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.

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.

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.

(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 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!

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.