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.