My (not-so-little-anymore) little guy

Yesterday, Deb asked me if I would like to go see Beyan and bring Christmas gifts to the kids. My immediate reponse: "Umm, YEAH!" (Everyone knows I can never resist a Beyan-visit!)

When we arrived at the orphanage, Sarah was the first kid to come up to us. Right away, Deb and I started oohing and aahing over how much she'd grown. Moses showed up next, followed by a giggly Koiboi. And then I saw Beyan, in his telltale red and black striped jersey, poke his head around the corner and give me a shy little smile. Immediately, I called him over to me and gave him a huge hug (I have to say--there's nothing like a snuggly Beyan-hug! It's one of my favorite things in the world!) He, of course, was his usual frisky, mischievous self; every time I pulled out my camera, he'd start "bluffing", acting all serious and doing his best to hold back his smile:

Then I'd make a funny face or pull him close and poke his belly, and he'd dissolve into giggles again.

Later, as I watched him laughing and playing with his friends, I was struck (yet again) by how much of a change I see in him. When I think of the Beyan I first met in 2008, I remember a pathetic, frail, hungry and neglected little boy. I remember a boy who didn't smile, didn't talk, who just sat in the dirt and stared at me with the saddest eyes I think I've ever seen. Those eyes haunted me; those eyes are one of the reasons I came back to Liberia.

Today, the Beyan I saw had no more sadness in his eyes. His belly was full of rice, and there was a light and a joy in him that was never there before. As he handed me three pink flowers he picked off a bush, I felt like my heart was going to explode with happiness. And, when I knelt down and looked into his eyes and asked him, "Beyan, do you know that I love you?", he smiled and nodded yes!

I know that, as much as I joke about Beyan being my "son", and even though the kids call me his "ma", he is not my own. I know the day will come when I will have to say goodbye, and I know it will tear my heart apart. Until then, I will cherish days like this one, moments of laughter and hugs and love. They're what keep me here.

Merry Christmas, Liberia-style!

This has been a long week, and I'm not going to lie; I'm exhausted. But even though it was tiring, it was also a LOT of fun, and I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Monday: After days of sorting clothes and shoes, wrapping gift bundles, and writing Christmas notes for the kids, it was finally Christmas delivery time! We spent the afternoon with 31 amazing kids, giving out Christmas gifts and celebrating the season with singing and dancing. One of my favorite moments of the day was watching Aaron hurriedly change into his new outfit to go get his picture taken. He LOVED his new purple t-shirt, khaki shorts, and sneakers, and couldn't wait to show them off!

Tuesday: Christmas delivery day two! Again, we loaded the pick-up with boxes of clothes, flip-flops, gifts, books, food, and more. The kids were jumping up and down and cheering as they watched us pull up to the orphanage. I loved watching the girls squeal with delight as they opened their gift bundles to find little purses with jewelry inside, and the boys immediately took their toy cars outside to play with them. They were so thankful and so joyful. Days like that make me realize how blessed I am to be here and be a part of these kids' lives.

Wednesday: Final Christmas delivery day--for EIGHTY TWO KIDS! Some of the kids are new to the orphanage, so it was their first time experiencing an Orphan Relief and Rescue Christmas. It was amazing to see their eyes light up when they realized they were getting a new outfit AND new shoes AND a gift bundle AND a copybook AND a storybook! They kept laughing and saying over and over, "It's all for me!" Priceless!

Christmas in Liberia 2010 from Orphan Relief and Rescue on Vimeo.

Thursday: I woke up feeling absolutely drained; I think my body was telling me it was time for a break. I enjoyed a relatively calm Thursday and later wrapped some gifts for a very special Christmas delivery the next day...

Friday: Today I went to visit Beyan and three other kids I know living at an orphanage nearby. (It's been about two months since I saw my boy, and I was blown away by how much he's growing!) As I handed out the gifts, I explained that, even though we don't see them all the time, we love them and have not forgotten about them. The kids started grinning as they received their gifts and, even though they seemed anxious to open them, all four opted to save it and wait for Christmas Day.

After that, Deb and I made a quick stop at the supermarket to buy food for the weekend. We were greeted by a Liberian...in a Santa suit...ringing a bell. Yeah. It was awesome.

Tomorrow, Deb, the Cramers and I are planning to go out for a big breakfast and then spend Christmas at the pool/beach. We'll probably go to Sajj, our favorite local hangout, later in the evening for dinner. After that, I have a week's worth of vacation--which I am more than ready for and definitely in need of. Sun, sand, sleeping in. Lazy mornings. Lots of porch time. Good friends, good food. It's going to be wonderful.

Obviously, Christmas in Liberia is different in many ways than Christmas at home. I'm used to white Christmases, candlelight services with my incredible church family, and hot chocolate by a cozy fire--all things I undoubtedly miss at this time of year.

What I miss most, though, is you. You, dear family and friends, are missed terribly and thought of and prayed for often. I hope you have a very, very Merry Christmas, and that you are filled with joy as you celebrate our Savior's birth!

Spread some Christmas cheer!

Okay, folks; Christmas is LESS THAN TWO WEEKS AWAY! Eek! This is an exciting time in Liberia, as we are starting to get everything ready to bring Christmas to the awesome kids that we work with.

Each child gets new clothes and flip-flops as well as a gift bundle. Oftentimes, this is the only Christmas gift that these children receive--which is why we aim to make it extra special for them! Gift bundles include pencils, a copybook, some candy, a toothbrush, a toy, and an apple. (Apples in Liberia are a sign of love, just like hearts are in the States. So the kids get super-excited when they get their apples because they recognize that these truly are gifts of love!)

Now, if you're anything like me, you wait until almost the last minute to get Christmas gifts for your friends and family, and I know that "the last minute" has a way of sneaking up on you. So why don't you check out the Christmas page on our website and buy a gift bundle or two while you still can! For just $25, you can give a child in Liberia a gift of his or her very own. You can even send along a Christmas greeting that is sure to put a huge smile on a child's face. Please join us as we bring the joy of Christmas to kids who need it!

two years later.

Today is my Liberian two-year anniversary. It was a mere 730 days ago that this crazy, wonderful whirlwind of a journey began.

Two years ago, I had just gone through a messy, painful, drawn-out divorce. I was on the verge of losing my job and, consequently, my apartment. I was over my head in debt and bills I couldn't pay, some of my (seemingly) most meaningful relationships had fallen apart, and I was honestly pretty close to falling apart myself. I had absolutely no clue what came next or how I would get there even if I knew what to expect.

I arrived in Liberia for the first time on November 21, 2008, shell-shocked and exhausted, still having trouble believing it was actually happening. I had clearly heard God tell me to go to Liberia, and I truly believed that it--whatever it was--was the culmination of a dream He put in me almost two decades ago. I was finally on African soil, and I knew deep down in my core that it was going to change me forever.

Liberia both captivated and tore my heart apart. I saw things I didn't want to see, things I didn't know how to process or explain. Poverty became real. It had a face--the face of a beautiful people that deserved so much more. For the first time in a long time, I wept for someone besides myself. Walking away from Liberia almost broke me, yet something inside knew that I'd be coming back.

One year ago, I was packing up the remains of a life I once lived, preparing to return to Liberia at last. I'd just gone through a season of intense prayer, of confirmation and later doubt, of waiting, of loss of hope and then hope renewed, of trying to come to terms with the fact that my entire life had become something not my own. Everything was changing...
I had finally come to a place where I could laugh again, where I felt a lightness of heart, where my life was filled with good people that I loved and who loved me. And I was saying goodbye to it all. I was going back to Liberia. I remember feeling excited. Happy. Unsure. Scared. Hopeful.

During my second stay in Liberia, I laughed, cried, learned, taught, wrote, questioned, prayed. God used that time to grow me in a way I had never thought possible. He used Liberia (and all the experiences that came along with it) to completely turn my world upside down. Each day was more challenging than the last--yet also more rewarding. And when the time came for me to go home, I was once again torn. I knew that I was supposed to come back; I knew I wasn't done in Liberia. Yet I also ached for home, for the way things were. A part of me wanted to just...go back.

Even so, today I sit here, back in Liberia once more. Looking back, I am simply awestruck that this is where I am, that this is who I am. I see things with fresh eyes these days; even so, I know I'm only getting a mere glimpse of how all the puzzle pieces from the last two years fit together. Somehow, though, I have peace. I feel stronger...

I'm amazed every day as I feel Him working through me. What's even more amazing to me, though, is how I feel Him working in me. He has promised me newness, beauty from ashes, and I believe this season is the beginning of it. He is taking all my broken pieces and shaping them into something glorious, soon to be revealed. He's rescued my raw and wounded heart and is anointing it with His oil. He's seen my emptiness and whispers to me that soon I will be full. He brought me all the way here, to the "land of liberty" in order that He may set me free.

Please pray for Bill

This is Bill. He's shy and soft-spoken, and has one of the sweetest smiles I've ever seen. I first got to know Bill last year, as he was in my small group on Monday afternoons. Though he was usually quiet in the big group, he'd often come alive during one-on-one time, asking lots of questions and working hard on whatever project was put in front of him. He likes coloring and drawing, writing and being creative, and has dreams of going to university one day.

Last year, Bill started complaining of "bone pain." None of us were really sure what that meant or what to do for it, but we definitely could see that it was real, and that it was greatly affecting him. Hearing him cry out in pain, tears streaming down his face, broke my heart. I can remember going with Ashley to take Bill to the hospital one day; he was sitting on lap, terrified and hurting, crying softly to himself. They released him later that evening, but he still continued to suffer.

A few weeks ago, Mary and Piko, two of our Liberian employees, suggested to Deb that it might be sickle cell disease. Apparently, they knew a girl who had suffered with many of the same symptoms, and that had been her diagnosis. Deb then made the arrangements to have Bill taken to the hospital and tested. Sure enough, Bill was diagnosed with sickle cell disease this past Wednesday.

I don't know too much about sickle cell, but I do know that Bill has a difficult road ahead of him. Many of the treatments are simply not an option in this country, and the complications of the disease are extremely serious, sometimes even life-threatening.

So I'm asking that you would please remember Bill and pray for him regularly. He is such an incredible kid, and I want him to have a full, long, and healthy life.
"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." I believe these very things for Bill's life. Please stand in faith with me.

Some really special girls

Everyone knows that being a teenager is difficult. Personally, I think girls have an especially tough time during those years. They worry about their appearance, school, friends, family. They struggle with self-esteem, confidence, and image. They're trying to figure out who they really are in the midst of a world that is quick to tell them who they should be. It doesn't matter whether they live in the States, Canada, or here in Liberia; the struggles are still the same.

This is the story of six precious, beautiful, amazing girls that are very close to my heart. I think one of the reasons their sadness affects me so much is because I see myself in them. I remember being that age and having many of those very same problems. I was lucky, though, to have people in my life that I could talk to about my issues, people to love me and encourage me and inspire me. These girls don't have many people like that, and that's what breaks my heart.

Please consider taking the time to write a short note of encouragement to one of these girls. You can use the Orphan Relief and Rescue contact form or email me directly. It only takes a few moments of your time and will make such an incredible impact. Thank you!

"the days keep coming; they never fail ya."

so many of you have asked me what my life here in Liberia is like. the answer--often unexpected. rarely going according to plans. surprising. hectic. beautiful. challenging. rewarding. atypical. something like this:

wake up at about seven o'clock, often still tired from a night of sweating, tossing, turning, barking dogs, car horns, and the other various sounds of our neighborhood. sometimes, i do sleep surprisingly well. especially if it rains at night. rain equals a cool breeze. and that's always nice.

coffee. and water. porch time. breathing huge, deep, contented sighs. this is my sanctuary. i read. i write. i sing. i pray. there are usually interruptions. sometimes, it doesn't bother me, and i resume. sometimes, i get frustrated and go back inside.

get dressed. eat breakfast. bread. and eggs. lots of bread and eggs. i usually wish for cereal. or yogurt and granola. fresh fruit. a bagel.
sometimes there's bacon. that's when i know it's going to be a good day.

"work" begins. emails, Facebook, blogs. planning lessons. writing curriculum. reading children's books. brainstorming. more computer work. it's hot. i don't drink nearly enough water during the day. i remember what it was like when i'd plan lessons for my students. so many resources then. such a different world.

it's busy inside the fence. people are coming and going. people are just stopping by. people come in and out of the house. two or three people are trying to talk to me at once. cell phones ring. someone is knocking on the gate. i chuckle and shake my head. i can't stay irritated; i love these people too much.

sometimes i step away from the computer and run errands in town. i really don't like going to town. it's loud and busy and hot and chaos. or maybe i'll go to an orphanage in the morning. hopefully, i don't need to go near Red Light. or Duala. more loudness. more business. more chaos. it's exhausting.

lunch time. or something like that. sometimes i eat. sometimes i keep working. sometimes i read. sometimes i nap.

time to go to an orphanage. load up the car with supplies for class. drive--or, rather, sit while Joseph drives. marvel at the sheer insanity of traffic here. lots of car horns. no actual speed limit. so many people are walking. i wish we could pick all of them up. i feel guilty and over-privileged. they're covered in sweat and dust, and they're walking. i pass them in my air-conditioned truck.
lots of people staring. some wave. some point. some give me the thumbs up. some look terrified. "white woman!" usually i'm okay with being the white freak show. i don't enjoy it, nor do i want the attention, but i accept it.
sometimes, though, i hate it. i want to cry. i want to yell. i want to run away, back to a place where i can fit in, where i'm not constantly on display.

arrive at the orphanage. cheers and waves. running kids. jumping kids. hugs, kisses, handshakes. these days, they look so healthy. they're taller. fat cheeks and clean clothes. toothless smiles. they hold my hand, play with my hair, fight over who gets to sit next to me. they crawl in my lap, throw their arms around my neck. this is where i have to fight back the tears. i wish i could explain how much i love them. i wish they knew how beautiful and special and talented they are. i feel sick when i think about them being hungry. or ill. or dirty. or sad. or lonely. i want them to have every good thing. i wish.

class begins. we pray. they listen and laugh. usually we understand each other quite well. sometimes i can tell by their blank stares that they have no idea what i just said. questions. they're learning to raise their hands and wait their turn before calling out. they've grown and changed so much. we read our Bibles. play games. they color, do a craft. i compliment their work. their eyes light up, and they smile. i want them to believe that it's good, that i'm proud of them. sometimes their work gets taken from them. 'don't do that,' i want to say. 'it's theirs. they made it. it's special. please, just let them have something special.' we pray again. more hugs, more handshakes. "next week," i promise. they'll be waiting.

going home. more people walking. crowds. loud, busy crowds. markets. selling. old, filthy money. never enough of it to go around. yelling. laughing. make sure all the doors are locked. people tapping on the windows, on the side of the vehicle. they want me to buy from them. they want money. there's so many, too many. i don't have enough for them all. i have to look away.
crying children. playing children. cool water in the hot sun. dirty feet. worn out flip-flops. tattered tee-shirts. bright lapa. they're beautiful. all these people--so beautiful. i want to apologize to them, but i don't exactly know what for.

dinner. 5:00, always. Ma Mary makes sure of it. rice. pineapple. plantains. soups: palm butter, pumpkin, cassava, collard greens, beans. so many starches. and oil. Ma Mary is the best cook in Liberia. but sometimes i just want a salad.
or maybe we'll go to town for dinner. Lebanese restaurant. Bangladeshi restaurant. sometimes a hamburger and french fries. foods i often can't pronounce, and i don't always know what's in them. i don't go hungry. but so many people here do. why? why, why, why? i'm always asking that question.

the generator is turned on. charge computers and cell phones. the guard pumps water. the nightclub next door blasts distorted rap songs that were popular almost a decade ago from their blown-out speakers. and Nigerian hip hop. i usually sing along. but i always wish it could just be quiet.
watch a movie on the computer. play cards or dominoes, everyone around the big table. take a walk to the beach to watch the sunset. everyone waves. kids run up to shake my hand. i'm thanked for "taking my exercise." the beach is dirty. it smells. but the ocean is so vast, so incredible. the sky so vivid. the breeze delicious.
email. Facebook. it is so good to hear from my people back home. i miss them, miss being a part of their everyday lives. i don't want to be forgotten.
showers outside, preferably under the stars and after the water has been warmed by the sun all day. try to unwind--as much as is possible here, anyway. so many noises. i tune them out, but they still find a way to get under my skin and put me on edge. the guard sharpens his cutlass. i pray again that there would be no rogues tonight.

lights out. generator off. under the mosquito net. trying not to think about the spiders and cockroaches and rats crawling on my floor. hoping none of them get inside my net. i pray. i drift off but wake up with every little noise. my earplugs never to seem to fit my ears right. i toss, and i turn. or i fall asleep instantly. always amazed by another day. always in awe that this, all of this, is my life.