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. :)

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.

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!

(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.

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.