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.
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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!
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!
