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

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

My heart is bigger having spent time here:



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


My heart is bigger having spent time here:



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


My heart is bigger having spent time with these guys:





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


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

(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.

I'll end the trip saga with HOPE, as it seemed to keep popping up here and there throughout the trip. There was the time spent talking to the trafficked children, asking them about their work, who they lived with, and whether or not they'd rather return to their parents and go to school. Each of the 17 we spoke with said YES to the later without the slightest hesitation. We are doing everything we can to make that a reality for them very, very soon and can't wait for that day. As difficult as some of that conversation was to hear, I walked away with an underlying presence of hope for each and every child – not only in Adovepke, but also on Lake Volta as a whole. We ended our week with some time spent at Challenging Heights, the shelter we will partner with for rehabilitation, counseling, and basic schooling for the rescued children. Their facility is fantastic – two stories for classrooms and bunk rooms, a sports field, kitchen and dining area, and an open covered space for playing.

Because of many generous people, we were able to take 12 large bins full of children's books, school supplies, sports equipment, and art supplies. As we unveiled all the goodies and spent the next two days with the 44 children there, we were welcomed with smiles from ear-to-ear, hugs, and shouts of exclamation in singing, playing futbol, reading, writing, and coloring. It was a perfect contrast and ending to our week. Childhoods have been restored.

We are often asked if we can truly tell a difference in the children here and the children on the lake – "aren't they all still living in poverty?" Hope is the difference. The rescued children radiate joy and dream for the future; they are anxious to reunite with families and have a chance to enjoy being children again. Seeing their faces light up at the smallest piece of sidewalk chalk or the airing up of a futbol filled my heart with so much hope. Hope for their futures, for the futures of the children in our first rescue group, and for each child still working on Lake Volta.

It takes so little from us to give hope, to affirm, to speak truth, to restore confidence and life in others. 

But it makes all the difference.