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.

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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!

slow down.

slow down long enough to breathe, long enough to feel, long enough to listen. this is the story that the Lord is weaving into my heart this summer, that He is speaking over me, shouting at me when i refuse to listen. naturally rebellious against that, i am. there is something stifling about sitting and doing nothing, the opposite is ingrained in my very being from the time of you're burning daylight and half the day is over when it's just 9am. slowing down means wasting time in my vocabulary and though there are times to rest it can never be for too long. i have to do and prove and attain, more for myself than anyone.

yet in slowing down, He speaks.


the moment i called out, you stepped in; you made my life large with strength. ps 138


so i call out. i flee the house bound for retreat, armed with only essentials. coffee to welcome the sun, an old quilt, pen and paper. i sit still for 2 straight hours and possible set a new record for myself. i read and i think and i get wrapped up in thought deeper than i have in quite some time. conversation in my head, stringing paragraph and verse and thought.

i read words of gratitude intertwining with salvation stories, with the healed leper of soul and not just body because of his thanks. words of thanksgiving bringing about the fullness of life. and then i think of the future, where the majority of my fears are held captive, heavy and binding, and the childhood memory work returns:


do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. phil 4:6


and it suddenly makes sense, this interweaving of thanks and praise and communication and letting go. and suddenly He is here. and my quiet space is quickly filling with noise and chatter as the world wakes up around me and i'm not really one to chase the supernatural but there is something about this presence.


i look behind me and you're there, then up ahead and you're there, too – your reassuring presence, coming and going. this is too much, too wonderful – i can't take it all in! ps 139


and this idea that God is in, really in, everything around me, strikes. it's easy to see where He's led in past, and Heaven knows there has been some traveling and searching and wondering. and it's not unfathomable to feel Him here in the now, though it comes in waves between distraction and busy and tired and worn. but the fact that He is already in the future, that He is present there and paving the way. that is what gets me. and it stays with me and washes away the fear and anxiety that have been taking up space in my territory for far too long.

the heat climbs and i trade books for water pouch and head into the shade of the trees. here there is not a stitch of sound save the occasional bird chirp and my shouting thoughts. slow down has come in many forms lately. it's come physically for quite some time when all i crave is to pound the pavement for as long as i want while the world sleeps in for that used to be my quiet space. it's come in canceled plans revealing open weekends and time to soak up peace when i otherwise intended to plow ahead. it's come in wrestling with hard things and realizing i need more of Him and less of me and the sure-fire way to achieve that is to s l o w  d o w n.

i traipse down the trail, passing only one soul in the next two hours. the trail map is ironically on my phone which is about to die and maybe that's intentional because sometimes you just need to get lost. so i do. and watch the sun come streaming through the trees, dancing light on beds of leaves and pine needles, visible of His presence. and i chastise myself for not listening to my mother better when she walked alongside us on the trails pointing out plants and flowers by name, all different and uniquely made and He is here.

i'd like to think that there are better ways to tap into Presence than needing to surrender to complete quiet and silence off the map and there are and i must find them more in the day-to-day living. learning. but they always say that if you want to be creative if you want to hear if you want to see, then go spend time with the Creator. why this alludes me too often, i am ashamed to think. but for today, for this moment, this is right where i need to be as i debate turning around and going back but the trees finally part at the end of the trail right where i set out to be. and those worries have turned into prayer and this reassuring presence, coming and going, i can scarce take it in!

The last few weeks and weekends have been pretty chill around here. Several small celebration times for friends moving, welcoming little ones, etc., but for the most part it's been a quiet transition from summer into fall. And oh, how I'm ready for the fall! As much as I don't like change, I do appreciate new seasons, and what's there to not love about soup and chili, cooler temps, and camping? Sooo ready for camping weather!

So I've had a little more time on my hands lately, and surprisingly, have not crammed it crazy full as is the usual temptation. There's something calming about taking time to listen and be still and live life a bit more organically. And so I have.

Here's where I've landed recently, soaking up these tidbits from Psalm 119:

I'll stride freely through wide open spaces
As I look for your truth and your wisdom.


You are good, and the source of good;
train me in your goodness.


I see the limits to everything human,
but the horizons can't contain your commands.


Everything's falling apart on me, God;
put me together again with your Word.


You're my place of quiet retreat;
I wait for your Word to renew me.


The way you tell me to live is always right;
help me understand it so I can live to the fullest.


And should I wander off like a lost sheep – seek me!
I'll recognize the sound of your voice.

30.

Whatever this dreaded fear of joining the 3-0 club is, I'm not getting it. I guess there's the reality that things are starting to break down, and I'm craving 10 hours of sleep at night instead of 6, and the appeal of filling life so full that it's hard to breathe is starting to lose its luster. But aside from the obvious, I'm actually quite excited about a new season, about leaning into the next few years.

There's a freedom that comes with feeling as if you know a little bit more of who you are at the age of 30 than you did at 20. And there's a freedom that comes with the acknowledgement that though you never fully stop growing and adapting and learning, you've done enough searching and digging and molding for enough time that it starts to feel as if it counts. There's a freedom that comes from feeling stronger and more confident and being able to release the idea that you have to have it all figured out and instead start to really live into who you are at present, who God created you to be. It's a gift.

So here I land, three weeks into 30, and I have been poured into so much in that time.

30 thoughtful little gifts from my family. Tasty cupcakes from a dear friend. Beautiful flowers from some of my very favorite littles. Cake and sweet prayers from my ComGroup.

 

And then these:



"Happy happy 30th birthday dear one! I LOVE my thirties. I pray you will continue to stretch into the full potential of who God made you to be."


"May the Lord grant you a year of unexpected gifts."


"Happy birthday friend! Hope it involves a bowl of ice cream as big as your face!" (by one who knows me a little too well!)


"So thankful for your friendship and praying today will be full of love and blessings. Hopeful for the good things to come in year 30!"

And on and on. And those words are exactly what I think everyone should hear most on their 30th. Words of encouragement and excitement and "the best is ahead".

I also stumbled upon this as I was forming these thoughts. It's raw and it's real, and I don't feel like the anti-aging parts represent me at all, but it speaks of being known and loved as we are, and I am soaking in these lines:

The point is that your life is meant to be spent.

You have to let your life wrinkle. You have to let hope get into the fold of things. You are here to be spent. Saving yourself up isn't how the saved are meant to live.

There are days in which I toy with the idea of a safe, contained life, of this "saving myself up". A normal schedule, a larger budget, an 8-5 job. Career success in artistic endeavors. Owning a nice home. Buying furniture that actually matches! A nice, clean, cookie-cutter existence does at times appeal. But when I compare those things to this "me" that I know, well, there's no real comparison at all. (Read: NOT a knock on those who choose those things; it's just not me.) I am unconventional, I am appalled at white picket fences, and I would feel trapped working 8-5 in a high-rise office building and attaining a larger-than-life paycheck. But this idea of spending life, of using life, of growing and aging into who God created us to be – that I can get behind. The idea that it is enough to just be known – by ourselves and by others.

Life is meant to be spent!

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.

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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.

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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.