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.

******

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.

***

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!

I have to admit, I'm excited to see quite a few visitors here over the last week as this is not typically a highly-trafficked blog. (I guess it doesn't hurt to have photos of cute African kids!) Regardless, welcome, and thanks for stopping by. I hope you find words here that are relevant and challenging. Perhaps there's even something in this little corner of space to help make the world a better place.

***

The final post was all written out, finished, ready to add photos and click "publish". It was pretty stellar. A nice and tidy wrap-up to a successful week in Ghana.

And then I deleted every single word.



We had a short window of time that last afternoon up north in which to try and meet a few kids working out on the lake. This was not my first, second, or even third time meeting children on the lake, and it likely won't be anywhere near my last. Chris always says it's the best and worst part of his job, and I can't help but adopt that thinking as well. These lake encounters always leave me in a bundle of emotion and swirling thoughts that never fully land until I am home and staring at the faces, frozen in time. (More on that here.) I often wake up wondering if the haunted, questioning eyes that we have met will know rescue in my lifetime.

Our group met boys in two boats that day, and in the first, was Kwame.


The little wooden boat is still a ways off, but as we get closer, our driver cuts the motor. Two seconds before, we were having to yell back and forth to each other to be heard; now, it's eerily silent. Water laps at the side of our boat as we draw near. There is an older gentleman in the front, a denim jacket-clad boy in the middle working nets, and another boy in yellow towards the back with a paddle. Sam begins talking to the master in the front, and I quietly lean over and speak to the boy in the middle of the boat.

"Ete sen?" A nod.

"Eye. Ye fre wo sen?" (What do they call you?)

"Kwame."

"Ye fre me Akwasia. (I am called Akwasia [my Ghanaian name].) Me firi America."

He smiles shyly.

He speaks a little English and tells me he is 12 years old.

"Sukuu anaa?" (School?)

Another nod and barely audible "yes".

"What class? What level?"

Silence.



And then there is the blank stare. Not the "I don't understand what you're saying" stare, but the one that communicates "I don't know". And in that moment, I know that Kwame doesn't really go to school, which is confirmed by his master. Kwame doesn't go to school because he paddles and works with fishing nets all day. If I understood more than a few scattered phrases of Twi, Kwame could tell me all about the fish he's caught and the other kids he works with and the village he lives in. He could tell me that he's been up before the sun, that the wind and choppy waters make him fearful to be out on the water, but that he will go out after the nets regardless. But he wouldn't be telling me about his friend at school that is always cracking jokes, how his mom cooks the best banku in the village, or about the kids on his street that gather to play futbol with him each weekend. At the age of 12, those things are simply unfathomable.

We visit with the master and the two boys a little bit longer and then let them return to the lake while we continue our journey as well. Only now? Now, I know I will wake up wondering what Kwame would say if he just knew a taste of freedom.


And so I had this other post written out about visiting Challenging Heights, our rehabilitation shelter. How we had such a fulfilling time with the staff and children there, which we did. It truly is the best way to end a trip, and everyone enjoyed it immensely. (Really, what's not to love about this guy, though I may be bias?!)



But if I'm honest with myself, my heart is here today. And while we are intentional about not painting the typical "sad, starving kids in Africa" picture, there's an emptiness found in the faces on Lake Volta that reeks of an undeniable reality of hopelessness – for the fisherman as well as the children working. I know that even now, Kwame and thousands of other children like him are still out there working. That thought is sobering and yet unequivocally motivating.



I am beyond excited about the progress being made in Ghana and continue to feel God's abundant favor and affirmation through my work with Mercy Project. Thinking about how far He's brought us is amazing and humbling, and I can't wait to see what the journey ahead holds. I can't believe I get to participate in the ways that I do.

But just in this moment, I am asking God to come quickly and bring rescue and freedom to his little ones.

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



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

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

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

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



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

***



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



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



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

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

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

That, friends, is new life.

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

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



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

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



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



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



******

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



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



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



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



Here, as always, I find hope.