecy of the location, grateful knowing the children will be safe here for the night. It's down-pouring rain as we traverse the muddy road that we likely will never get back down, and then the power goes out in the entire village. Darkness redefined.

It continues to pour and thunder and lightning, and we have one flashlight (or "torch", as the Ghanaians like to call it) between the 24 kids and the 10 of us, which has been taken on ahead. We cannot drive up to the shelter and so must brave the storm for a bit. As the kids stumble off the bus, I snatch up little Jacob – piggy-back style – and start running through the mud and rain and dark, slipping and sliding and trying to see and follow the child in front of me. Impossible, except when lightning lights up the path. We are instantly soaked through and through. Having a new found "healthy fear" of lightning, I am on edge, but the kids are laughing and having a grand adventure like it's another typical day. They are used to being outside in the elements, used to the darkness.

After navigating a maze of rocky, muddy ground, we huddle in a cramped office space, and the guys take the "torch" to set out sleeping mats for the children in another room. I stay behind with the only other light we have – a 2" video camera screen that happened to still be in my pocket – so that the kids will not be afraid. I hold the dim light over my head (which happens to shut off every 30 seconds!) and see rows of smiling white teeth gleaming back at me; the 24 are talking and giggling excitedly, far from being scared. As we get ready to leave for the night, they are dry and safe and jumping around on their sleeping mats, settling in for one massive sleepover – the first like this in their lives. They put my own anxiety and doubts to rest and teach me so much in that moment about letting go of unfounded fear.

We arrive back at the shelter the next morning to begin the long drive. The children are running around playing, drawing up water from a courtyard well, and bathing. It's another day in the life for them, and I am amazed at their instant adaptation. No American child would behave like this. They care for each other – the oldest making sure the youngest bathe and are ready for the day. As we wait for a travel permit and to give the children breakfast, there is so much dancing and laughter, I can hardly believe my eyes. In less than 24 hours, they are already being transformed; their longing to simply "be a child" is realized, and they are soaking it up drop for drop.


So am I.

(If you're just joining the conversation, you might want to start here and here.)

I'm kneeling in the sand, and it's eerily quiet all around me. Final words have been exchanged with the villagers, and the children are ready. We are ready. Nicole and I have come out to the shore ahead of the group, hoping to capture and freeze this "walking out" in time. Much discussion has evolved around this very moment – what will it look like? what will we feel? will it be all we hoped for?

I hear noise, and they are coming. I holler at Nicole, and we get to work. And though perhaps slightly anticlimactic in reality, it truly is all I hoped for. It happens in less than three minutes, but I'm shooting as quickly as I can as a million thoughts run through my head. As they pass by, I watch the expressions on Chris & Stacey's faces. It is sheer joy. The testimony these two are telling with their lives is bringing His Kingdom on earth; I am grateful beyond words to witness and be apart of something of this magnitude. Chris passes by and jokingly says something like "stop crying and grab a hand"; I'm wearing sunglasses – how does he know?! It's just one of those emotional times for us all, as we anticipated it would be. I fall in next to a little boy of about 8. In that instant, I think... every bit of struggle and question, every sleepless night, every personal sacrifice – it was worth it, a hundred times over. This is "thin space" as it's been described to me – where the space between Heaven and earth is but a sliver.





I'm knee-deep in cloudy water, just as we are about to leave the Adovepke shore. The kids are clambering in the boat, huddling in a group at the very front as the villagers line the shoreline to see them off. They have been gracious, dressing the children in their best clothes, some even slipping money for the journey into their fingers as we depart. I watch the faces of the children as they settle in, wondering what's running through their heads. I see every expression on their faces – excitement, trepidation, resignation (where are they taking me now?), perhaps a little fear in a few. I think, if they will but wait and see, just one more day, and then they will know. They will know they are loved and chosen and called by name to a hope and a future. I hop in the boat before it gets out too deep, letting out held breath. 24 children are now in our hands. And they are making their final journey across the lake for a very, very long time.





My friend Chris C. does some incredible mission work at With One Hope in Honduras. He writes, "I believe there are moments in life that mark us. Moments that stretch our hearts and push us to the brink emotionally, spiritually, physically. There are moments that leave such an impact that they become a part of who we are – good or bad – and help define who we are going to be. We all react differently to these moments. Some of us harden our hearts, others weep, others are filled with determination, and still others fall to their knees in prayer. We are all different and experience these moments differently. But one thing remains true for us all: after we have lived through such a moment we can never be the same again; we are forever changed."

I could not have said it better myself.

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

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

***

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



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







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





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

True to my compartmentalizing self, I seem to have put my thoughts and feelings from last week in a box, placed it high up on a shelf, and tucked into the to-do's of the week. I'm not really an emotional person, but I find that I either err on the side of just listing facts or, on the opposite end of the spectrum, am a complete wreck and can't choke out anything coherent. I feel very inadequate.

There are no words to explain the feeling of seeing over 2 years of work culminate in a single moment, the laughter heard on a bus ride – the first full day of freedom from the lake, the realization that "I get my very own bed" for the first time ever, the pride in a 15-year-old's eyes as he stands and counts to 30 all by himself.

But as I sort through pictures and journal entries, I'm starting to see these moments as glimpses of the Kingdom, little excerpts captured in my heart; they cut to my core and change the very essence of who I am. So I'll share a few of those over the next week or so. And perhaps slowly, that box will come down off the shelf to be opened.

********



Here are the "nuts and bolts" of the trip for those who wonder what the week looked like. (Granted, it looked nothing like we initially planned.) We discovered before even leaving Houston that Satan was very much working against every single travel plan; we truly had to fight for this trip and these kids. We had major issues getting out of Houston and nearly missed our flight leaving; Nigeria proved to be... well, Nigeria, but we arrived in Accra safe and sound Thursday night. Planned to fly to Tamale (up by the lake) the next morning but got to the airport to find that "all flights are cancelled; they are working on the runway today". Three flight inquiries later, we hopped a plane that would get us halfway to the lake and then had to drive the rest of the way. 3 miles from the lake we came across a roadblock of protesters and had to take an alternative route. About that time, we had a discussion on spiritual warfare!

Finally made it to Adovepke much later than intended, but were blessed in having things already set into motion with the villagers. Each master signed a contract for releasing their trafficked children, and more interviews of the children helped solidify our final list. A few of our crew stayed the night in the village; others of us took a boat back to Makongo for the night. Saturday morning: rescue day. We intended to not get the kids until Sunday, but there was a funeral to work around. Of course. But Saturday went so smoothly, and the village was gracious and generous in sending off the children. 24 former child slaves were called by name and loaded into our boat.

We took the kids to an overnight shelter after the 2 hour boat ride and a brief bus ride. Sunday was the big bus day as we traveled 8 hours down to the rehabilitation shelter. The children were so excited and their faces lit up as we finally arrived and showed them around: running water, toilets, their own beds, schoolrooms, a futbol field, and a place for eating together. We spent Monday watching them transition into school classes, new friends, and routine. Interviews were conducted as well. So many stories to tell.

We left Accra for the airport but the flight out was 3.5 hours late, which made us miss our connecting flight in Nigeria. Long story short, our best option was to remain on the flight and take our chances in Nigeria. Not a very good option after all! We spent 22 hours in a Nigerian airport lounge until we could get a flight out the following night, this time routing through Germany. 7 more hours to Frankfurt, a 7 hour layover, and a 12 hour flight into Houston. Couldn't make all that up if I tried.

********

Needless to say, we're so happy to be home. But no doubt we would do it all over again for those 24 sweet faces... and hopefully soon, we'll get to with our next group of kids.

After 60ish hours of airport/flight mayhem, our weary group of travelers has returned from Ghana. It's so good to be home. It always takes me a bit to process and readjust after these trips; I think that is only heightened by the significance of this particular journey. So I'm *hoping* to spend a good portion of the weekend sorting through pictures and thoughts and figuring out where to even start in sharing those.

For now, a song. (Ross King. Incredible songwriting and worship-leading talent.) This was running through my head last night, and as I type out the lyrics this morning, it speaks to my heart in a powerful way. There were many, many moments in which we felt Satan's hold and attacks on this trip – on travel arrangements and roadblocks and hurdles that are simply "this is Africa". But greater than that were the moments in which God prevailed and provided a way out. Because of that, meet the 24 children who were given new life this week (click for a larger view). Praise God!





More Than Conquerors

Your faultless blood has washed our sin-stained hearts
Your living word is changing who we are
Your endless grace runs deeper than our faults
Your true relentless love has conquered all

Nothing can prevail against the power of the Lord our God

In everything we are, more than conquerors
Because of who you are and all you've done
And everything has changed, and death has lost its sting
Because you died and rose again for us

Your perfect life restores us from the fall
Your nail-pierced hands reach out to heal us all
Your empty grave has broken Satan's hold
Your Spirit now renews and makes us whole

Nothing can prevail against the power of the Lord our God
Nothing can prevail against the power of the Lord our God

In everything we are, more than conquerors
Because of who you are and all you've done
And everything has changed, and death has lost its sting
Because you died and rose again for us

The story of my life will be, Jesus crucified and resurrected, He's resurrected.
The story of my life will be, Jesus crucified and resurrected, You're resurrected.

In everything we are, more than conquerors
Because of who you are and all you've done
And everything has changed, and death has lost its sting
Because you died and rose again for us


*********
More to come!

I was talking to a new friend the other day about Mercy Project, telling her the nuts and bolts of what we're doing in Ghana and what this upcoming (umm... tomorrow!) trip will mean to us and so many people who have supported and carried us to this point. Her response was, "You really have a dream job." To be sure, I tend to agree. I can't imagine doing anything else and simply can't put into words how honored I am to be making this journey, and even more, to be making this trip.

We fly out tomorrow, headed for Ghana. Headed to a lake, home of 7,000 child slaves. Headed to a little village in the bush, not even a spot on the map. Headed to a group of 25-30 kids who are days away from new identities as FORMER child slaves. Headed to those empty, reserved faces that no doubt will produce beaming smiles by the end of the week. Headed to reclaim new life and play a very small role in this great big plan of redemption.

This trip is the culmination of over two years of work, and while I try to be mindful of and think logically that things will likely not go "according to plan", I cannot help but be downright giddy with excitement and anticipation of what the next 8 days will bring. I feel like in the midst of several challenges leading up to this (and those to still come, I am sure!), God has been filling me up with a deep love for these kids that is a reflection of the love that He feels for all of us. A love that says, "I got this, I'm bigger than this, and you're mine". I'm so in. And I absolutely cannot wait.

Two things that have spoken truth to me this week:

"Everyone I know, it seems, wants to go to Africa, wants to volunteer for a few days in an AIDS clinic or an orphanage. And that's good. It's a good impulse to want to see it with your own eyes and to want to be a part of the solution. I encourage them to go and recommend organizations and churches to connect with, but inside myself, I whisper to them, Be careful. You will be haunted by what you find there, and you won't be able to wash away what you've seen and heard. You will see things and hear things, and then you will be responsible for them, for telling the truth about who you are and who you discover you are not, and for finding a way to make it right... Because once you see it, you will never be able to un-see it, and once you see it, you will be responsible for it, and for the self it reveals back to you." – Shauna Niequist

This was me. I had "travel to Africa" on my brain and when the opportunity came for me to go to Ghana in the summer of 2010, I jumped at the chance, wanting to see and take it all in. But I don't recall the meals that we had, the dust and dirt, the songs we sang, the hours we traveled. I do however, very distinctly remember the return and the acknowledgement that I was completely captivated by the children on the lake – even more, that I was absolutely responsible for helping do something about the things I witnessed. And the "revealed self"? Oh, yes. Yes, yes, and yes.



"One thing that struck me is that these Ghanaian boys and girls may not be her children, or mine, but they are God's -- and all we have to do is look at the Cross to see what kind of an "all-encompassing, bloody, sweaty fight" He put up to set His children free." – Hannah Miller

When we launched our Mommy Blogger initiative, this is one of the comments I saw posted. I immediately saved it to share. Remembering that these are God's kids makes me feel as if they are my kids in a very small "I will fight tooth-and-nail for you" kind of way. There is a resounding call for us to defend the helpless, yes? One of the things that Chris often says, that helps keep me grounded and retaining perspective, is the fact that God has known these children way longer than we have. He has been in Ghana way before we got there and deeply desires these children to be free way more than we ever could. And that is all the confidence I need for this week. It may not go according to our scheduled itinerary or look anything like what we have pictured in our minds, but it will very much go as He intends, and there is no doubt in my mind that we will walk out of that village on Sunday holding the hands of a group of precious little ones that are all His. We are ready. We are so incredibly hopeful.

Would you pray for us this week? Pray for the relationships we've built with the fisherman, that the release of the children will go as smoothly as possible. Pray for the transition of the children, and our long trek from the lake to the rehab shelter. Pray that we would learn well from our mistakes. Pray that our actions and words would be full of grace and joy. Pray that we will all be able to be fully present in every moment of each day. Pray for our hearts and the ways in which they will never be the same (praise God!) after this journey.

Check in on FB: we will be updating as we are able to over the next 8 days. Game. Time!

Next up: ANTICIPATION. The primary goal of this trip was to implement our first aquaculture project at Adovepke. The tools and equipment had been purchased, hours of research done, fish food picked up, and the fingerlings en route – all the puzzle pieces started fitting together. Monday was the day to get the cages in the water, and our last day out on the lake. I was pretty anxious about everything coming together and getting done in time before we had to leave, but God was so faithful in His timing. We arrived back at Adovepke after leaving the Makongo masses and split into 3 teams. Some of the girls went to hang out and play with the village kids, Chris/Fred/I continued interviewing trafficked kids, and the rest of the crew finished out the fish cages along with the fishermen. Here's the finished product:

Josh spent time teaching the fisherman the process of feeding the fish as well.

Our friend King arrived with the fingerlings, and it was suddenly "go time". We had to get the baby fish in the water as soon as possible so quickly loaded the nets and anchors up on a boat and scoped out the right depth for anchoring the cages. (For the record, I use the term "we" loosely here; I'm the one in red below that looks like a "many, many photo" tourist with two video cameras and my Nikon. Yes, I used them all...)

Chris and Josh jumped in the water to get things set up, and before we knew it, the cages were in place and ready for the fish. 

It was a very surreal moment. For so long, we've been working towards this time, taking risks and dreaming big, praying for a solution that would help bring freedom to the kids. As I burned through photo after photo of the moment, I looked up to see one of the trafficked boys we had just interviewed watching everything take place. He didn't know it at the time, but one day he'll make the connection and realize that those fish cages and the partnership they represent brought him new life and the chance at a future. Looking back to shore, the entire village had come out to watch as well, along with all the other trafficked kids that we now call by name. There wasn't much time to process the moment then, but it was so rich and profound. The anticipation of that afternoon was met with so much joy and affirmation of what God is doing in this place.