All of the children at the Village of Life where I stayed for two weeks while I was in Ghana have been rescued from a life of poverty and slavery. You can see that at the Village of Life, they are happy and healthy. Touch A Life's life-long commitment to their welfare means they will have food, shelter, safety, medical care, education, training, spiritual influences...and a childhood.
This is Baba. He was one of a group of boys that was friendly, helpful and always around. All of these boys are between 8 and 11.
This is Mawunyefia, aka "God is King." Isn't that a cool name? He's a really good soccer player and artist, and he speaks English very well.
This is Raul. For some reason, every time we saw him, we would all say "RAW-OOL! " He happened to be sitting with us one time while we were eating. The chicken had not been cut apart into identifiable parts, but rather into uniform-sized pieces, then grilled to a crisp. On some pieces it was hard to find any meat. We gave the last piece to Raul, then watched in amazement as he ate through the entire thing, bones and all. Must be how they get those gorgeous white teeth. (That, and the almost absolute absence of sugar in their diets).
Say hello to Paka. This is how he spells and pronounces his name, but we found out later that his name is Humfrey Parker, which means he speaks with a British accent. (Not uncommon, as Ghana was once a British colony.) He is funny and uncommonly intuitive about us Westerner visitors. (That's Stephen peeking out behind him.)
This is Kofi Richard. Kofi means "Friday-born." We met quite a few Kofis on our trip. Kofi Richard was very new to the Village of Life, but you would never have known it. In fact, it was almost impossible to tell in most cases, because the children adapt so quickly into their new environment.
If you donated to my trip, I want to say thank you for making these children real to me. The trip was life-changing to me, but I believe it will change the lives of those we touched, as well. And by we, I mean you too!
There are at least three ways you can further assist these children in the ongoing expenses of raising them to adulthood:
1. Remember them by name in your prayers, although these particular boys are some of the least at-risk.
2. Go to freedomstones.ws soon and purchase jewelry made at this facility by the 11 teenagers that were trained while we were there. (The staff at Freedom Stones probably hasn't had time to update the website yet with the new Ghana pieces, but they're beautiful, so keep checking, or contact them for more information.). Freedom Stones also works in Asia rescuing women from sex trafficking. The jewelry they offer from Asia is also really beautiful. (Freedom Stones is a non-profit organization.)
3. Contact Touch A Life and see how you can help with financial or other kinds of donations. (Touch A Life is also a non-profit organization.)
Thanks for taking the time to meet my new friends!
Well, the Harmattan haze is finally lifting. The dust is settling to reveal the skeleton of the demolition and reconstruction of me. It's been an odd thing.
I spent about 7 weeks in the storm. That's a pretty long time for a practically invisible event to take place. There was no huge catalyst like a death in the family, a terminal illness, a move or a divorce to point to as an explanation. Just God, I think, moving me down a new path--through Africa--that began back in October. You might recall my dental ordeal and my tree theme...those were the wardrobe doors through which I entered into my Identity Opportunity.
Yes, opportunity. Granted, it has felt exactly like an identity crisis at times. Not only has who I am been up for examination, but somehow I have been transported at each boulder in my path to previous moments with similar choices. One choice is--always!--to float along on the current of my selfishness and emotion. That's what I did for the first 30 years of my life. The second choice is to take the path of dissociation, separateness and stoicism. I took that one too, at some point along the line, when faced with choices I wasn't willing to contemplate, but sick of the selfishness and out-of-control emotions. I paid a price for both choices.
This time, I found myself pausing at these two choices. Overthinking them too, but realizing that I was overthinking them and pulling myself away from that chasm to just wait. As I waited at each obstacle, I could see the first choice and feel how easy it would be to be swept away. I could see the second choice and know that a mere shift was all it would take to be done with the dilemma, the turmoil, the confusion. But still I waited, knowing there must be an alternate path and that it would show itself.
As usual, these things come when you're not looking for them, like pots that boil when you stop watching them, or late husbands who show up for dinner when you finally start eating without them. I got distracted by three major tasks: getting my household and financial chores back up to date after a month away, finishing a report from my trip (about which I had many misgivings) and finding a job (about which I also had many misgivings). I didn't have time to think about the misgivings, however, so I just kept putting them on the back burner until their time came, letting them sort themselves out in my subconscious this time.
Looking back, the thing that revealed the new path was the job interview. It was for a position in which I have no experience: marketing. A friend urged me to send in my resume. I decided that I had nothing to lose. (New path!) They simply wouldn't call me if it wasn't a fit. But they did call me in for an interview. I was intrigued, but I had enough trepidation about the job (and working fulltime, in general), that I decided I had nothing to lose by seeing this through. (New path!)
I didn't do very well with the interview, but the interviewer and I had a good time. He could see the identity crisis I've been in since I was in Ghana. He gave me some good tips for my next interview and for improving my resume. (Turns out, it wasn't my resume that earned me the interview, but my cover letter.) I stayed an hour longer than his usual 30-minute allotment and we discussed our favorite books. I am "green," he said, and "up against people with Stanford degrees in marketing during the worse recession since the depression." Yet I still feel I could get the job. And I'm okay if I don't, but really starting to get excited if I did. And mainly this is because I like who it will help me become...a confident part of a creative team that likes to have fun. (I know what you're thinking...I can too learn how to have fun!)
All of this showed me that whenever we face a moment of seeing who we are, we are also faced with who do I want to be? I saw that I have much more say in the creating of my new self than I have previously realized or taken advantage of. God's done so much of the building while I slept, and I was okay with that, but I do really like the organic way I see change unfolding in myself as I stay present, in the moment, and mostly unruffled by both surface choppiness and the threat of undertows. I don't have to flail around crying for a lifeguard as if I'm drowning in 2 feet of water.
The misgivings I had about the report have sorted themselves out, too. I've arrived at a place where I feel I have nothing to lose, however the chips fall. I've done my part and I'm about to say what must be said. I'm remembering the mini crisis that occurred right before I left for Africa (about whether I was even supposed to go) and the message I got from God: Trust me, trust us, trust yourself.
I now realize that with every single dilemma I faced on the trip (and since), my gut feeling was right. My brain's need to know why and have all the pieces sorted, labeled and stacked kept me from trusting my gut. Maybe I really can trust myself without micro-analysis of everything. Maybe I should go reread Malcolm Gladwell's Blink.
Last night, after 20 hours on Friday night and all day Saturday spent writing the report, I found myself taking a new path without even thinking it. I turned off the computer, showered, called Steve and made a date, donned a motorcycle helmet and rode off with him for dinner and a movie, arriving home WAY past my bedtime at midnight. I didn't even think about cleaning up the kitchen.
So, maybe identity crises are really opportunities to create a new you! I'm sure that's not new information, but it fits now, like the perfect pair of jeans. And as I visualize the new possibilities in my life, my eyes fall on the perfect ending to this post, this scripture on my coffee cup:
"God is able to make all grace abound to you so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound to every good work." (1 Corinthians 9:8)
I raise my coffee cup to the idea of a new me. Now I can start talking about Africa.
The early new me on a freakin' boat on Lake Volta, Ghana in freakin'West Africa. I mean, wow! I did that!
I have written lately about the state of my mind during and since my trip to Ghana, comparing it to soup, hazy Harmattan sandstorms and even slavery. I would like to report that skies have cleared and wisdom has surfaced...but unfortunately, this is not the case.
Recently, I read that "in the telling, we are told." (John Shea). I have been reluctant to share my thoughts because I knew they would reveal my utter lack of solid foundation at the moment. I thought I could ride out the storm before I shared how crazy it has been, but as it persists, I remember that the main reason for my ministry and self-disclosure is to show you what a spiritual journey looks like. To do away with the pretenses that we can ever permanently reach a state of perfection or Nirvana or enlightenment while in these jars of clay. To remind even myself to reach for the grace of our Lord during difficult times, and to apply that grace to ourselves. That means sharing the nitty gritty too.
Twice this week I have read from a couple of my favorite bloggers about the cycle of growth which I refer to in my book. They both referred to the stage where I am as Square 1, where there is a death and a rebirth occurring, and where confusion and inability to figure out what's going on are the reigning emotions. I have long been comfortable with Square 1, but there is no doubt that the depths of this particular Square 1 are new (old) regions of exploration. The extreme pressure of Africa and the prolonged period in which I've been here (in Square 1) are requiring me to search for new reserves of strength and faith. I feel like I'm going crazy!
I haven't even begun to share with you all the ways I've seen nature showing me what is going on in my head or in the heads of people around me. (The little I have shared has lead those close to me to second the idea that I'm going crazy!) I've struggled with holding onto truths I have known, contemplated throwing everything out and leaving my insides up for grabs. Everywhere I look, all I see is messiness. Messy house, messy finances, messy marriage. Messy me.
I just want to crawl under the covers and sing Lalalalala to drown it all out. I don't want to get up and make Sunday lunch and shower and go to church, then drive to my parents home, where my grandmother may be entering into her final days on earth. I don't want to look up the number for the DMV, or contact the dermatologist about my son's prescription, or finish paying bills, or contact Amazon about how to replace my malfunctioning Kindle, or get my car inspected, or put together a slide show about my trip and write thank you notes to my donors. I don't want to write the report and finish the assessments I've been assigned to do from our visit to the Village of Life. I don't want to do what I must do to find a job. I don't want to be married. For a change, I don't want to do the right thing.
A good friend reminded me to give myself 30 days to feel back to normal, and to remember spiritual warfare. I think that's all the reminder I need to at least get up and go to church today.
I know that there I will find the peace that eludes me in this emotional sandstorm. There I can worship and my heart will open to let in a little more of that grace and light that gets me through the week. There my spiritual family will help me visualize the evidence of Jesus' presence that is just outside my view.
There I will remember what I know to be true: that if I just hold on, this messy birth process will produce something I could never have visualized.
I'm in a place right now of wondering why I think I'm qualified to write or teach or open my mouth. I want beautiful or profound things to come out of my pen (or computer) but they're just not! My Ghana journey is still rolling toward its unknown destination, with themes for wheels. One is the themes is of slavery and freedom. A second one has to do with lost children. Another is of the African looking-glass, how everywhere I looked I saw reflections--some I recognized, such as the Harmattan haze. Others, I'm still pondering. Maybe when I figure out the fourth wheel, this wagon will start to look like it's going somewhere!
The Harmattan Haze (superfine dust from the Sahara Desert that makes it way down through Africa every year, and which reflected my inability to make sense of things while I was there.)
In the meantime, I read my friend (and the editor of my book) *Peni Jean Rutter's latest blog post and wondered how she stole this out of my head and made it something beautiful:
little israelite slave making bricks from the dust of your own bones ground beneath the crushing weight of your pain straighten your bent shoulders your bruised back and raise your eyes to the mountains to the glory of your God who has called you to walk in peace by the clear water and to lie in the green shade without fear
he holds out his hand beckoning you from the other side of the desert to leave your servitude and to cross the wastelands the dry and dangerous spaces where men drink the blood of those they kill to take your heart and fill it with courage and to hold it like a shield trusting that his promise of rest is true and that it is better to fall in battle than die of a broken spirit
The first week of being home was tough, but the haze has cleared enough for me to rest and know that I've already crossed the wastelands and am laying in the green shade, being attended to by my Shield and Protector. He's bathing my cracked feet and hydrating my parched spirit.
He's sending his messengers to remind me that though I was a little Israelite slave, I've been rescued and set free from making the bricks for my temple out of the dust of bone-crushing experiences.
One of the first boys at the Village of Life in Kete Krache, Ghana to grab my heart was Jacob.
Jacob looks to be five or six, but appearances about that are very deceiving. Most children are older than they look. He was new to the home, having been rescued from his life as a trafficked child slave, in bondage to a fisherman on Lake Volta, less than a week earlier, much like this boy we saw emerging from the lake after having dived down to untangle nets from underwater trees.
We arrived at the home the day before two other groups of Western visitors were due to leave, so things were a little chaotic. We were told that he did not speak English or Twi (the language of that region) and that he had lost his hearing while diving in the lake.
He was the saddest one there. He stayed up at the house while we were inside, following us wherever we went. He didn't play. (Apparently the week before was even worse. He had that skinny yet distended look of a starving child. That was gone by the time we met him.)
The first few days of our visit, he was always attached (literally) to one of us, as shown here with Janice Ingram. He would crawl in our laps like a baby, whimpering, and fall asleep. We started noticing this pattern: angry and fighting in the morning, sad, clingy and sleepy in the afternoons, integrating with the other children in the evenings. He was strong-willed, often mean to the other children, but always with an eye on us and how we were going to react to it. We began to wonder if he understood more than he was letting on.
He has that analytical kind of personality, looking under the wheels of a toy truck to see what makes them turn, or popping my barrette off and on to figure it out. I found that I connected best with the boys through drawing. One morning while I was out journaling, Jacob joined me. I drew him and he drew me (I was called Ma Gina). He enthusiastically explained many things to me. It was the first time I had heard him speak. Of course, I didn't understand a word of it.
The day before we left we saw that Jacob was going to be alright. His drawings were changing to reveal a growing sense of self. He wanted to help us prepare for a group activity and when we let him measure and cut lengths of twine for jewelry-making, his personality completely morphed. He felt useful! The next picture he drew of himself was like an octopus, it had so many arms. He looked happy for the first time since we had met him.
I have heard several others on the team say, when asked which child touched them the most, that it would have to be Jacob (both physically and emotionally!) Because he was constantly with us, forcing his way into our attention even when we couldn't give it, we got to see how amazingly adaptive these kids can be, and how a little time and a little affection can go a long way in helping them through difficult transitions. Maybe we also got to touch the wounded little-kid parts of ourselves too.
I have a feeling Jacob will turn out not to be completely deaf. I'm praying when they take him to the doctor, it turns out to be an infection or fluid build-up from diving in the lake, and that it will be fixable. Will you join me in that prayer?
Pam Cope, who rescues these children, started Touch A Life after reading in the New York Times about a boy named Mark who was a child slave on Lake Volta. He was the first one she rescued. Pam has a new slogan: "Find Your Mark." She hopes, through this tagline, to encourage everyone to make the issue of child exploitation or poverty their own, to make it personal, to connect to a real person in need.
I have a very self-absorbed, narcissistic way of turning everything God is doing around me into something about me. This has been one of the terrible realizations of this trip. Honestly, I don't know how people have stood me! (not just on this trip, but in life!) I've already apologized to Steve profusely for who I am and have been for 30 years.
Learning how to stand myself has been one of my tasks this last couple of weeks, which is important, because it's how I will be able to stand everyone else. After all, what I cannot accept and forgive in myself, I cannot accept and forgive in YOU.
Despite my preoccupation with myself, I did manage to note that this week is the time of year that corresponds to Jesus' last week...the so-called Passion week. Easter observance has been abundant in the city of Accra this week. Before my Kindle died (containing the only Bible I had), and during the death of my self-respect, I noted the pouring out of the oil from the alabaster flask, that was done "for [His] burial." I read about the triumphal entry (and even worshiped at a church that had a yellow palm frond on each seat). I recalled the cleansing of the temple, that defining moment where Jesus pierced the corrupt and commercial element that had infiltrated the sacred. (I had a feeling that I was "there," but of course, my corrupt and commercial element IS sacred, and therefore unrecognizable!)
On Good Friday, we passed a group of worshipers dancing and singing. It was evening and we were exhausted. I couldn't even begin to relate to their enthusiasm.
On Saturday, I thought of Jesus in the grave and wondered if He was resurrected from a sound sleep--suddenly--by the resurrection power of God's fist breaking open death, or did He spend that whole time fighting His way out? (Do we wait to be born, or do we fight our way out of the womb?) I was thinking about my friend who is being baptized today, resurrected to a new life on the same day that Jesus was resurrected. But still, light did not dawn in my soul.
See, I didn't realize it 'til Friday that I had not been able to think about or imagine coming home. It was too far away. To remain strong, I had to live in the moments. But on Friday, I started to see the idea of coming home as a real possibility, even though it was too early to tell for sure that Sunday would arrive.
On Saturday, when I began counting down in hours, it began to seem like a very probable almost-reality. I let myself get excited about seeing my family, sleeping in my own bed, wearing something cute. Suddenly, this whole experience felt like a birth process, not just a death process. I had been able to tell others that was what they were experiencing, but nobody reminded me and somehow, I didn't see it. (I'm sure this blindness was very irritating to others.)
Then it hit me that I'm starting my journey home on resurrection Sunday. I do realize that it's turning the resurrection of Christ into a story about me, but somehow, my barely parallel experience allows me to feel a new sense of excitement about His story. Even though it may be backwards, at least it comes full circle: I felt a personal sense of "death" for a week. Then my attention was drawn to the events that lead up to His death ("It's Friday, but Sunday's coming!"*) Jesus arose! I will too!
It's not just about me, but if He wasn't resurrected, Paul says, we believers are the most pitiable people of all. Our status in the world is tied to His story. He made it about us when He loved us enough to die for us. When we see the symbols of His life in our own is when the hope of transcending our own story turns it into a story about Him.
The dim sight of home that had begun to grow on Friday had left me with the sense of new life, of rebirth, of resurrection. And, ultimately, isn't this what entering into His world--being reborn--is all about?
It's about coming home.
(*"It's Friday....but Sunday's coming!" Tony Evans, I think)
This is Baba. He was one of a group of boys that was friendly, helpful and always around. All of these boys are between 8 and 11.
This is Raul. For some reason, every time we saw him, we would all say "RAW-OOL! " He happened to be sitting with us one time while we were eating. The chicken had not been cut apart into identifiable parts, but rather into uniform-sized pieces, then grilled to a crisp. On some pieces it was hard to find any meat. We gave the last piece to Raul, then watched in amazement as he ate through the entire thing, bones and all. Must be how they get those gorgeous white teeth. (That, and the almost absolute absence of sugar in their diets).
This is Kofi Richard. Kofi means "Friday-born." We met quite a few Kofis on our trip. Kofi Richard was very new to the Village of Life, but you would never have known it. In fact, it was almost impossible to tell in most cases, because the children adapt so quickly into their new environment.
