Africa: - Wrecked for the Ordinary

A Heart for the Un-Lovely

Mon, 1 Mar 2010 00:00:00 GMT

From Uganda:

Twenty five years ago, God saw that He needed one who would take His heart and splash it over the ones the world calls 'un-lovely'.' He dreamed my heart up and with His breath it began to sway into motion. 'You were born for the un-lovelies.'' This was the refrain I'd heard over me on July 11th of this year. Yet somehow in the space between England and Africa, I'd misplaced that promise. I didn't remember it until I began to write this.

Most mornings before we left the hotel, we were reminded to be on the look-out for kids who dwelt on the fringes. Sitting silently, pulled back within the arms of Peace, I would nod. I found that the reminder was mostly so I didn't forget Him. The words He'd spoken over me in the middle of the night were coming true. They looked fires in front of my eyes. In the morning light things looked clearer. The heat then came alongside me at midday. I found my strength was only in Him. The things I'd heard in the morning took no conscious effort to recall. They had become part of my spirit.

She was the brightest shadow there ever was. The light in her eyes was so unknown to me, that for my first few days at home I missed it entirely. The days crept past me, and her heart had yet to be encountered. It was on the Sunday that He drew her up inside the depths of my heart. Slipping into my seat, my gaze was instantly on Him. It took me by surprise when I noticed shortly after, that there was another occupying the space beside me. As she introduced herself, I smiled.

Pamela sat beside me asking if I'd ever consider marrying a Ugandan man. Whether my parents were comfortable with the idea of me living in Uganda on a more long-term basis. Her eyes filled with surprise upon learning that I knew how to wash clothes by hand. I handed her my most cherished dream. I let her hold it and did not grab after it, even after many minutes had gone by. Question after question she would ask. Smiling, I kept shrugging. We drove for miles. Upon arrival at the prison, our ways parted. I did not share honest conversation with her again for days.

It was the hottest day I've ever been a part of. I was blessed with the opportunity to be a part of an outreach to the families in Gganda Village. My soul had kicked back at me when I had sought the easier way. If I had chosen, I could have stayed behind at Hope, safe in the embrace of my treasures. Instead I saw footsteps in the dirt outside, and the lines in my palms were aching to be made darker. Leaving my comfort behind, I felt a sister drawing by my side. My inheritance was becoming greater by the second.

The boundary lines were taking new places. Some of my sisters were before me. Then she spilled beauty over me unknowingly. Pouring out a story like nothing that has ever crossed my ears before, I met with Hope. Hope that is more real than the hue of blue that the sky carried that afternoon. This was the first time I could hold a pair of eyes in my gaze. This was the first time I have felt the peace that comes from the hole that fear leaves. There was wealth about her every mention of loss. There was promise that bled through her every wound. Yet my heart began to shatter beyond any depth it had even dared to go before this day.

She knew every nuance of tragedy. Never before had I been with a pair of eyes that held so much shame.She had spent many years in the strangle-hold of grief. After losing her Mum, and every corner of her home in a fire, she was then robbed of her only blood relative. Her Father cast her aside, and her little girl was taken from her. I listened, and lost my breath with every new sentence that fell from her lips. Grief shook through me. My steps remained firm. My heart inhaled Him in thicker gulps. It was then that I heard the words that would come to keep me awake through the night. Pamela is living with AID's. That sickness takes up her body that has been set apart for His glory. Not that you would know it from the brightness in her smile. Or the beauty of her trusting eyes.

From the age of 12, my heart has throbbed under the weight of the pain of those afflicted with AIDS. I have spent countless hours weeping with them. I have used my nights to lift their hearts before His throne of limitless grace and mercy. Yet this was the first time that my skin had brushed against one of those who own a piece of my heart. I am still taken aback by the memory of that hour. The way He brought us into the same space in time. There is none like Him.

Days later I would hear words that I will never understand. Especially cascading from the heart that I thought I knew. He told me there was no part of his heart that longed to pour help into her life. There was nothing about her that cried out to his heart. I felt empty as he spoke. His words threatened to drain the life from my veins. Yet there was a burning about me that would not stay shut inside. Her actions were seen as coming from a heart that cared little for others. Her words were seen as those not stemming from the goodness of our King. My arms were breaking to hold her as she allowed her tears to finally flow out of her. He had the keys to unlock her and He seemed to be unlocking my heart more entirely, so I could be the one who would not overlook her.

See I've been desperate. I know what desperation looks like. I wore it on my face for fifteen years. I carried it in my eyes and in my hands. I met with it as my eyes opened each day. I lived from it until my eyes closed over it some hours later. I've moved in steps that desperation taught me. I've spoken through lips so parched and longing that they make unfair demands. I lived a life of ferocious breaking. I memorized the way that tears use your cheeks as a cushion for the pain. My longing had been masked in the same foul disguises. My knees had been in need of the same falling sound. My eyes shut and my mouth stayed silent.

You said she could use someone like You. That all I had to do was be Who You dreamed of me being, and speak the words Your breath inside of me gave birth to. When she handed me that letter, my spirit screamed to answer the words in the way that my flesh would have loved. She asked me stay in Uganda. She said she did not want to miss me. She still loved me she said. She said she wanted me to join her on the stage and dance. She said she would not cease praying for me when we were apart. He lead me to the inside of His Heart, and showed me beauty as it shone through the story of her soul.

Pamela, if I were standing beside you right now, I'd be saying 'nkwagala nyo nyo nyo''. Your pain has made me different, sister. I long for the day when we are together again.

"Then the King will say, I'm telling the solemn truth: Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was Me-you did it to Me." (Matthew 25:40, MSG)

Gabi has lived for 25 years with a heart that beats for Africa, despite currently living in the South of England. Her life is not her own and she has recently returned from spending the summer in Uganda. She is heading back to Uganda in January. Until then she is mostly to be found dreaming impossible dreams whilst barefoot. She can be found here .

A Noble Exchange: Eyes of a Thousand Stories

Sat, 13 Feb 2010 00:00:00 GMT

I stare at an image of a girl in Haiti. I strain to interpret her eyes.

The intensity of emotions seems foreign. I have not experienced such fierce fear or surveyed such destruction. As I wonder how long it will take for the glint of laughter to reappear to her hazel brushed eyes, I can't help but think of the eyes of another woman I recently met.

An African beauty named Jolly who experienced ineffable trauma as a youth. Now she has dedicated her life to encourage hope in the next generation.

I pause as I focus on the image of the nameless girl and I remember Jolly. How does that happen? How can a set of eyes look at a panorama of horror and not be blinded?

I claim no exhaustive answer, but only offer the story of Jolly. I only spent a morning with her while I was traveling through Africa filming a TV series called Noble Exchange, but that morning was filled with a thousand stories.

Jolly resides in a city called Gulu in northern Uganda. She serves as the Country Director for an organization called Invisible Children.

She's a gifted leader and one saucy soul: a woman of grace (an accomplished dancer and singer) and strength (fully capable of cutting off a chicken's head or opening a coke bottle with her teeth).

As a teenager Jolly was forced to be a rebel soldier for the Lord's Resistance Army. On her first day she had to learn to use an AK-47. While she avoided being on the front lines, she saw firsthand her tribe be terrorized and her city turn to chaos.

She told me that education, family and faith sharpened her gaze. And early on she made a conscious decision that she would be positive and let meaning emerge from her suffering.

During our time together Jolly was poised and passionate. However, she told me that for years she fought the nightmarish memories and very real doubts. At times her doubts made her question if she wanted to live and made her avoid looking into people's eyes.

Yet, as I spoke with her I knew I was directly looking into the eyes of a woman who experienced the wonder of learning and faith and dancing.

As my morning with Jolly vaporized a flash of desire came across my mind. I want to soak up all of her wisdom and strength. I don't want one bit to pass me by.

Then as quickly as it came another flash of realization followed. I can't gain the wisdom and strength Jolly's eyes have acquired by simply studying them.

Her eyes have squinted and strained through such hellish opaque visions. Frankly I don't want to have to endure so much to obtain such insight.

I guess no one really chooses to see the tragedies Jolly has--the child soldiers, the displaced families, the loss of life. Who plans to be awake in a nightmare?

The young girl in Haiti surely didn't sign-up to see her city razed, her country swallowed up by sadness.

I don't know what Jolly would say to this young girl. Perhaps she'd share what rescued her, what gave her hope. Maybe she'd say: "Fight to get your education, embrace faith, pursue your passions, help others along the way." Maybe.

Or... perhaps Jolly would sit alongside her and weep with her. And, through tears their eyes would share a thousand stories.

Tamara is a producer for a cable network called Halogen TV, which focuses on socially-conscious empowering entertainment. The Noble Exchange Africa series begins airing in April. Park also is the author of a spiritual/travel memoir called Sacred Encounters from Rome to Jerusalem.

Photo courtesy of Dana Demick.

Bullet Holes and Disappearing Acts in Liberia

Sun, 10 Jan 2010 00:00:00 GMT

I remember. I remember crossing the bridge when I saw them.

Heather and I had ventured out into Monrovia with Patrick that afternoon for one of our last jaunts together before I left. We decided to go into the city from the port on foot instead of attempting to catch a taxi or taking a rover. It was beautiful out and we needed a walk so why not. Besides, as long as we walked with Patrick no one would bother us.

We needed air. We needed dust.
We needed to become both.

I remember everything about that walk and that brief moment on the bridge so well. I remember it because it was the exact moment Liberia became home to me. It was when I saw them.
The bullet holes.

I knew about the war. We all did. We were briefed and briefed and briefed on the decade and a half long civil war this country had endured many times over before we sailed into it. We watched documentaries, we had lectures, we were told to handle what we would see with the utmost care.

The country is in shambles, they said.
You will see the rawest kind of pain from war, they said.
The wounds are still very, very fresh, they said.
But as much as they told me about the wounds, I never understood them until I saw them myself.

I had just began to ease into my atmosphere living in that country when I saw them. They contradicted everything I thought I knew about that place and my supposed role there. They stopped me dead in my tracks. They called me a liar and a fraud, and yet opened their arms to me at the exact same time.

"You don't understand anything yet, but you can."

I wanted to. There was nothing else in the world that I wanted more in that moment than to understand them.

"We will let you, but you have to choose it. You have to feel it like we did."

I heard their offer loud and clear and I accepted. They embraced me. And I began to change.

I knew without a doubt that I was meant to see them. That I was supposed to be there - right there - in that exact place, at that exact moment in time. Suddenly nothing separated me from the people around me as I continued to walk with them. I was no longer aware of my different skin tone and speech. The smells did not make me shudder and the sights did not shock. I stared at the holes - etched forever into the side of that bridge, holding within them the longest stories of the deepest hurt imaginable. It was so evident - this pain that so few who did not experience it for themselves will ever see.

They knew where they had come from, but they could not simply tell. No one would understand. They had to be seen. There is not much else to say other than that the moment they let me see them, they became a part of me. And we began to share the same story.

And I began to disappear.

I felt the self that had thought she was coming to a war-torn African nation as a sort of "housekeeper" slowly start falling to pieces. Every next step felt like a shedding of skin, a renewal of sight. Because the reality that I was faced with was that just as much as I was not the reason those bullet holes started appearing on that bridge in the first place, I was certainly not the reason they stopped. That happened long before I got there.

I was not brought there to "fix", but rather to just exist. To make eye contact. To hold hands. To walk beside. To laugh with. To listen. To listen. To listen. And to learn a lot more than I could ever teach. My only "job" was to see myself in every face, and see theirs in my own; to understand just how much we belong to each other and really make that mean so much more than mere words.

I stuck out my hand and grazed my fingers over the holes in the concrete as I walked past. No one stared. No one even noticed. Something told me they had done this many, many times.

I breathed the air. I felt the dust.
I became both.

Jamie has coffee in her veins and a rhythm in her bones. She is a writer with a nomadic heart that has recently found itself in New York City. She is passionate about setting captives free and is currently involved in developing a non-profit committed to eradicating human trafficking.

I Need Africa More Than Africa Needs Me

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 00:00:00 GMT

I recently bought a shirt from Mocha Club that reads, " I need Africa more than Africa needs me."

After spending two months in Swaziland, learning more than I could ever put into words and living in simplicity that brought great joy, I fount this shirt completely appropriate. That was several weeks ago and on a recent Sunday, the African Children's Choir came to my church to perform. I was blessed to be one of the members who got to host some of the kids for 3 nights.

The performance alone took me back to Swazi so quickly that tears immediately formed in my eyes when the whole thing started, but knowing I got to spend time with these precious children excited me beyond belief! So my mom and I scurried to the back of the building to meet our three girls: Scovia (12) , Lillian (9) and Rose (8) . All so beautiful with accents that immediately made me feel like I was in Nsoko again. They were a bit reserved and quiet at first, but that quickly changed.

You see, these 3 girls have literally been in hundreds of loving homes. And they will be in several more before returning to Uganda. So while I'm sure our hugs and love towards them was greatly appreciated, I am confident that the blessing they brought to us is far greater than any of our offerings.

It hit me last night as I was lying in bed how true my shirt really was...I needed these girls. It's not that I need small, precious, black children in my life--no, it's not their race or ethnicity it's what they represent to me. What they, themselves taught me, but also, things I learned in Swazi (this list includes both):

I need to be reminded to live simply so others can simply live.
I need to be reminded of how incredibly amazing my parents are--as I got to watch them love and nurture the three little girls this week. (My mom taught them songs on the piano and my dad made weird noises with them).
I need to be reminded that 8 year olds can say prayers that can blow my mind. And to expect much of children spiritually because God uses them in huge ways.
I need to be reminded of what true faith is. Not safe faith. But faith that acts. Faith that takes risk.
I need to be reminded that I am not first and foremost and American--I am first and foremost a child of God.
I need to be reminded that God's heart breaks each day, all the time for the oppressed, the hungry, the dying. Mine should too.
I need to remember that it's good to throw my to-do list aside and just...be.

And maybe the Mocha Club puts it best in the description of the t-shirt: "I need Africa more than Africa needs me." Because it is Africa that has taught me that possessions in my hands will never be as valuable as peace in my heart. I've learned that I don't need what I have and that I have what I need."

And I also especially thank Him for this particular conversation I had with the girls on the last evening car ride home:

Me: A few of my friends are going to come paint flowers with us tonight, is that okay?
Girls: Yes.
Scovia: You have many friends.
Me: Ha, I guess I do, I love each one of them, they are such a blessing.
Scovia: Yes...especially when your mother and father are in Heaven. Friends can still be here with you.
Girls: Yes, yes. (Agreeing)
Me: That's right...
Scovia: But you must pick good ones.
Me: Yes, bad company corrupts good character.
Scovia: Yes, you must use a wise eye.
Me: That's right!

They're incredible!

Kati is a student at Marshall University in Huntington, WV where she is majoring in nursing with a minor in "I have no idea what I'm going to do when I graduate." She recently spent 2 months in Swaziland and learned more than she ever could have imagined. In her free time, she enjoys Chinese buffets, fighting for social justice, discipling her small group of 9th graders, and all things active.

Statistics and Mustard Seeds: An Update to The Risk of Love in Africa

Tue, 1 Dec 2009 00:00:00 GMT

This is a follow-up article to The Risk of Love in Africa

I recently got the news about Dudu. She went to be with Jesus after a long battle with AIDS and drug resistant TB. If you recall, she is the woman I wrote about in my previous article, a woman who was only 26 years old with an 8 month old baby and 2 sisters. One of these sisters, Nozipho, was someone I grew very close to as she carried her little nephew on her back each day to the care point where I worked...all at the ripe old age of 9 (pictured, right). She drew me a picture that I have framed in my room.

It is estimated that 8,500 people die every day from AIDS. When we, as Americans, read the number 8,500 it really doesn't mean much. Let's be honest, in a society where CEO's make billions, sporting stadiums hold tens of thousands, and the average wedding costing almost $30,000....8,500 seems minute. But Dudu, someone I loved, someone I comforted, someone I picked up and put in her chair....Dudu was part of that statistic today. Not only that, but just last month, Maswane was part of that statistic. These beautiful women...just another statistic. Just another number.

Although some may view them as another statistic, I am here to be their voice. I am here to say, they had a smile. They had a life. They had a heartbeat. They had a soul...they were not just numbers. They were people like you and me: they loved, they laughed and they felt pain. Tears flooded my cheeks as my heart broke for Dudu's situation: how she suffered, those she left behind, and how much I wanted to hold Nozipho. And it hit me just how much God's heart breaks - 8,500 times every day. And I was reminded of this Rob Bell quote from Jesus Wants to Save Christians:

When we are willing to be fully present in our pain and sit in our tears--then we are ready to imagine a different kind of tomorrow.

I am in pain. I am in tears. I am ready to imagine a different kind of tomorrow. These past two months have been the hardest of my life...so much death, so much hurting in both my life and people I love so much. But even as I experience this pain and suffering, I am reminded that his power is made perfect in my weakness (2 Cor 12:9), and just last night (thanks to Jesus for President by Shane Claiborne/Chris Haw) I was reminded that as my heart is crushed, I will remember the parable of the mustard seed. When a mustard seed is crushed, it's potency is released. Before it's power can be released, it has to be broken.

With that, I pray:

Break me. Crush me. God, do whatever it takes to light me on fire to better this world and make it more like the kingdom of Heaven. It will be hard. And some days I will hate it, but because of what it will lead to and because I know even when life is bad, You are good, I will rejoice. Amen.

Africa Revisited: Mercy and Bill

Mon, 23 Nov 2009 00:00:00 GMT

The air is thick and musty, and I think I might cry.

This holy moment starts as Daniel, Pete, Edward and I walk from our guest house to the outskirts of Kibera, in Nairobi, Kenya. As we pass through the local market my senses are overloaded with the sights, sounds and smells. Colourful fruits and vegetables are everywhere. Clothing of every description and quality. Spices. Muzungos (white people) are not common here, so the three of us get a lot of looks. Mostly smiles, but a few frowns. One enterprising brother does his best to sell me some Marlboros.

Just like our own Downtown Eastside here in Vancouver, the simple act of crossing a street marks our entry into Kibera. A huge crowd is gathered on on the field that passes for a soccer pitch, watching a dj and dancers up on an elaborate stage. Edward tells us that it's Nestle, here flogging their instant hot chocolate, or instant coffee, or some other damn crap they've produced to sell to the world's poor (I don't like Nestle.)

Somehow Edward spots Bill in the crowd and he greets us, polite but reserved. Bill and his wife Mercy attend Edward's church, but Mercy has been very sick for some time. Bill has met us here to walk us in for a visit. Edward knows Kibera very well, and even he doesn't trust his ability to find their home in this maze of humanity. Approximately a million and a half people living within a couple of square kilometers.

We walk quickly, plotting our course through the dirt and mud, stepping or jumping over the little streams of putrid liquid that cross our path at regular intervals. We're passing through a "commercial" section of Kibera, and most of the shacks we pass are small businesses. Food, clothing, shoes and services. Need something welded? You can get it done here. Edward estimates that perhaps half of the residents are employed elsewhere in the city, so they leave to work, but everything else happens right here.

The children become animated when they see us. Muzungos are not often seen this deep into Kibera, and Daniel's blonde hair is causing quite a stir. Two greetings from the kids are standard: First, the relatively common "Muzungo", usually accompanied by pointing and laughing, and the phrase, "How are you", with a particular rolling of the "r". It's delivered as a statement, not a question. It's just what you say to muzungos. (I learned early in my Africa experience not to tell them how I was, but instead to respond, "How are you" back, which often reduces the kids to fits of laughter.)

We continue to follow Bill, turning corners and passing through gates until I am convinced that I would never find my way out of here. I smile at Edward and I sense he knows exactly what I'm thinking. "This is why I had Bill meet us," and he laughs.

Finally, one last little "yard" with a few stalks of maize growing out of dirt that is more garbage than soil, one last gate, and we are at Bill's door. He welcomes us to his home and we stoop to walk through the door.

The structure is made of mud bricks, which create a dark environment. Two or three clear light bulbs hang from wires and fight to bring light to the space. The room is divided by sheets hung from the tin ceiling, and there are photos and prints hanging on the walls. This is their home, and despite the sparseness we can tell there is a lot of love here. A couple of younger children and three teenage girls, one carrying a baby, come out from behind the sheets and greet us as Bill invites us to sit on two small couches. The girls align themselves on a bench against one of the walls. Bill disappears for a moment then reappears again, helping Mercy into an arm chair.

She looks very sick. Her eyes are watery, and she is coughing a lot. I take her extended hand as she welcomes us into her home, and I feel like I could crush her frail hand if I'm not careful.

Edward asks Mercy about her health, and she responds at length in Swahili. As she answers I hear two English words clearly and repeatedly: Malaria, and typhoid. As she talks I can see what little energy she has literally drain from her face. When she stops talking she stares off at nothing.

Edward translates for us. Six months ago Mercy contracted malaria, which is a frequent occurrence for our friends here. When she didn't respond to the usual treatment they worried that she had typhoid, and had her tested.

Tuberculosis.

For a brief instant, to my shame, I think about the handshake. And the coughing. And a million others things. Then, as I gaze around the room and then look into Mercy's eyes, I feel incredible peace. This moment isn't about me, and I have the strange sense that even if I leave with a TB bug lodged in a lung somewhere, it will be a small price to pay for the privilege of sitting in this place, with these people, at this moment.

I'm not romanticizing poverty, trust me. No doubt Bill and Mercy would jump at the chance to raise their children in a better environment, and I want the same for them. It is just such a sacred moment for reasons that I know I will never understand.

Mercy is spent from our visit, and as we prepare to leave Edward asks me to pray. I've been praying and "saying a word" all over Nairobi so I'm not surprised, but this is different. Even as I stumble through some words, I know that what I say doesn't really matter. I pray for this family, for this home, and for health. Mostly I just hold this precious family in the light. God knows what they need better than I do, and my praying is simply an act of agreement with God's desires for them. As I finish, Mercy looks me in the eye and squeezes my hand, silently thanking me.

It's time to go. Back through the maze, back to our guesthouse, ultimately back home.

I think about Mercy and Bill often. As I write this I'm sitting by the gas fireplace in my local Starbucks, sipping on a tea misto (with vanilla), scribbling in my Moleskine journal, earbuds in place. Mercy and Bill live in the real world, while I am back in the Matrix. I hope to see Bill and Mercy again in 2010, to be present with friends once again, and to die a little more to myself, God willing.

After a dozen years on Bay Street wearing a suit, Mike and his wife Sue sold off, packed up and moved out to North Vancouver. Now the corporate uniform is fleece and hiking shoes. He splits his time between Linwood House Ministries , blogging (visit Waving or Drowning ), a little construction work, and hanging out with the whatever - a little faith community where they are trying to figure out what it means to be apprentices of Jesus Christ.

The Risk of Love in Africa

Wed, 18 Nov 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Every day in Swaziland was a reminder of what true faith is. I would meet thirsty, hungry, lonely people who worshiped God, praised God, and gave him all the glory. Always. They sang. They danced. They smiled, even in the midst of extreme pain. One thing was certain: God is good, and they were faithful.

In the midst of all this faith, I was reading a section in the book Crazy Love about faith and risk. Author Francis Chan asks a bold question, "What are you doing right now that required faith?" In America, we are obsessed with safety. We love insurance, saving accounts, seat belts, you name it. Many times, even as Christians who claim to trust God with everything, trust him with... nothing.

We live our lives as though we don't need him. We don't have faith, because our lives don't require it. It may not even be a risk with materialistic things; maybe it's a risk in telling someone about Jesus' love, or forgiving someone. The point is, I sat in my bed thinking, "Am I stepping out in a bold way right now?" I felt the answer was no. So I prayed. I asked God to give me a test of faith, to let me risk for him.

He answered. In two days.

A few of my teammates and I were presented with a tough choice. There was a lady across the street named Dudu. She was 26 years old, with an 8 month old son, wasting away with AIDS. But she also had another issue-drug resistant TB. For those of you who aren't knowledgeable about this disease, it is one that is extremely contagious. And just to give you an idea of health care in America, if Dudu was in our hospitals she would have her own isolated room, with a separate ventilation system, and those who entered would have special suits with helmets that resembled astronauts.

Dudu needed some medicine. She needed care. She needed prayer. But there was this disease in the way, this scary, contagious, possibly deadly disease. So I prayed.

There were so many reasons not to go to Dudu's, I even thought of getting sick and then not being able to go to nursing school and help so many others. Was it really worth it to risk so many for just one? Then I turned to the parable of the 99 sheep and how the Shepard goes back, even just for one. Wow. That was obvious. Then I walk by the Bible verse board, only to see the latest verse written down was 1 John 3:16, about laying our lives down for our brothers. At this point, I looked up and said, "Okay, God, I'm going."

So we went. The details of all the medical parts aren't important, but what is crucial not just to my whole summer, but to my entire life, was a moment that happened as my leader Amanda gave Dudu a shot in her leg.

Dudu literally weighed about 80 pounds. Every bone in her body was prominent and as Amanda struggled to find enough flesh to poke the needle in her frail figure, I was the comforter at the head of the bed--Rubbing her head, and holding her hand. As the needle pierced her skin, she winced with so much pain and agony and squeezed my hand with all the strength she could muster. As I started into her eyes thinking of my own sister who is exactly her age...thinking of how selfless Dudu had been previously, asking for prayer only for her child, that he would have enough food-not for herself or her pain, thinking of how lonely it must be for no one to visit because of your disease...as I thought all of these things, in this exact moment, I felt true love. I know this, because I wanted to take all the disease out of her body and put it in mine. I wanted all her pain. All her heartache. Everything.

After this visit, we continued to go back to across the road to her humble home. One night she had a really bad fever and could hardly breathe. Some days, her body really looked like it was finished. And even though the idea of infection to our whole team lingered, we were so convinced that if Jesus Christ was in Swaziland with us, he would visit Dudu, because who else would? And who were we to not trust in the Lord to protect us?

The days went by, and soon turned to weeks, and by the end of 2 months, Dudu was like family. We would take her food, pray with her, and read to her. I'll never forget the first time I saw her smile, really smile, when we brought her a piece of meat from our cow roast. What a beautiful moment!

As the trip came to a close, we all went for one final goodbye. Dudu talked more than she ever had, thanking us for being her friend and visiting her. She even asked Amanda for her sunglasses.. As we were leaving, she asked to go outside on the porch to see us off, so I scooped her up and put her on the chair as she sported her new shades. She grinned as she waved bye.

Typing this story out literally gives me chills. Dudu was about to die, but when we left, there was new life. Yes, she is still sick, very sick, but she made about 10 new friends this summer and we loved her with all we had.

The best part of this story? We all tested negative for TB... possibly a medical miracle.

The Birth of "Hope" in Africa

Fri, 13 Nov 2009 00:00:00 GMT

From Swaziland, Africa:

I had just sat down on one of the mattresses in the common area of where we live to watch an episode of The Office with some of the girls. I had never seen it before, and thought a little mid-day bonding over popcorn and a show sounded pretty good. Five minutes into the show, William and Matt walked in the room and asked the question: "Are there any girls who would want to go with Pastor Gift to deliver a baby?

I think after the initial shock wore off, I jumped up faster than I ever had before. I looked at Erin who had also jumped up and started pumping my fists in the air and screaming with so much excitement. Within a few moments, six of us girls were piled into White Chocolate (the old white van we drive around) and ready to go.

We picked the mother up from her home. Her name is Gamane. She was already in a lot of pain and could barely walk. This is her story: Her mother was a prostitute, so she is a direct product of that lifestyle. Her mother was born again and now looks down upon her daughter, disowning her because of the lifestyle that SHE has now chosen... the life of a prostitute. Gamane, only 25 years old, is now pregnant with her 5th child, and has no idea who the father is. She is HIV positive, and has no money or food for the baby.

So we get her into WC (White Chocolate), and started comforting her.

Erin, Kelly, Hannah, Kimi, Cori, and myself began to ask her questions to try and take her mind off of the pain. Erin suggested that I sing to her. So I sing. "You are the source of life, and I can't be left behind.. no one else will do.. I will take hold of you. I need you Jesus to come to my rescue. Tell me where else can I go? There is no other name by which I am saved, you capture me with grace. I will follow you." She was put at ease for a few moments.

The hospital was about 45 minutes away... and we were making good time.

Her contractions were getting closer and closer together. Kel started to time them, and they were about 1 minute 45 seconds apart. Kimi checked and said she wasn't that far along, and literally 30 seconds later, I look down... and see half of the baby's head!

Everyone screamed, "The baby is coming!" and hardly even 10 seconds later, the whole baby was out. It happened so quickly. Pastor Gift was yelling to us to shut the windows, and wrap the baby up. We didn't have anything. Luckily, Hannah had decided to layer that day, so she took off one of her shirts and we wrapped the baby up. A girl. A beautiful, beautiful baby girl.

I was crying. Bawling. Harder than the baby. It was the most beautiful (and disgusting) thing I had ever seen. Pastor Gift told us to get the baby to suck on something, so Cori stuck her finger in the baby's mouth, and she began to suck on it. Everything was normal, the baby was healthy. Then Gamane's cousin grabbed my hands and told me to help her push. We had to get everything else out of her: the umbilical cord, the amniotic sac, and so on... (I will spare the gory details for those that can not handle it).

We asked her what the baby's name would be, and she said that she didn't know. Then, she told us that we could name it for her. We all got so excited. We talked and prayed about it for a few minutes, and then decided on Hope, which is Litsimba in Siswati. The reason behind it is obvious. We believe that there is hope for her life. Hope for a new life, that she is going to bring that hope to Swaziland. Gamane loved it. A few minutes later, we pulled over on the side of the road. There was no buildings around us, no people... just cows. A lot of mountains, and a lot of cows.

We had a flat tire. A young woman laying on the back seat of White Chocolate, fluids and blood everywhere, a baby bundled up on the blanket, six girls who have no idea what to do, and a flat tire. And a lot of cows.

Pastor Gift changed the tire (with a tire that was even more flat than the one that was on it before). We tried to flag a couple cars down, but no one would stop, so we did the only thing we could do. We drove. Welcome to Africa, friends.

From the moment we pulled out, you could see the lines from the rim of the tire grinding into the asphalt. 15 minutes later, we arrived at the hospital and handed Gamane and Hope over to professional care. She is HIV-positive, so she can not breast-feed. We walked to the store and got some milk. Gamane asked who was singing to her in the car. I told her that I was. She said that she didn't know what was going on around her, and that all she could hear was the song, and that it helped her through everything. I cried again. We prayed over Gamane and Hope. We prayed for her little life, for God to invade her heart. Then, we said our goodbyes. We couldn't fix the tire, which was shredded at this point, so we hitched a ride in the back of a truck and headed home.

I was thinking about the beauty of life. The miracle that it is. And then I was thinking about the tragedy of Gamane's situation. There were so many thoughts... so many emotions. It was so beautiful, and so sad. Pastor Gift is looking for a family to take care of the baby. They may have found a home, but I ask that you all pray for Gamane and baby Hope. God has a plan for her. And Gamane saw God's love through us in a way she never had seen it before.

I don't really understand it all. Life. Death. Struggles. Victory. Hardships. But I do know that God is in the midst of it. He was there. He is there. He sees Gamane. He sees Hope. He loves them. He has a plan. A purpose. He does for everyone. We are blessed. Because we are alive. And because we have Him.

Tiffany is from California. She is currently on the World Race, ministering in 11 different countries in 11 months with Adventures In Missions. You can find out more about her here.

Notes on the African Soul

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 00:00:00 GMT

When my mission team came into Africa, a lot of us were peeing our pants with excitement. I, however, wasn't one of those people.

I'd already heard tons of dreams and romantic notions about Africa already. In the mission field, that whole continent seems to come packaged with this special wonder, only being spoken about in hushed and reverent tones. But I never bought it. I thought the hype came from the name. Africa is the heart of darkness, after all. The lost world. The domain of wildebeests and National Geographic documentaries. That's a ton of brand recognition!

So I admit, I entered Africa with some cynicism. I saw the reputation as hype. I looked forward to our 3 months on African soil as any other chapter of our mission tour--grow, serve, seek the Lord, and survive. Africa wasn't going to be special.

In fact, worse than special, it was actually pretty difficult in the beginning. I learned quickly that much of what makes Africa is utterly incompatible with the mind of a westerner. I learned a lot about home by getting away from it.

The developed world is made up of layers, forms, and structures. Everything that exists has a standardization to it, a protocol and a procedure. Every vendor or vendible is extensively cross-referenced, categorized, resold, and reanalyzed. Every collection of anything is lumped into groupings, trends, markets, bar graphs, and subdivisions. Every meaningful transaction that ever was has a record or a receipt or a carbon copy, and it's probably archived somewhere, and you can undoubtedly find it all on Google.

The platform of western civilization is surplus. We've had so much surplus, for so long, that the excess has demanded structure and organization to handle it. Our society is a huge machine of interacting resources and enterprises and personnel, all designed ultimately to funnel surplus into something useful. Obviously, all this structure has consequences. People need to fit into holes and brackets for the machine to run smoothly. We have roles and behaviors by the thousand. We slip into masks and faces and suits, everyday, just to get through our jobs, our days, and our lives.

I hope this isn't new news to anybody. This is capitalism, or western civilization. I'm just reminding us what we are, so we can be on the same page. Just describing, not whining. And all I want to say is: that's how it is back home, but in Africa the story is very different.

Everything seems to be on just one layer in Africa. There are no standards, few schedules, hardly any roles or masks, and no discrete packets of anything to flit back and forth in neat autonomy. In Africa one gets the sense that almost everything is informal. Everything is cobbled together, improvised for the matter at hand. And that's just fine for the time being. And the "time being" will continue indefinitely. Until the tire blows, or the roof collapses. Until then, the hour of need, we just make do with what we have.

And what other choice is there? There is no mountain of surplus here. There's no space or reason for all the choices and quality control and gift wrapping that we get back home. And for the most part, Africa doesn't seem to miss it.

So when I got to Africa, my head had to break a little. This place is not business as usual. The bathrooms are always filthy. The buses are always overcrowded. Everyone is always behind schedule. The restaurant is always messing up your order. The potholes will never be filled, the rutted dirt roads never paved. The church will never fill in the ceiling, the electricity will never be reliable, and the water never trustworthy. Or, if "never" is too strong a word, then at least nobody is really waiting for these things to change. Not tomorrow, that's for sure.

What's truly amazing about this place is, after a few months the layers and structures you brought with you start to melt away. The tight little western world inside your own head finally gives up its frantic cravings for order and efficiency and neatness and good sense, and just... rests.

It goes "Ahhh..."

... like a big old sigh, deep in your bones. That's how it starts to feel. Like medicine for your soul.

Africa has a disarming honesty to it. There's hardly any room for pretense here, and hardly any need for it. And so, this unfamiliar landscape, this foreign way of life . . . it starts to feel strangely familiar. Strangely natural. Strangely like the home you never knew you missed.

These days, if somebody asks me about Africa, I might drop into a hushed, reverent tone too. I'll tell you about tight little communities and humble people. I'll tell you about a way of life so unassuming that your pretense and armor plating will just crumble off. I'll tell you about an expanse of the Earth unlike any other.

God willing, I'll be back there one day.

Ian went on the World Race in Oct. '08 and had his life blown up by God. Whew, that was fun. Now he's back in Austin, TX indefinitely, thinking and writing and video-making and playing ultimate frisbee and discipling college kids, searching eagerly for God's next calling on his life. He hopes this article dares you further into Kingdom life.

Chaos In Africa: Story from the Dorcas Widows Fund

Fri, 25 Sep 2009 00:00:00 GMT

"I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." -John 16:33

In the last month, I have felt bombarded with chaos. Not just great change, but a feeling of being swirled about in an unpredictable tornado. Suddenly wondering which way is up and how to find a firm footing again. Even my thoughts seem to fly about inside my head with no predictable pattern. I guess that is why I haven't written much in the last few weeks. Putting more than one thought together seemed like an impossible task.

Events in my life and the lives of the ladies seemed to have no solution. The only thing I could think to do was pray and when I did God impressed heavily on me that even as I fly wildly about, he is placed his peace and clam inside me. It is an odd feeling to be totally enveloped in chaos and yet at the same time feel a sense of deep serenity.

It all started about a month ago. My phone rang just after 6:30 in the morning. I woke from a dead sleep and groggily said hello. Joyce's voice on the other end of the phone was shrill and full of panic, so unusual for her. I shook the sleep from my head and interrupted her, "Joyce, tell me slowly...what happened?" Joyce explained that Idah had begun convulsing at about 4:00 in the morning. Her young daughter had run to get Joyce, as she had allowed Idah and her children to build a small wooden structure near her small home when Idah was evicted. Joyce had prayed over Idah, but she never regained consciousness. Joyce then brought Idah to the government hospital. However, they wouldn't treat her without her medical record, so Joyce was now frantically searching through Idah's things looking for her medical papers. I told her that Annet, our Dorcas Widows Social Worker, would come immediately to help her. Annet lives close to her and was able to be there in 15 minutes. They were able to find the card and jumped on Bodas (motorcycles for hire) and sped to the hospital. I then called Suzanne, another Dorcas Widows Social Worker, and asked her to go immediately to the hospital to sit with Idah and her daughter. I live the farthest away from the hospital, so I told them I would meet them there later.

Suzanne, Annet and Joyce arrived at the hospital in time to see the doctor and to give him her medical record. Idah was in the advanced stage AIDS with significant liver disease and had now contracted Hepatitis. The doctor suggested some medicine that might help her regain consciousness, so Annet and Suzanne rushed to the hospital pharmacy only to find they were out of that medicine. So, they rushed to another pharmacy in town only to find nothing again. Finally, after the 4th pharmacy they were able to get the medicine. They rushed back into the hospital only to reach her bedside as she breathed her last breath. She died peacefully with her daughters and her mother by her side. Suzanne then called me and told me that I had missed her. That she had already gone home to be with the Lord. I felt tears well up in my eyes. I had so wanted to say good-bye. I was already headed to the hospital, but Suzanne asked me to turn around and go tell the other widows so that we could support Idah's mother and children.

Annet and Suzanne had the gruesome task of taking the body to the morgue...a room full of dead, stiff naked bodies in various stages of decay...no refrigeration, so the smell alone will knock you down. They feared I would not be strong enough to handle it and they were right. Our ministry paid to have Idah's body prepared for burial and while they were preparing her, Suzanne went into town to buy a coffin for her and to arrange a truck to come and pick her body. In Acholi tradition, the coffin is then taken to the mother's house and laid inside the home. Then neighbors, friends and family come to mourn together over Idah.

I gathered the other widows at St. Peter's Church and then we walked to the mother's house as the coffin arrived. Idah's mother wailed...a cry so piercing and so full of sadness. Her two daughters just sat there staring off into space with red eyes and look of total despair. The Dorcas Widows arrived en mass and one by one grieved, cried and hugged the family. We sat quietly outside the mother's small home partly in shock and partly relieved that Idah's pain is now over and she is dancing and singing in the presence of the Lord. Suddenly, one of the ladies, Phyllis learned over to me and said, "I feel the Lord telling me to speak to the crowd that has gathered...to comfort them...to tell them about our hope in Jesus." So, she stood up, gathered their attention and then began to speak in the local language about our confidence that Idah was with Jesus, about how Jesus wants to have a personal relationship with them, about how God is asking each of us to choose to follow and serve him. It was one of the most beautiful moments I have ever witnessed. Then, the ladies and I began to sing praise hymns. Suddenly, there it was... the tangible feeling of peace amidst the chaos.

The next day, we arrived at St. Peter's Church for the funeral. Idah was a member of the Luo Service Church Choir, so her fellow choir members surrounded her coffin and sang a beautiful song of praise...Idah's favorite. Then I stood and told the congregation how much we loved Idah...all the special things we will remember about her. As the service ended the body was to be taken back to her village to be buried. Two of our widows, Joyce and Ruth, would accompany the mother and other relatives in order to represent us and to support the family.

After such a lovely remembrance of Idah's life, Ruth and Joyce were shocked to find the mother quarreling with the members of her own family and her own husband after reaching Kitgum. The mother was not welcomed warmly by the village as they had chased her from their midst for being a trouble maker and for inciting some witchcraft against people. Suddenly, a fight broke out between Idah's mother and her extended family. Joyce and Ruth tried to serve as peacemakers, but were abused in the process. They argued all night and finally in the morning Idah was laid to rest amidst arguing and fighting. As they sat in the truck returning to Kampala, the mother threatened Ruth and Joyce telling them to tell no one about the fighting or else they would be sorry.

Both Joyce and Ruth were quite shaken when they returned to Kampala. They both called me right away to relay the strange events that had just transpired. Joyce was particularly worried about Idah's children, as this grandmother did not seem stable. Suzanne, Annet and I tried hard to investigate what could be done for the children. Then two days later, we heard that the police had been called to the mother's place because the neighbor had witnessed her seriously beating Idah's children with a large stick. The oldest child was somehow able to grab the stick and hit the grandmother on the head to stop the violence. Joyce then asked the children to stay with her. The grandmother then went to Joyce's house and threatened to beat her or curse her if she did not give the children back. Joyce held her ground, but was terrified of the violent nature of this woman. Joyce then asked the mother if they could sort their dispute with the oldest male relative of that family which is culturally appropriate. The mother hesitantly agreed, but threatened that bad things would begin happening to Joyce. As I write this now, Joyce is been in the hospital for two days on an IV fighting for her life as we pray seriously for God to intervene. As westerners, we naively think witchcraft is some ancient hocus-pocus...something like believing in the tooth fairy, but I can assure you that evil still roams the earth and can wound us. God told us that we were in the middle of a battle and indeed we are. It seems like I am on the front line these days.

As we tried to intervene in this tense situation with Idah's mother, Jane also became incredibly ill and needed an immediate IV and medical attention. The oldest boy of the family of orphans Dorcas Widows has been helping fell into a diabetic coma and needed us to rush him to the hospital. His life hung in the balance for 24 hours, but God intervened and he is now better. Then if all the sickness of these women were not enough all hell broke loose in Kampala. The Kabaka (king) of Buganda (a large tribe in Uganda) was insulted by a less populous tribe in his own territory and was furious at this blatant lack of respect, so his people took to the streets in massive riots. Suddenly, bullets were flying everywhere, tires were burning, stones were being thrown indiscriminately and people were being beaten or killed if they were not Buganda or did not publicly respect Buganda traditions. The military was sent in and an all scale battle broke out in the middle of down town. Hundreds of people were wounded and many were killed...most of them innocent people caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Everyone connected with the Dorcas Widows was instructed to stay locked inside their home. This proved to be the safest way to remain untouched by the violence. In fact, to the glory of God we all survived unharmed.

After the violence stopped on Saturday, we planned to meet on Tuesday afternoon at Logogo Baptist Church in order to get on our knees and pray for peace and protection from the evil around us. So, last night we gathered together and sang with arms outstretched and danced before our God with wild abandon. Then each lady prayed in her own language to the Lord reminding him of how mighty his hand is and how vulnerable we are; of his promise of peace and how we are being tossed about; of how he is the great healer and of how sick in body and mind some of us are. Tears flowed down our faces as we knelt before him asking him to intervene in the trauma that has followed Idah's death, into the sicknesses of so many of our women and into the violence of our beloved city. In the midst of all the voices crying out before the throne of God, I felt a powerful peace wash over my body...it was tangible...I felt if I opened my eyes I would see Jesus face to face. He whispered to me, "In this world you will have trouble, but don't fear...I have overcome the world."

So now, I am waiting to see the sick become well, the vulnerable become safe and the violent become calm. In the weeks that come, you will hear from us great testimonies of victory for our great God is on the move.

Kari is the Project Director for Uganda at Dorcas Widows.

Control Freak Meets Africa

Tue, 8 Sep 2009 00:00:00 GMT

If there is one thing that the Lord has shown me in the last 10 months since arriving in Uganda, it is that I have a lot of anger. In fact, I think I've felt more anger in these 10 months than I ever have before. What's this anger about and what's it got to do with God or the Babwisi people?

Well, for starters, they are two of the main targets of my anger. There are certain things to which anger seems a legitimate response: rebels who kill women and children for sport is certainly one, and believe me the list goes on; but what plagues my soul is much deeper.

In my former life in America, I would leave my home, get into my car, adjust the radio and temperature to the precise settings I desired, and go to work in a hospital that ran like a comparatively well-oiled machine. This represented but a small part of the imagined control which is America's specialty and it was in this imaginary world that I had been marinating my whole life.

Now, I am still an American, and I still love control; however, I am living in place and amongst a people that refuses me access to such absurdity and hollow pursuit - and I resent it. I feel angry at things and people and God. One common occurrence is symbolic of what plagues me.

Early in the morning, neighbors would stop by the back window screens and peer in all smiles and yell, "Kodi, kodi!" which is roughly translated, "Yoo-hoo! Anyone home?" This drove me crazy! Don't you know what time it is? Where I come from work or ministry starts at 9 or 10! Now, while I was friendly to those neighbors, I would burn with anger toward the whole situation and vow to build a moat around the house.

My Ugandan friends were doing something that was totally normal and friendly in this culture, but I was only thinking of how my privacy was being encroached upon. I was finding something or someone to be angry at daily when I came across Exodus 15. It was a breath of fresh air, holding the promise of a cure.

"When they came to Marah, they could not drink the water because it was bitter. So the people grumbled against Moses. Then Moses cried out to the Lord, and the Lord showed him a piece of wood. He threw it into the water, and the water became sweet." (Exodus 15: 23-25)

The bitter water of my soul wasn't of much use to God or anyone else. Stagnant with self-righteousness and criticism, it needed a piece of wood to be thrown into it. There is only one kind of wood that can change the human heart -- the wood of the cross on which my Savior died. As I have contact with the cross, I am changed. As I fix my eyes on him who was there, I see not only Jesus but myself more clearly. However, when I fix my eyes on others and their weaknesses or faults, I add more pride to the bitter mixture inside and risk poisoning those around me.

Jesus put himself into the bitter darkness of the world to bring sweetness, the sweetness of His love shown ultimately through His death on the cross on our behalf. Returning afresh to this truth, the Lord has changed my attitudes in remarkable ways in just the last few months. This place will always be overwhelming in one way or another, forcing me to relinquish the control I long for, and the anger I struggle with, to Him.

As I near the end of my first year here, I know at least one stronghold has been breached - I now look forward to hearing, "Kodi, kodi!"

Mary Ann lives a stone's throw from Washington DC with her newlywed husband, Allen. She continues to be smitten with all things African and is finding ways to use this passion for His glory in the midst of dense urban culture.

Lost Sheep: A Story About Redemption

Mon, 24 Aug 2009 00:00:00 GMT

"When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. Then he said to the disciples, "The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field." (Matthew 9:36-37)

Shortly after I returned to Uganda, Ruth, one of my dearest widow friends came to me with an urgent request. Her eyes were blazing with concern and fierce determination as she grabbed my hands and sat me down next to her.

"I am a mother," she began, "and when mothers see children suffering they have to act."

I looked intently back at her and asked, "What happened Ruth?"

She explained that she had been taking food to a woman some months ago who was terribly sick. One day as she was bringing the food, a teenage boy followed her. When she left she noticed the boy following her again. As she reached home, Ruth turned and asked the boy why he was following her. The boy was weak, thin and looked terribly sick. He fell to his knees and told Ruth that he was hungry. She asked him why he hadn't eaten and where his parents were. He told her that his parents were dead and that he and his three other siblings were living alone.

At that point Ruth took him into her home and began cooking for him. She fed him and sent him home with food for his siblings. He thanked her and then slowly made his way back to the room he was living in. The house they were living in had been sold when their father died and then rented out to different men. The current man living there allowed them to stay in one room of the house.

Since that day, Ruth had been feeding these children and checking on them when she could.

"We need to help them, Kari. They have no one and they are badly off."

Immediately, the medic and I left to see the children. The medic found the oldest teenage boy, Ben, in bed unable to move. He had diabetes and had been milking the same bottle of insulin for months with the same dull dirty needle. Giving himself the wrong dose of insulin could have killed him, yet he was still breathing. Ben also wondered if he was HIV positive, but had not yet been tested. Brenda, his 16 year old sister, was doing her best to care for him, but with nothing to eat in the house but the handouts they were receiving from Ruth; his diet was impossible to control. She also had to go out and look for food for her two younger brothers, Immanuel, 14, and Godfrey, 12.

The medic gave Ben the correct insulin dosage, a clean syringe and information about the right foods to eat to control his diabetes. I was overwhelmed. Ben looked like he could die taking his next breath and the other children looked scared and hopeless. I thought of the verse in Matthew where Jesus looks on the crowd and describes them as looking harassed and helpless. These children were lost...completely lost...invisible to everyone but Ruth the widow.

The next day, I brought Annet, the Dorcas Widows Fund Sponsorship Coordinator, with me to talk to them in their own language. I wanted to know how they ended up so alone and so vulnerable. Annet has a kind and gentle spirit and she started talking to them slowly and with great compassion. The children warmed up to her and began to tell her their painful story. Both of their parents had contracted HIV. Their mother died first when Brenda (now 16) was 5 and Godfrey (now 12) was an infant.

After their mother's death, their father remarried a younger woman. Things were okay for a while, until their father's new wife found out that he had given her HIV. Their father was already showing signs of the disease...becoming thin, weak and sickly. The new wife was furious and plotted revenge on her new husband. She decided to infect his oldest son, Ben so she began to repeatedly rape him when the father was not around. It was a living nightmare. After a year or so, she also became too sick and left the father.

At 8 years old Brenda nursed her father and did all the cooking, even taking care of her two younger brothers. Their father died a slow painful death. For the next 5 years, he would yo-yo between better and worse until one day he went to sleep and never woke up. Their uncle had been supporting them while their father was alive, but now that he was dead the uncle sold their home to pay himself back for all the money he had spent caring for them. Ben was now the heir to his father's land in the village, a very fertile land, coveted by his relatives. The uncles then plotted to get the land, so they threatened to curse them if Ben or any of his siblings ever came back to the village. So, three years ago, these four children were left homeless, penniless and completely alone.

They began to beg the neighbors for food and that worked for a while, but after several months the neighbors grew tired of helping them. So, with no other option, Brenda began sleeping with men for food or some small sum of money. For two years now, selling her young body has kept them alive. Brenda stared at her hands looking hopeless and the room suddenly became very quiet. I fought back tears. I was both heart-broken and furious that this was their reality.

Annet spoke first, very softly. She too was overwhelmed with emotion. We both hugged Brenda and told her that God had heard her cries and had sent us to help them. I looked at all of them and said, "We will love you and take care of you. We see you and hear all you have passed through. This should never have happened to you, but God will redeem even this. Just wait and see."

First things first, Annet took the children to be tested for HIV. We all feared the worst especially for Ben and Brenda, but much to our delight all the children tested negative. The next day, Annet and Ruth took the children to the market and bought enough food for two months including pots, pans, plates, charcoal...everything they needed to be healthy and to cook for themselves. Annet called me later and told me that the children were running around the yard singing, dancing, laughing and jumping. This was the first time in years that someone had given them something more than one meal. They were overjoyed!

But, I wanted more than that for them. I wanted to give them a hope and a future...isn't that what Jesus would give them?

I was at Cornerstone that day to meet with Dennis and Kristin about the possibility of getting the boys into their homes for street children. After some discussion, I found that there were two openings in the same home for the youngest boys. In this home, they would live with mentors who will love them, guide them and teach them to be men of God. Eventually, they will be able to go back to school. I was also able to get Brenda in their home for former prostitutes. There she will receive the counseling she so desperately needs and a chance to return to school.

The following day, Annet told Brenda, Immanuel and Godfrey the good news. They fell to the ground and began to cry. They just shook their head in disbelief. Brenda looked at Annet and said, "I never knew God would send me a white mother." Annet held them and they all began to laugh and shout for joy. Before the boys could go to the home, we needed to purchase a mattress, bedding and a mosquito net for each of them to sleep on. Annet took the boys to the market to pick out their very first bed. Immanuel looked at Annet and said, "I never thought we would be rich. Only rich people sleep in beds." Annet just laughed and hugged them. Brenda was also overjoyed to be given a new life -- one where she doesn't have to sell herself in order to survive.

Since Ben is now 20, he is too old for these programs, but we are trying to help him look at some vocational programs where he could learn a trade and begin to work. In just a couple weeks God had given each of these children a new life... a new beginning... a future.

These children were indeed helpless and harassed with no one to defend them. Until one poor widow saw them and gave of what she had to help them. She fed them until I came back. Ruth knows my heart is close to widows and orphans. Immediately we intervened... we had compassion on them not just in words or prayers, but in action.

The workers of Christ's Kingdom are few... too few for the pain in this world, but the harvest is also more plentiful than we can imagine. I am confident that God will carry those children onto health, hope and great things. Is there anything better than to harvest the souls and potential of people? Jesus is calling all who follow in his ways... all who claim to know him and want to serve him to go out into the fields of harassed and helpless people and do something to help them grow and become; so we can harvest the potential of each of God's beautiful creations.
Here is the letter I just received from Brenda:

 Dear mum Kari,

I kindly greet you in the name of one and only Jesus Christ. And I would like you to know that you are really a gift sent to us from heaven. You really brought back hope and happiness to our family because when we became orphans we thought that everything had come to an end but in you we've restored love, joy and happiness and also got someone we can call mama and loves us very much.

We really thank you for the food and things you are sending and buying for us because before you helped us we sometimes used to sleep hungry because we had no money. But you've got to know that we love you so much but we can't express but just to God that he may pay back whatever you are planting in us.

I won't disappoint you. May the good Lord Bless you!!

From daughter Brenda

Kari is the Project Director for Uganda at Dorcas Widows. You can read more stories at her blog.

In Africa, We Don't Help Each Other

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Lindiwe is one of the women who sew purses for Timbali Crafts, an organization that helps African women sell their handmade purses and crafts to help provide a living for their families. In fact, she is literally the face of the ministry, as her picture is on the front of the Timbali Craft flyer.

This week, her husband died suddenly. They have 10 kids -- the oldest is 20 years old. A couple days ago, my wife Marcia and I were out near her house and decided to drop off some food to the family.

Turning off the pavement, we followed a gravel road. After some time, we veered off the gravel road onto a narrow dirt path, which led to a foot path leading to her house.

Upon arriving at the house, we found a few small buildings - one cement block with two rooms and two or three other mud huts with thatched roof. There were several little kids running crying with crusty noses. Lindiwe was in town, apparently making funeral arrangements. We met the oldest daughter, left the food, and took the second oldest back to the paved road so she could catch public transport to a clinic - she was sick, too.

All this was a very tragic scene of the struggles in this country made more personal by the fact that we know this woman Lindiwe. Can you imagine being left with 10 children and little to no income? Through her bright smile, she has communicated the hope the Timbali ladies find in the Lord and in their small income from the purses they sew.

The days ahead will be difficult.

What struck me most and what I can't get out of my mind was the man we met on the way to the house. He was about my age or older, walking along the dirt path. We passed him as we were almost at Lindiwe's house. He waved us down and asked us where we were going. I figured that he needed a ride, but we were going the opposite direction. I rolled down the window, and he smiled a kind smile as we told him we were looking for Lindiwe's house. He brightly responded that he was the neighbor - we could see the blue door of his house from where we were stopped. He then got very sad when he referred to the sad thing of the husband dying and leaving all those kids behind.

I suggested that it would be a good time for the neighbors to come around the family and help them. He said flatly, "In Africa, we don't help each other."

I was shocked. Here he was talking about being the neighbor and being sad about the loss but stating without remorse or shame that he would not be helping the family. In this far-flung rural area far off the main road I would think people would stick together - to reach out and help and be a community. But I guess once again I misjudged the culture here. Or maybe I just misjudged the kind face of the man we met.

After we left him to deliver the food, I thought of our encounter and a hundred responses - like the Golden Rule, for example - that I wish would have rolled off my tongue. Then I wondered about my own heart and how much I truly live by that very rule. Yes, we delivered $20 worth of food to a needy family. But in the days ahead, they will need much more. Here, we pass people in desperate need every day, yet I find it the norm to go about my agenda with little more than a glance. But then, I think, it is not possible to help everyone - not even possible to help more than a few. But when I look away, am I in some way protecting myself from the reality in my face every day?

This is my struggle. I hope that the motivation of my heart is to do more than that man - that I don't harbor a sentiment as his: "In Africa we don't help each other."

How about you?

Scott Borg works as a full-time missionary for Adventures In Missions.

How Much for a Coffin?

Thu, 6 Aug 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Last week we were leading a team of people at a ministry center in Nsoko - one of the most impoverished areas of Swaziland. We began building a small storage building at one of the care points called Mahangeni. They had only a stick building with no door which provided no security to store things like food, water, and firewood.

The morning we started building our little project there were two members of the community council who wanted to offer their thanks for our contribution to developing their community. Now this seemed a little over the top to me since what we were building was little more than a shed for your back yard. Hardly worth the attention of two community officials!

After beginning the building, one of the officials, a man named Sabelo, needed a ride with me back to the main ministry center. Sabelo is the development officer for the local chief in the area. As we pulled away from the care point he began telling me how much it meant to his community for someone to come and contribute. I was touched.

Then pretty soon he asked if our organization offered cash donations. I was kind of expecting some kind of ask, but he was so friendly and unassuming I took his request as an honest desire for support in his role as a community development officer. I explained we did not do cash donations but rather focused on providing food to needy children at the care points as well as building projects such as the one we began that morning.

He understood and we went on in silence for a while until I couldn't resist and asked what they needed cash donations for. Since the man asking was the community development officer, I thought it would be for some type of community development. His answer surprised me. He simply said, "We need coffins." I was taken back and humbled by his request. After a simple probing question he explained.

"Our people are dying and we have no money for coffins. Usually people are wrapped in a blanket and set into the ground. The families are able to pay for simple funeral catering (the funerals are at their homes and the dead are buried there as well) but coffins are expensive."

"How much is a coffin?"

"Usually around $150."

I was humbled by this conversation. I was broken talking to a man in charge of developing a community whose main challenge was burying the dead.

Later in the week after the group had gone home we were back in Manzini and someone close to me took me aside asking in whispered tones for some help. You see, someone had died in their community and - you guessed it - there was no money for a coffin. The funeral was in two days and I did not have $150. Also I was not sure it was the right thing to do - setting a precedence like paying for one person's coffin. There is no way to pay for everyone's coffin who is dying here.

This morning we went to church with our friend Pastor Bheki and Josiah and Meredith. Bheki was tired since he was up all night - for the night vigil part of the funeral for someone in his church. A young boy around 7 years old had died in some kind of accident. Josiah preached so Bheki would not have to.

We can't seem to do much to stop the death from happening. But we are trying to bring hope and relief to the living. Little Andile (see Marcia's blog) lays in the hospital fighting for life. Every day is a challenge to survive.

At the Children's Bible School at the care point last week the group asked the kids what they were thankful for. With typical exuberance and without hesitation a 4 year old boy shouted, "I am thankful to be alive." Have you ever heard a little child thankful for something as mundane as life? A toy, a puppy, a piece of cake, and mommy and daddy - but life itself? Things are different for most everyone here in Swaziland.

Please keep praying for us and the people of Swaziland - every day brings a new challenge.

Scott Borg works as a full-time missionary for Adventures In Missions.

Book Giveaway: Scared by Tom Davis - What Are You Scared Of?

Thu, 6 Aug 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Remember a couple of months ago when we announced that Tom Davis was giving away free e-copies of his new book, Scared?

Guess who just got four hard copies to give away to their readers?

Read on for the details. Here's a little synopsis of the book:

Released by Cook Communications June, 2009 under "Novels with a Conscience," Scared: A Novel on the Edge of the World, follows the story of U.S. photojournalist Stuart Daniels and a young Swazi girl, Adanna. Like many in her country, she finds herself as the head of her household in a land with little to offer anyone in need. Termed "Nation of Orphans," Swaziland has the highest rate of HIV/AIDS in Africa.

The themes of the story are not easy - disease, hunger, death, and man's basest evil toward his fellow man, even children. Reality in Swaziland isn't easy for anyone. In fiction, as in life, the characters show a resilience of spirit in the face of unthinkable adversity. In the same way, their stories display the power of relationship, human and divine, to heal and restore.

Stuart Daniels, a battle-and life-worn photojournalist, has taken what he believes may be the last of his assignments. His personal life, including his marriage, is a disaster. He's haunted by an award-winning photo that made his career, but has left him a shell of a person. Adanna is a young Swazi girl with an incredible gift, a voice that cries out for her people.

Scared is a testimony of the power of words to sustain and change lives - and the power of God to bring light and new life, even to the darkest places. As Christian Fiction Online Magazine reviewer, Michelle Sutton, stated: "You'd have to have a heart of stone not to be emotionally moved when you read Scared. The entire time I read this book I was in Africa right along with the characters. That's great writing."

Enter the world of Scared, and you will find yourself transported to a different world. Certainly moved. Maybe even transformed.

We know what you're thinking: "If this book is really that good, why is Wrecked giving away free copies of it, instead of selling it on the black market?"

Good idea. Wish we had thought of it. But now, since we've put the offer out there, we can't take it back, can we? Luck you...

So, here's how this is going to work: In order to be entered into the contest, we want you to comment on this article by answering the following question: What are you Scared of?

It could be spiders, dying too young, or having God send you to Africa. Winners will be selected randomly and contacted for shipping information. Only those who post comments will be entered. (Tip: If you tweet this by replying to @wreckedtweet, you'll be entered twice!)

Obama's Speech to Ghana

Mon, 13 Jul 2009 00:00:00 GMT

On Sunday, July 11, President Barack Obama delivered a speech to the people of Ghana. In it, he spoke of his own African roots, applauded the efforts of the Ghanaian people to democratize their government, and outlined the United States' involvement in the future progress of Ghana and other African countries. He cited the strength of the people as the main hope for the continent of Africa:

Across Africa, we've seen countless examples of people taking control of their destiny, and making change from the bottom up. We saw it in Kenya, where civil society and business came together to help stop post-election violence. We saw it in South Africa, where over three-quarters of the country voted in the recent election -- the fourth since the end of Apartheid. We saw it in Zimbabwe, where the Election Support Network braved brutal repression to stand up for the principle that a person's vote is their sacred right.

Now, make no mistake: History is on the side of these brave Africans, not with those who use coups or change constitutions to stay in power. Africa doesn't need strongmen, it needs strong institutions.

Ghanaian bloggers have both praised and critized the speech (read more), calling it "one of the best speeches that President Obama has given", while still being "short and vague on solutions."

What did you think?

Read the speech transcript of Obama's address to Ghana

Watch the video of Obama delivering his speech to Ghana below

God Is Up to Something

Thu, 9 Jul 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Between the unsteady rocking of my seat and the whir of the jet engine it's hard to relax. My family and I are somewhere over South Carolina, traveling at nearly 650 miles per hour. We're flying into our destiny. Sometime ago God began to adjust my perspective, maybe rearrange my idea of who He is and who I was meant to be. So now, here we are on our way to Swaziland, Africa.

What is it about Swaziland that God wants to show us? Probably, not much about the country itself other than the beauty of His creation. No, most likely, God wants me to look into the eyes of Swazi people. Children, women, men -- all who are created in the image of the Creator. God likes to do that. He likes to bring us face to face with the deity in flesh. Every person carries the imprint to God upon them, but too many times we're blind to both Him and them.

You see, God is up to something. He is always up to something. From the Garden of Eden to Moses and the Burning Bush, David and Goliath, the prophet Elijah and Jesus. Yes, Jesus. What was He up to with Jesus? Jesus stands as the culmination of deity in flesh. The gospel of John says that Jesus is "the Word made flesh". To look into the eyes of Jesus was to look into the eyes of God and man simultaneously. Jesus is fully man and fully God.

Sometimes, I wonder what it was like to look into Jesus' eyes. What kind of emotion would those eyes evoke? Would I be overwhelmed by guilt and shame because of what I don't see of myself or would I be consumed by a passion that causes me to completely forget myself? Would those eyes crush me or comfort me? Perhaps I would find myself both overwhelmed and consumed by the intense gaze of Jesus. To have my soul stripped bare and then wrapped in the warmth of His loving compassion; surely this is what it is to be held in the gaze of the living Christ.

I have a friend whose eyes are the most beautiful blue that one might imagine. Many times I have looked into his eyes and wondered what Jesus eyes will look like. I know that, according to good old common sense, Jesus eyes most likely are deep, dark brown. He was born Jewish so of course He would have dark eyes. The Bible never describes Jesus' eyes. What we do know about Jesus' eyes is that they cried, they looked to heaven, they looked with compassion, they looked with sorrow. What matters is not the color or size of Jesus' eyes. What mattered to the Father was the message held within those mysteriously beautiful eyes. These were the eyes that witnessed the glory of God before creation. These were the eyes that witnessed creation itself. These were the eyes of God.

My friend with the beautiful blue eyes makes me think of Jesus' eyes. Actually, my friend's eyes make me think of Jesus. I've seen joy, sorrow, mischief and even confusion in my friend's eyes. Those eyes have been both an indicator and a mirror. They indicate the state of my friend's heart and mirror the condition of my own. Jesus said that the eyes are the window of the soul. And Jesus wasn't afraid to look deeply into those windows and straight into the soul of a person, a soul as big as the sky.

Doyle and his wife Tonya are both from Kentucky and recently led a mission trip to Swaziland, Africa.

Zodwa's Story: Prostitution As a Way of Life in Swaziland

Wed, 8 Jul 2009 00:00:00 GMT

In Swaziland, a young woman who is 18 years old has been living by herself since she was 10.

Zodwa had a mother and a father and lost them both eight years ago. Zodwa says that she remembers nothing about HIV or AIDS from their deaths, but maybe she is just too ashamed to talk about it. She recalls coming home from school and her neighbors saying that her mother had died earlier that day, and no one knew why.

Shame literally crushes the frame of this young girl, who sits with her shoulders hunched as if to hide any emotion stuck deep with in her, making eye contact is a challenge for her. She is confined to a one-room cement block home which reminds me of a prison cell. "House on Fire" is painted carelessly in red letters on the wall by her bed. I asked her the meaning behind the strange phrase.

Zodwa went on to describe the pain and meaninglessness she feels about her life. How lonely it must be to have spent eight years of your adolescence alone. Her mother's grave is less than 10 feet away from her door step as a constant reminder.

At age, 14 she began to sell her body in exchange for money and food. To her, this was the only option. In Swaziland, you must have a uniform and shoes to attend school, in addition to the tuition. So when her parents died, there was obviously no way to pay for school.

Zodwa has only completed grade four and therefore cannot obtain a job... other than prostitution. This way of living is not looked down upon in their culture, it is accepted by the majority. I believe my new friend must have conviction about her way of life, but justifies it because of her struggle to survive. It is her way of life.

Two of us (Ali and Amy) had the opportunity of staying at Zodwa's house for one night. We spoke to her of Christ's love and encouraged her to meet with Him. As I was struggling to fall asleep that night on her floor, (listening to mice and bats screeching), I thanked God for the works He has yet to do in her life.

She told us that she spends most of her time sitting in her house doing nothing accept sleeping. I asked if she could spend some time talking to the Lord and listening for Him. She said yes, but I don't know how she can do this without a mentor. Upon my goodbye to Zodwa, I left her with enough food for a few months, and some new clothes to add to her a dress and two T-shirts. As I was hugging her goodbye, I looked down at her bare feet and felt compelled to kick off my worn-out flip flops to leave with her. I know I also left her with some hope and truth of Jesus.

I asked Zodwa what her dream was for the future. She stared at me with a blank look for several minutes. Finally she said, "I cannot read or write. I am alone here. I have no dreams." This young woman may have no dreams, but God has plans for her that are beyond imagination and that plan includes me and you. Pray, pray, pray for Zodwa and her future romance with Jesus.

Watch the video below, and allow your heart to break for Zodwa, as God's heart does. At the end of the clip, she takes us to her mother's grave.

Ali is a missionary on the World Race, an 11-month adventure around the world.

Half of Swaziland Is Dying of AIDS

Tue, 7 Jul 2009 00:00:00 GMT

I've often wondered what hell is like, not for the pleasure or the curiosity - just the reality of what it's actually like there. The pictures in my mind, the sounds, the rotting smells are all too terrible to imagine. Death and destruction would run rampant, extreme poverty of body and soul as far as the eye can see, and the dignity of human beings reduced to rubble.

The sad reality is that I've been to such a place. A place so devastated by HIV/AIDS, that every other man, woman, and child you meet carries an invisible death sentence. That's what happens to a country with a 46 percent HIV-infection rate. The sadness is overwhelming, and the hopelessness is suffocating. When I close my eyes and think of hell, my experiences in Swaziland, Africa play out in my mind. How would you live in a place like this? What would you do? How would you feel? This is what I wrote in my journal after being in Swaziland, for only two days. It's not pretty, but it's reality:

From where I stand in my humanness, there are no answers for a place like this. There is no hope, darkness pervades, and though the light of the sun attempts to break across the horizon, this country dwells in darkness. In many ways it is darkness. It is heavy, sobering, unreal. I want to run, to hide, and never come back. I want to pretend like I never came to here and hope the memories of it will all go away. I don't want to face the truth of what this side of the world faces every single day.

What do our Swazi brothers and sisters face every day?

A life expectancy of only 30 years.
Fifteen-year-olds with less than a 10 percent chance of living to age 35.
More than 50 percent of the population lives on about 28 cents a day.
Half of the country's population, more than 500,000, are under the age of 15.
According to UN statistics, the entire country will literally die-wiped off the face of the earth-by 2050.

On my first trip to Swaziland, we visited the city of Bulembu. This town is surrounded by the most beautiful mountains, trees, and wildflowers you've ever seen. From a physical point of view, it is a real heaven on earth. Bulembu was the crown jewel of Swaziland, but was abandoned for fear that the asbestos mines were toxic. But they weren't toxic, and today Bulembu is being rebuilt into a Christian community that cares for orphans.

I decided to visit the medical clinic one afternoon to walk in the shoes of those caring for people infected with HIV. The clinic was old and worn out, medicine was in short supply, and they were way understaffed. The waiting room was filled with people, some looking incredibly sick, others looking as if they were perfectly healthy. We went in back to speak with the nurses about how the disease has affected their community. The doctors described to us a continual flood of men and women coming in for HIV tests, fearing the worst. They told me on a typical day of testing, eight out of every 10 people will test positive for HIV.

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. How many communities in Swaziland are also facing this sad reality? 46% is one thing, but 80% - Lord Jesus. What can be done? Who is left to help care for the tidal wave of orphans left all alone? A nation of children? It was so painful, and I wanted to run.

But I didn't run. I didn't, because I knew that as a Christ follower I didn't have the luxury of pretending like this didn't exist. I knew that if Jesus were walking this earth today, we'd find Him in Swaziland, doing whatever it took to make a difference - caring for the orphans, rebuilding the nation, speaking life instead of death.

And I knew that in some mysterious way, I am Jesus walking this earth and making a difference. You and I incarnate Him; we are His hands, His feet, His voice. And Jesus is also the 11-year-old orphan who is now the head of her household, left alone to take care of her three younger brothers and sisters. "As you've done it unto the least of these, you've done it unto me."

Today, I choose hope for Swaziland's future. These beautiful, royal people know that their only hope for a future is one that comes through faith in Jesus. When you talk to them about their future, they get excited. They're excited because of a prophecy that was spoken over Swaziland that says that they will become "the pulpit of all of Africa." I thought that that was a strange thing to say in the midst of their current circumstances, so I asked them why they believed that it was true. They said that destruction had filled their land so much that there was no hope left, except for one thing: Jesus. When Jesus transforms their country and brings life instead of death, the entire continent of Africa will see and know what He has done for them. Then, Swaziland will become the pulpit of Africa, and all will know about the faithfulness of their God.

The truth is that we can all do something to help the people of Swaziland. Right here, right now, sitting in our chairs as we're reading this article in the good old US of A. Currently, Adventures in Missions and Children's HopeChest are helping feed, clothe, and educate thousands of orphans who will become the next generation of leaders. For only five dollars, you can help provide a hundred meals to orphans. For only five dollars a month, you can pay for school fees for an entire year. There's so much to be done with so little if we just take the first step.

To help save the orphans of Swaziland, I've started a campaign called 5 for 50. Anyone can join the campaign by choosing up to five different ways you can help the almost 50 million people suffering with HIV around the world.

For $5/month, you can become part of the transformation of Swaziland. The issue isn't if we can make a difference, but will we make a difference? We are the answer, and there is a generation of Swazis and other Africans waiting for us to respond.

*This article was edited and republished from a series of older articles on Wrecked.

Tom Davis is the CEO of Children's Hopechest, a mission organization bringing God's hope and love to orphans around the world. Their work is focused in the countries of Russia, Romania, and Ukraine. HopeChest helps churches and corporations around the U.S. Adopt an orphanage and make a real difference in the lives of orphans. Tom's favorite thing in life is being a father and a husband. He and his wife, Emily, have been married for eight years and have six children. Check out his blog.

Love in the Midst of Pain

Thu, 28 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

"If you love those that love you, what credit is that to you? Even sinners love those who love them.... But love your enemies, do good to them, and lend to them without expecting to get anything back." Luke 6:32,35

Over the last few years, I have written about love, swam in the love of others, given love to those who need it and yearned to know the depth of God's love. It was love that introduced me to the 80 widows in Kampala, Uganda that I now call friends. It was love that changed the course of my life and gave me purpose. It was love that gave me joy beyond measure. It was love that started and grew the Drocas Widows Fund. Love was my hero, my healer, my encourager, my closest friend, and my purpose in life.

So riding high on God's great love, I came back to the US last August for a few months of rest overjoyed to be with my family and friends. My time at home was going to be one filled with laughter, love and the extreme joy of a heart's desire being finally fulfilled. Every day I woke up excited to see what this new day would hold and feeling high on love's sweet embrace. Months before I had invited Jesus to see the secret desires of my heart...longings that go unspoken, but are yearned for just the same. It was this tender place that I thought love had finally found. Day by day, I was watching love give me the desires I had always secretly longed for. Love was victorious and powerful...nothing could stand in its way.

Somehow I didn't notice the dark clouds forming overhead. I thought love was invincible, untouchable and always resulted in joy. It never crossed my mind that love could be overpowered. Then suddenly a storm with the size and intensity of Katrina swept through my life and shattered my whole existence. An emotional tidal wave knocked me down and left me drowning in loneliness and despair. I was left emotionally bruised and battered. The pain was excruciating. This kind of pain was new to me. I had never before in the entirety of my life, lived with such gut wrenching pain. It took every ounce of energy I had just to get out of bed in the morning.

The exhaustion I felt every day was oppressive...somehow the weight of the world had attached itself to my shoulders. I cried gallons upon gallons of tears. Those closest to me saw me slipping into a depression of darkness and confusion. One day I accidentally put my phone in the washing machine ruining it completely. I became forgetful and had trouble concentrating on even the simplest of tasks. I was weak, incredibly wounded and unsure if I would ever survive this great chasm of sadness. In this state of unending darkness, I kept asking where love was...why was it not more powerful than the rejection and betrayal I was experiencing? Why had it brought me here? Why had it exposed my tender place only to leave it unprotected? Why had this love ended in complete failure?

In late March as Easter approached, I have never in my life felt such a connection with Good Friday. As I sat bleary eyed and numb in the church, I stared intensely at the cross. In the quiet darkness, a thought floated through the stillness of my mind..."Kari for me the cross was both boundless love and unimaginable pain." But Jesus, how can that kind of unfathomable pain and life giving love exist together? The thought captivated me for the rest of the service. Here I was in the midst of my own dark night of the soul...a blinding despair...a bone crushing loneliness dragging my weary self to the foot of the cross asking why love can be overshadowed by pain. I had loved so well...I had given all of myself to the success of another person...I had put my needs last and theirs first...I had spoken words of love and encouragement only to be met with rejection and betrayal. I opened my heart fully only to be struck down.

"Kari...did I not experience the same? Is the servant better than the master? Do you still only love those who love you? Even the sinners do that. True love just loves no matter the outcome." Those last haunting words rang in my ears and began to unsettle my heart. Tears started to run down my face and I knew I had to accept the pain if I was ever going to be truly healed... if I was ever going to truly learn to love.

As they went through the Stations of the Cross, I saw Judas like I had never seen him before. Jesus loved Judas for 3 years...encouraging him, teaching him, comforting him, meeting his needs, being his friend, showing him the beauty of God's great love and power...only to be betrayed and rejected. The pain of that betrayal was beyond what we can ever imagine or even comprehend. There is no greater lover of our souls than Jesus and still the one he loved rejected and betrayed him. Still today, people reject the love Jesus offers even as he loves them and gives them good gifts. A hard, painful truth was beginning to emerge in the ashes of my heart...love is good, powerful, mighty, glorious, joyful, but only to those who chose to receive it.

"Will you still offer love even when people reject your offering? My darling, in doing that you will truly learn what I have created love to be." Jesus whispered ever so softly to my aching heart. After some time, I could only honestly reply, "I don't think I can survive another rejection. Maybe, I am just too weak to make love my purpose in life." In the gentlest of voices Jesus said, "Where you are weak, I, my dear, am strong. I will never leave you alone. Your love will be my love. Good Friday was not the end, I rose on Easter giving love the final word. Rejection will wound you, but love will always heal you."

For the past two months, I have clung to that truth whispered to my heart in the darkness of that Good Friday service. A few days later, I was looking for a new ring tone for my new phone when I came across Chris Tomlin's new song, "I Will Rise." So, now every time my phone rings, I hear Chris Tomlin sing, "I will rise when he calls my name, no more sorrow, no more pain. I will rise." Ever so slowly, Jesus has lifted me out of the darkness, the despair and the crushing loneliness. He continues to call my name and keep his promise to never leave me.

In fact, last week I was walking my dog around the lake on a beautiful spring day, when I heard Sara Groves sing, "Friend even though your heart is raw, Love is still a worthy cause." As I heard those words echo in my ears, I felt a surge of emotion rise to the surface. Even in the pain, even despite the scars that will rest in my heart for the rest of my life, love is still the most worthy of causes. For in loving like Jesus, we become like him and just as his scars healed and became symbols of love's greatest sacrifice, ours will too.

So, now in a couple of weeks, I will return to the place where my heart loves as I am loved. Where my still bruised and wounded heart can be loved and can receive healing. The women of the Dorcas Widows Ministry have known rejection and heartache more than I ever will and yet they have taught me that healing is possible in relationships where God's love resides. With still weak knees and a frail heart, I am going to recommit myself to love no matter the cost remembering that as more wounds come I will be healed because that is what love does.

Kari Miller is a 4th grade teacher who is passionate about loving Jesus and loving others. She longs to inspire others to love the least, the lost and the left out. After living in Uganda, she founded the Dorcas Widows Fund, a nonprofit organization that aids of a group of widows who have lost their husbands due to the war in northern Uganda.

Is Rick Warren's Plan for Bringing Justice to Africa Naive?

Wed, 27 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

If you haven't kept up on Rick Warren since The Purpose-Driven Life, you've been missing out. Over the past few years, the Hawaiian-shirt-wearing pastor has been involved in not only bringing purpose to the American church, but also in relieving extreme poverty in the continent of Africa.

As often happens, God first grabbed Warren's wife Kay through a news article about HIV/AIDS and used his spouse to open his eyes and soften his heart to the needs of the poor.

Last year, Rick Warren launched a "purpose-driven" plan for African leadership development in Uganda. Last March, the Christian Post reported the following:

"Our hope and prayer is that lives will be transformed and churches will be strengthened," Warren said in Uganda, according to the program's publicity team.

"My message to individuals is to build your life on purpose, instead of prestige, possessions or pleasure. My challenge to churches is to cooperate, not compete," said he added, "and my challenge to business and government leaders is to use their influence for the glory of God and partner with local churches in solving community problems."

A few months later in an ABC report, Warren acknowledged that a Christian evangelism message may still not be received all that well in the country of Rwanda, another area that has tugged on his heart. "To me, the goal is to end AIDS," says Kay Warren. The president of Rwanda read The Purpose-Driven Life and personally asked Rick to visit Rwanda and help him rebuild the country. While they are taking significant steps towards being a "purpose-driven" country, Warren himself notes the skepticism of religion in Rwanda:

Warren acknowledges there are many in Rwanda that still have a lingering uneasiness about religion that stems back to the genocide.

"People were killed in churches," said Kagame. "In fact, it comes out very well when we see that people took shelter in churches, believing these were places of sanctity where they could take refuge and they would survive. Not only did people follow them there and killed them, church leaders collaborated to have them killed."

But Warren says there is still an important role for the church to play in Rwanda.

The progress has been slow, but Warren isn't discouraged. He realizes that rebuilding Rwanda will take time, and he's committed to that goal. About development work, he says, "The problem with so many humanitarian efforts is that they just come in and leave... They come for a little while. They take a picture. They go home and put it in a brochure and raise funds. We're not into that. We're into long-term relationships."

Warren tells the reporter that he isn't forcing anyone to believe anything in order to receive care; whether or not they become Christians is their choice. Moreover, he says that he doesn't care why a person does relief work, so long as they do it. In response to this attitude, some are calling Warren a "heretic" (see the comments section of the article) for not making the sharing of his faith more important.

But the opposition doesn't stop with the conservatives. According to a Daily Beast Article entitled "Rick Warren's Africa Problem", Warren opposed a well-meaning free condom distribution bill in Uganda to help with family planning, endorsing an abstinence-only form of birth control. Author Blumenthal criticizes Warren, asking, "How does burning condoms in the name of Jesus save lives?" Moreover, he calls into question Warren's ultra-conservative approach to development work in Africa:

...[S]ince the Warren inauguration controversy erupted, the nature of work against AIDS in Africa has gone unexamined. Warren has not been particularly forthcoming to those who have attempted to look into it. His website contains scant information about the results of his program. However, an investigation into Warren's involvement in Africa reveals a web of alliances with right-wing clergymen who have sidelined science-based approaches to combating AIDS in favor of abstinence-only education.

As an evangelical Christian, I must say that a personal relationship with Jesus is the best thing that anyone can have, and if I can somehow "give" that to someone I don't want to pass up the opportunity. However, as a missionary, I must also say that sometimes sharing the Gospel with the poor without being able to provide for their physical needs feels disingenuous. I realize that it's not necessarily an either/or scenario, but I'm wondering: What would you do if you were in Warren's position? Is the criticism warranted, or is he doing all that he can to provide for both the physical and spiritual needs of the people in Africa?

What do you think?

Jeff graduated from Illinois College, a small liberal arts school, with a degree in Spanish and Religion. He lives in Nashville, TN with his wife Ashley. He works for Adventures in Missions, edits this silly little magazine, and loves to do new things. Check out his blog: Pilgrimage of the Heart.

Krochet Kids: Redeeming Africa One Beanie at a Time

Thu, 30 Apr 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Wrecked was able to sit down with Nic Lauten from Krochet Kids International - an organization operating in Northern Uganda to empower women through crochet to rise out of poverty. Below are excerpts from the interview. There is much more in the audio version of the interview including: chimp tracking, Luo speaking (the dialect of Acholi that the Northern Ugandans speak), advice for those who may be interested in starting a non-profit organization and more. It was a fun interview so be sure to listen to the audio version (Note: this file will only play if you have Quicktime installed on your computer. If you do not, you may click here to download it for free).

Wrecked: What is the mission of Krochet Kids?

Nic: In short, it's a non-profit organization founded on love using the art of crochet to empower people out of poverty.

Wrecked: Can you tell us more about the specifics of how that would work?

Nic: Currently there is a group of eleven ladies that work in northern Uganda and we were able to teach them the skill of crochet and then employ them to make products. Currently we're focusing on hats (beanies) that they crochet and then we ship them back to the U.S. and sell them on our website and also through some retail stores around the West Coast. [From] the money from our first year of operations, 98% of all the sales went back to Uganda to pay for their wages. It's a very good living wage for them, to provider for their families, for their kids to go to school, for clothes and food and also for some programs that teach them some wisdom on how to save, how to budget, and how to invest in the future. That's where we're hoping to build some more programs that teach them how to be future entrepreneurs and business leaders themselves in their country.

Wrecked: How did Krochet Kids get started?

Nic: There was a group of three guys that grew up in Spokane, WA and started crocheting hats in high school and selling them to friends. People loved them and they started making a bunch of money off their sales and started calling themselves "Krochet Kids." After they graduated high school, two of them came down south and went to Vanguard University where I attended as well. Around that same time a couple of them started going on some short-term trips around the world and just being exposed to the poverty and the great need in the world. One of those guys went to northern Uganda and helped out with an orphanage there and saw the unemployment rate and the way that area had been affected by the war that had been going on for twenty years. In conversation with some people there in Northern Uganda, he was asking, "What is some practical thing we can do to help this area?" They said, "The biggest need is jobs. We know that you guys crochet, have you ever thought about bringing crocheting here and providing jobs to people?" That sparked this whole series of conversations that took place with those initial three guys. After a series of those conversations they decided "Lets go for it, let's throw ourselves into it and really try to make this thing happen."

Wrecked: How did you get involved with Krochet Kids?

Nic: These guys that were involved in Krochet Kids were friends of mine. We were able to have a couple of conversations and just talk about what they were doing and one of the guys said, "Hey, we're looking for somebody to go over to Uganda for a longer period of time." They all had another year of school left and I was going to be graduating. And they said, "...if you know of anybody, let us know." And immediately I was like, "Well, frick, I think I'm looking to go over to Uganda (laughing) for a longer period of time." So we had some good conversations and it was like January/February of 2007 that I decided to join up and start preparing for the trip that took place right after graduation in May.

Wrecked: You had never been to Uganda prior to that?

Nic: No I hadn't, I hadn't been to Africa at all. Been on some other missions trips around the world, but not to Africa.

Wrecked: What were some of the biggest challenges you guys faced gearing up for that? 

Nic: The biggest one was probably just trying to find the time to do it all (laughing) cause we were all full-time students and involved in plenty of other things. I was involved in some other leadership things at school, some of the other guys had plenty of stuff going on with music and other things at school. Doing that full-time and then trying to find jobs as well and trying to find times to go to youth groups, and send out letters and be organizing it all and stay in communication with each other to know what was going on..."Crap, we're busy as it is and now we're trying to do a ton of fundraising to raise a ton of money to go and start a non-profit organization?" (laughing) That was probably pretty unusual compared to most of our friends.

Wrecked: Really?!?

(Both Laughing)

Wrecked: What was it like living in Africa?

Nic: It was crazy...um...and I don't use that term loosely. It encompassed a number of different seasons for me. They were some of the most inspiring moments of my life; some of the hardest, most lonely months of my life and a ton of time of learning about myself and about God and about the world.

Wrecked: Do they speak English there?

Nic: Most people spoke English to some extent, everyone spoke Acholi [with a Luo dialect]. The poorer the people we got to work with the less English they knew, the more rural you go the less English they know. So, it varies.

Wrecked: What does Luo sound like?

Nic: Uh, I thought it sounded kind of Asian really.

Wrecked: Do you know any phrases?

Nic: (Speaks several phrases in Luo, then translates)

Wrecked: What did you eat?

Nic: I wish I had more crazy, extreme stories about food because those are exciting to people (laughs) and that's one of the questions that people ask me the most...we ate beans and rice and it got boring but it was really good. I enjoyed it. Beans and rice and different kinds of roots mashed up. And breads. Some of the best mangos ever, some of the best avocados and bananas ever.

Wrecked: What is the hardest part about living in Uganda?

Nic: Always being sweaty and dusty (laughs). Mosquito nets...suck...they're just a freakin' hassle and hearing the sounds of mosquitoes buzzing next to your ears every night - those are just like the little daily annoyances. The bigger stuff is a longing for community, my community back home, and friends and just not being able to share the experiences I was having with other people back home and process that with them. And, of course, that helped as I was able to make more friends out there. The hardest part overall was to not be able to share that stuff with the people I was close to back home.

Wrecked: What was the easiest part?

Nic: The work that I was doing out there was some of the most fulfilling stuff I've ever been a part of. Just the sense that I had of really putting flesh and bones on the Gospel. Being able to daily ask myself tough questions of like, "You're going to be faced with a ton of opportunities to love people - what's that going to look like today?" One of the sad things is that I could have been doing that my entire life back home. For whatever reason, when you're faced with a completely new situation when you're out of your comfort zone, that challenge becomes more real. I don't know if I would say that was the "easiest" part, but that was the most exciting part to me, that was the part that I didn't want to leave the most. It was [also] really easy to love on the little Ugandan kids, they were super cute.

Wrecked: What beanie is your favorite?

Nic: What I generally rock is the 5207.5 in the gray color. Its kind of been my "go to" the last few months.

Wrecked: Is that the model number for the beanie?

Nic: Yeah, that's the way to identify it if you're looking on the website. Just today I snowboarded in the Wheat [colored] Thomas and it provided a lot of warmth. I don't know that that would be my daily driver in the city, but on the mountain it was pretty good.

Wrecked: 5207.5 - what's the significance of that?

Nic: Its actually the address number for a beach house that most of the guys who started Krochet Kids lived in for the last couple years of college and the whole idea for Krochet Kids kind of came out of that house...that's kind of the beanie that represents home.

Wrecked: How has working with Krochet Kids, and especially living in Africa for eleven months, wrecked you for the ordinary?

Nic: I think, overall, it changes your view of ordinary. What's ordinary for me now is isn't necessarily what was ordinary for me a few years ago and its not an overnight thing, you know, it's a progression. The world feels much smaller than ever before. The realities of the world feel much closer. There's no question in my mind that this is the kind of stuff I'll be involved in for the rest of my life. The Gospel is way too big to be confined to one little part of the world.

Wrecked: For our readers (or listeners) how would they be able to support you guys?

Nic: Go online and buy a hat - that's the most immediate thing to fuel the business model of the system to buy a sweet product where a huge portion of the profits go directly back into the Uganda programs.

Wrecked: Any parting words for the Wrecked community?

Nic: Everyone has the potential to take acts of love which deeply impact people's lives and each person's life that is impacted, that's a little piece of changing the world. Why isn't radical love the ordinary and what would the world look like if it was? And that kind of radical love might look different for each person. Maybe it will lead some people to start organizations in Africa maybe it will lead some people to invite your neighbors over for dinner tonight. That's putting flesh and bones on the Gospel.

----

Krochet Kids will be launching their Spring/Summer '09 line on May 1st, 2009! If you would like a sneak peak at their newest products, you can visit their site where they also post periodic updates, pictures, and news.

Jesse is currently on a journey of re-learning what it means to be a disciple and it is both invigorating and terrifying. He studied to be a pastor at Vanguard University of Southern Calfornia and hopes to be in full-time ministry soon. You can read more of his thoughts at his blog, Balancing Tension.

Video: Legacy of Moses - An African Baby

Mon, 30 Mar 2009 00:00:00 GMT

A story about death. A story about life. A story about the legacy left by a one-month-old Swazi baby boy who died unexpectedly and how his death was only the beginning of a greater story.

To support the work of Adventures in Missions in Swaziland, click here.

Watch the story of Baby Moses in the video below:

My Personal Confession to Africa

Sun, 29 Mar 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Africa is a curious continent with a fascinating and tragic history. It was ruled by Europe for much of modernity and quickly, almost carelessly, given over to self-ruling governments after World War II. It is no wonder that there has been such political strife and civil conflict in the past several decades.

They say that our generation will be known for how we responded to the needs of Africa.

I hear.

I hear statistics about eight of the ten poorest countries in the world being in Africa. I hear about people who only live until the age of 35 due to the AIDS pandemic.

I hear about children in Uganda who are enslaved to become soldiers for a twisted revolutionary.

I hear, I hear. But I do not feel.

I see.

I see pictures of malnourished children crying for their mothers who are not coming to comfort them. I see videos of men and women without shoes walking miles for the day's supply of fresh water.

I see an entire generation dying from a disease they cannot comprehend and leaving the next generation fatherless and motherless.

I see, I see. But I do not understand.

I know.

I know about poverty rates and ways to give financially to relief efforts. I know about war-torn and genocidal areas, of injustice and oppression, of places that have no hope unless someone brings it.

I know of ruthless dictators and corrupt officials who must be bribed to show mercy.

I know, I know. But I do not believe.

I want to believe.

I want to believe that relief from the West will not enable more dependency but actually promote general welfare. I want to believe that freedom of state and spirit will ring true for millions of potential worshipers of the one, true God.

I want to believe that I can do more than cynically judge a continent that has been tossed around as a byword, abused by racism, and neglected by its so-called "friends."

I want to believe that I, though poor in spirit, can still be counted blessed among the meek of Africa.

Africa, oh Africa, please forgive me.

Jeff graduated from Illinois College, a small liberal arts school, with a degree in Spanish and Religion. He lives in Nashville, TN. He works for Adventures in Missions, edits this silly little magazine, and loves to do new things. He just got married in January. Check out his blog: Pilgrimage of the Heart.

Photos by Hollis Lewis and Tara Stephenson.

The Harsh Truth About Swaziland

Sat, 28 Mar 2009 00:00:00 GMT

I haven't had much time to slow down since I got home from Africa. No time to really think. No time to journal. No time to let everything I saw sink in...

But in the quiet moments I find here and there, God is starting to bring it all to mind.

Today He brought to mind Elizabeth, the widow we found dying in the dirt outside her shack in Nsoko, Swaziland.

Pastor Gift asked us to go and pray for her, so we set off on the dirt path. As Rusty, Molli, Faith and I walked up that afternoon, all of me wanted to scream...

There at our feet, lay this emaciated woman. She was too weak from AIDS to speak, to eat, to move. Dirty, sick, and covered in flies, this widow lay dying as her daughter and grandchildren looked on. It was almost more than I could take.

"It's not fair!" I wanted to scream, "It's not fair! Why is this precious woman dying in the dirt?!"

I dropped to my knees by her head, waved the flies away, and began to stroke her hand and her face. She struggled to move, and finally found enough strength so that she could reach and hold my hand.

"She just wants to be touched," I thought. "She just wants to know the world hasn't forgotten about her... that God hasn't forgotten about her."

Molli knelt at her feet, Faith crouched beside me, and Rusty knelt and put his hand on her back and began to pray. He prayed for God to comfort her, and for God to take her home to be with Him - away from her pain and suffering.

I couldn't hold back the tears as he prayed for her; the injustice of it all was just too much.

Why does she have to die like this? Just because she's in Africa? Doesn't she deserve better?! In America we would never stand for this! God, it's not fair!

I composed myself enough to pray over her, and then, in my heartbroken state, did a poor job of singing the only SiSwati song I knew over her. Moments later, still wiping away tears, we walked away.

Elizabeth died the next day.

Ericka, a graduate from Auburn University, is from Alabama and recently moved to Georgia to work with Adventures in Missions after the orphans in Africa broke her heart.

Heaven Coming to Earth in South Africa

Wed, 25 Mar 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Last night marked one of those moments in my faith that will stand as when things once again have changed. For so long I have heard about a God who heals the sick and calls the Kingdom forth. Last night I saw it before my very eyes. I witnessed the beautiful reality of Heaven invading earth.

Our team went to see a Christian group of South African dancers perform at a local high school.

We walked into the large auditorium of the school and immediately my eyes went to Fissy, one of the girl dancers who was leaning against a cane and had a knee brace on.

She told us that during a routine dance move, she had torn the ligaments in her right knee. Instantly what went through my mind was: This is not how it should be. She should be up there dancing. I turned to my teammate Sarah and at the same moment we both cried out, "We need to go pray for her."

Without even much thought, we left to go find her. Running up to her, we told Fissy we wanted to pray in the authority of Christ for the healing of her knee. It's something we've been learning a lot about. The truth is, when Jesus prayed for the Father's will to be done on earth as it is in Heaven, he meant it. There are no crippled in Heaven, so why should there be here on earth? Every sick and crippled Jesus came in contact with, He healed. And then Jesus gave all authority and power to his followers to go do the same as they call the kingdom forth on earth. (Matthew 10:1) It's something I am just beginning to learn how to truly walk in.

Sarah and I knelt down before Fissy, laid our hands on her, and said, "In the name of Jesus, we speak healing into your knee and all its torn ligaments." Then we looked up at her for that lightning bolt effect where all of a sudden she would feel a difference and start jumping around healed. It didn't happen. Instead, she said, "Thank you. I believe it will be healed soon" and we walked away.

Walking back to our seats I started asking Sarah why she thought God didn't just heal her knee right there. I know He could have, so why didn't He? When we got back to the seats we told Tom, whose house we're staying at, what happened. Tom replied by saying, "You know what you didn't do. The next step in praying by faith for healing is to test it." Before he could finish talking, Sarah and I were out of the room and running back to Fissy.

We've prayed healing over a lot of people this year and have rarely seen the Lord work instantaneously. I have always trusted the Lord knew better what He was doing than me. I mean, He's God and I am definitely not. But this night, something was different in my spirit. There was this fire that was burning. Running back to her, I just kept thinking that we had nothing to lose. So often we think we do. That we'll appear as a fool if we step out in faith in a big way. But last night, I just didn't care. So what if I look like a fool to man? In God's eyes, He'd see children stepping out in childlike faith regardless of what happened.

"Fissy, we need you to take off your knee brace and test out your knee."

Looking a little unsure, she pulled it off and cautiously started to put weight on her right knee. And then more weight. Next minute she was standing on both legs walking around without any pain. Then, before we knew it, Fissy began dancing, jumping and it hit all three of us: the Lord healed her torn ligaments before our very eyes. Once it hit us, chaos broke out as we all began jumping up and down screaming and praising the Lord for how awesome He is.

Tonight Fissy will dance. And she'll dance her heart out for Jesus. Last night affirmed to all of us again who are Heavenly Father is. Everything that the Lord does here on earth is for His name to be glorified. Last night was about Him shining through as Jehovah-Rophe, God the Healer in a way only He could.

The kingdom of Heaven invaded that school auditorium last night. All I keep thinking is, that is how it should be. Everywhere we walk, everyone we talk to, we, by the power given to us in Jesus, should bring the kingdom of Heaven forth. That is doing the will of the Father. What does the Kingdom look like? Healing the sick, bringing freedom to the captives, joy, life abundant, and showing the very face of the Father.

May thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven.

Caroline just got back from traveling the world for the last year, getting wrecked and awakened through the pilgrimage. She is currently living in Port Huron, MI where she is working for the World Race, dreaming of seeing a generation empowered and mobilized so real Kingdom change comes to manifest itself in this world.

A Glimpse at the Life of a Rural Swazi Woman

Mon, 27 Nov 2006 00:00:00 GMT

I'm running errands in Mbabane this morning. Right now, Ellie is asleep in her stroller beside me here at the internet caf.

We got up early this morning to pick up our friend Thulie in Manzini, and bring her and her baby to a clinic here in Mbabane. Thulie is thirty-five years old, has been widowed twice in the last five years, and is HIV positive. Her eight month-old baby Sangosi, whose father died last year, has been sick a lot lately, and we are concerned for him. Baylor College of Medicine in the U.S. built a new clinic here that specializes in Pediatric HIV/AIDS care; so, Thulie wanted to come here with her child to see how she can best care for him. The process of waiting in line to see the doctor and do testing can take hours; so, we'll go back up and check on Thulie in a bit to see if she's ready to go.

Thulie and her four children live with her first husband's family. They are not treated well by them, because Thulie did not marry someone from within their family after her first husband died, as is Swazi custom. Sangosi is not accepted by the family, because he is from the second marriage. She says it's okay now when he's little and always strapped to her back, but she's afraid they will harm him when he is older. She says sometimes in situations like this the in-laws might poison the child so they will not have to deal with him. Thulie is hoping to find a safe place where she can send her son to live when he is too old to be carried on her back.

I've been doing small biographies this week on all of the women involved in the craft co-op and some of their stories are hard to believe. Thulie's is just one of many:

Sphiwe is fifty-nine years old, and has been a widow for over ten years. Four of her nine children have also passed away, and Sphiwe cares for seven grandchildren that have been orphaned as a result. She's been a volunteer at her community care point, working as a cook for the feeding program, since it's beginning in 2002. The money Sphiwe is earning from making bags and baskets for the craft co-op is the only income for her household.

Ncobile is a twenty-nine year-old single mother of four. She lives on her parents homestead with her mother, father, brother and twenty-one nieces and nephews, all under the age of thirteen, all orphans. Ncobile also volunteers as a cook at her local care point, and says she does so because she wants to help the children without parents be something in the future.

Hearing more about the lives of these women makes me more excited about the opportunity the Timbali Craft Co-op is offering them. Sales to summer teams here in Swaziland have been good, and have gotten us off to a good start. We've already sold more than 100 bags, have orders for 100 more, and still two more teams to sell to.

If we can get some consistent buyers for 200 bags a month, the co-op will be able to give the thirty-five women involved a $50 a month income, which is decent for Swaziland, where two-thirds of the population lives on less than $1 a day. Giving the women some measure of financial independence can mean a world of difference in their lives and the lives of their children, as the women are less likely to get into bad relationships just to be supported, their children have a better chance of finishing school, etc.

Pray that people who have expressed interest in selling the bags in the US will come through with some consistent purchases. Pray for other contacts with buyers to be made. Pray that these women would continue to look to God as their protector, provider and their only source of hope. Pray that we'd all do that.

Beauty for the Broken

Mon, 27 Nov 2006 00:00:00 GMT

The phrase echoed in the silence of the world around me. In the deafening quiet of the forest, it came from the stretching trees overhead and the lazy lake nibbling at my toes. What the heck does that mean? Beauty in the Broken? But the phrase did not answer right away, and instead just hung in the air like a wispy spider web.

In the middle of Georgia, surrounded by gorgeous trees, I was taking time to listen to God. It was the hardest thing for me to sit still and quiet my heart so that I could really truly listen and not be distracted by the world around me. It was the retreat part of the training and was intended to be the easiest, most relaxing day, but I found it to be the opposite. In the stillness of the forest, we were supposed to focus on why we were going on this amazing trip and what God was trying to tell us before we left.

And so I found myself sitting on a small, decaying log next to a pristine lake- trying to quiet my buzzing mind. Unfortunately, unlike they describe it in all the outdoor magazines; peace of mind was not hiding behind every small shrub and bush. But God was. And in a real way, I was able to meet with Him and discuss my role in this group. And that was where I heard the phrase:

Beauty for the Broken.

For a while I sat and mulled over it, holding it on my tongue like a small snowflake- letting it dissolve slowly and sweetly. It was true. In this race, my theme is Beauty for the Broken. The first thought of what this could mean focused on what I would need to relinquish my grip on in order to move forward. I am giving up what the world considers beautiful in exchange for something thought of as broken. Beauty for the Broken.

Along with that, we all hold onto something that keeps us from moving forward- a burden that we willingly tie ourselves down with because it is comfortable. I love the lyrics from a Jars of Clay song that goes, "I'd rather feel the pain all too familiar, than be broken by a Lover I don't understand." So many times, I have seen in my life that I am unwilling, or paralyzed, to move forward. But now, I need to give up all my comforts in order to be broken by the Lover I don't understand. The fear of the unknown is also the fuel for wonder. May we not be so caught up in what could happen that we fail to see what could happen. Think about it.

As I thought about it further, I also sensed that it meant something else. In a world where there is so much brokenness, there also needs to be great beauty. My purpose is to bring beauty for the Broken. To bring THE Beauty to the Broken. No, not me, but Jesus- the ultimate Healer.

I have oftentimes wondered if beauty is not similar to peace. There was once a contest by a king to see who could paint a picture that was considered the most peaceful. There were two finalists at the end: the first, a beautiful landscape with a serene sunset in the background; and the second, a powerful and terrifying waterfall cascading into a collecting pool and vaguely hidden behind the waterfall, a nest with some baby chicks and a mother. The kings chose the latter because peace is not something without trial, but within trials. In the same way, beauty seems to be something that arrives with opposition, with pain. That is true beauty- pain and joy commingled- like a Savior dying a gruesome death on a cross for me. Beauty for the Broken

And so in the serenity of the woods, I found my theme for this world race. And I also found that there was hope for me- Beauty for the Broken. May I look at the Broken and see the Beauty. May I not pull back from Lover I don't understand and may I bring Beauty for the Broken.

A Little Bit of the Beauty That Is Kenya

Mon, 27 Nov 2006 00:00:00 GMT