Freedom

      Our last morning in Burundi we were rushing around trying to get in all the last minute sights and gifts before flying out that afternoon.  It was down to a few hours before I headed home and I had no idea what I would bring for the kids.  We had not gotten the chance to really think about it before then.  It was not like we could swing by the Batwa Gift Shop.  We had one more place to stop though.  Jeunesse Sans Frontieres.

     It was breathtaking.  The shop was behind a gated wall.  As we walked in the door we saw several women sewing in the front room.   There was something about the women there and I was most likely the only person who noticed.

      Back up with me for a little side story.  The first full day we were in Burundi we were getting the history, do's and don'ts etc.  When you shake hands do it like this.  Don't give the people anything.  Use hand sanitizer, but be very discrete about it.  Don't forget to take toilet paper with you.  Never leave your things unattended.  Do not to wear too much jewelry.  After the meeting, I asked our host, Simeon, what he thought about my nose ring.  He said, "well, I really like it but it may be best to take it out."  Ok.  No big deal.  Before I had a chance to take it out, I struck up a conversation with Simeon's wife Lizzie.  I mentioned that I had to go take this nose ring out.  She said, "Thanks for doing that.  We don't want people to think you're a prostitute!"  Ha Ha!  No we sure do not!  Simeon could have been a little more clear.

       Fast forward to the the last day at that little shop.  I noticed most of the women in the room had nose rings.  It made me smile because I knew what that meant.   I am sure some were trafficked in, some chose it out of desperation, some as a result of suffering tremendous pain from the genocide, and others grandfathered in.  Regardless of why, reasons you and I may never really understand, these women found themselves living a life of prostitution.  But, (doesn't God do amazing things after that word!) I was in a room full of women who were changing their stories.

     Jeunesse Sans Frontieres means Youth Without Borders.  It is a vocational school created to help young people in Burundi like demobilized child soldiers and young prostitutes.  They train them in mechanics or sewing for 4-6 months.  Then they are placed in various garages or tailoring workshops in the city of Bujumbura.  They not only give them a way to make a living but they also introduce them to Christ and begin to heal their wounded hearts.  http://www.cathedral.ca/outreach/cathedral-burundi-mission/

       We weaved our way through the rows of machines to find the merchandise in the back room.  It was amazing how many different things were made from those machines.  Big bags, little bags, padded bags, headbands, stuffed animals, book covers, (did I mention bags?) aprons, pants, and I swear I even saw an IPad cover.  (Can you image that conversation?  "What am I making?"  "What is going in this?")

      We were all scurrying about, often hoping the person beside us would set down the bag they had chosen so we could snatch it up.  I am not joking.  While I was walking around, the exact kind of bag I was looking for was right next to me.  Sadly, it was on the arm of Mike.  The fact that I was about to spend 30 hours on a plane with him kept me civil.  I shed a tear and moved on.  A few minutes later, from across the room, I noticed he was no longer hoarding it!  I walked as quickly as I could without drawing attention to myself to where I last saw him with it.  It was not there.  I dug around and suddenly as if a spotlight from Heaven had shone down (insert angelic voices singing) I saw it.  Yes, it is now in my home :)

     My shopping was complete.  I had gotten my sweet bag and a couple things for my girls.  As with most of my time in Africa I found myself living like a native,  as if it were normal for me to be shopping for bags at a store filled with ex-prostitutes.   So while the others finished up I was able to step outside of myself to observe the incredible beauty and magnitude of this place.  I wish you could have seen the smiles on the faces of these beautiful women who had know so much of life that I have never seen.  The joy of grace.  The hope of the future.

     It was then that I saw him.

       One of the ladies sewing had with her a baby who must have been about 9 months old.  I watched him and wondered what his story was in just the short time he had been alive.  Was he born as the result of a mom who 18 months earlier was stuck in prostitution?  Was he born to a mom who had found a new life with an honest man?  I have no idea.   What I did know was that I was looking in the eyes of a child that was planned and created by a God of grace.  It no longer mattered what circumstances he was born into.  His life was radically altered for eternity because his mom found Jesus and said yes.  Freedom.  Grace at its finest.

         Why God would extend His grace to any of us is a mystery.  I guess one day we will understand but for now I will be content in my confusion and be thankful for the life that I do not deserve.

Thankful for Coke

     I like my caffeine like most of you, but this is not a story about caffeine deprived Americans who finally found a place to calm the nerves.

     This is one of those times that I should had taken a picture but it just did not seem so obvious at the time.  We were treated to getting a Fanta or Coke most days.  It was never cold, yet it was a welcomed refresher.  As we were being served our drinks during lunch, one of the bottles with orange Fanta looked like it had been drug behind whatever truck delivered it.  As we began to look around we noticed all the bottles were a bit questionable.  It should have occurred to me that there was more than meets the eye when they told us to wipe off the rim of the bottle before we drank out of it.  I have no idea what I thought they meant.  The mere exposure to African air would contaminate our precious American bodies?  

    I am not sure how green you think you are but my green has limits.  They would reuse those pop bottles over and over and over.  Some of them seemed like they had been used for years!  I bet they had a date of manufacture on them somewhere.  We could have had a prize for the oldest bottle.  I know we can recycle glass but I guess I thought the things we recycled would reincarnate into lower forms.  Like, glass from a beautiful bay window would reincarnate to the glass of a car windshield. That would reincarnate into the glass in a picture frame.  The frame into a lamp globe.  The globe into a watch face and then into a light bulb.  When it finally hit the bottom of the line they would send it to Burundi to be turned into the coke bottles.  Those things were on their last leg but holding on for dear life.   It was like when you see Jamie Lee Curtis doing the Activia commercials.  I guess you do whatever you can to stay alive!

     As with most things, I took those moments of dubious refreshment for granted.   After church on Sunday we were escorted into what I was guessing to be the parsonage.  There were chairs lining the room so we filed in and found a spot to land.  We had no idea what was going to happen.  After 3 hours of church what could be left to discuss?  Next thing I knew, out came the red crates and old fashion bottle opener.  Coke and Fanta.  After a good wipe down we were about to start drinking when the pastor stood up.  My goodness, a toast for us?!  He said, "Let's thank God for our drinks."  I love my Dr Pepper, but I am not sure I ever stopped to say a prayer of thanks on my way out of the Sonic drive thru.

     The things we take for granted here.  We need God to do something big in order for us to stop and thank Him.  It's as if in order to give Him credit, He has to do something big enough that only God could do, otherwise the credit may not be His and we can't give credit where credit is not due.  They get an abused bottle that half of Burundi has drank out of and then stop to give thanks.  I guess the verse says ALL good things are from above.  Not just the ones that "wow" us.
   

Uhhh, Good Morning

     After such a long entry yesterday, I thought today could be light hearted and well, shorter.

     When we were not in Bugenyuzi (the village) we were in Bujumbura (the big city).  We stayed in a place that had me reminiscing about my college years when I spent all summer at church camps.  There was a building for eating, a building for sleeping, and a building for bathrooms.  Each bedroom had either a few twin size beds or bunk beds, all covered in a fancy princess like canopy that some refer to as a mosquito net.  My roommates and I had the pleasure of sharing a table and even a fan.  As if that were not enough, each room also had a few resident lizards.  Had I not been so shocked and worried about the little guys slipping into my suitcase for the ride home,  I would have given them names.  Good times.

    The dinning hall was fabulous really.  There was a kitchen area that I never had to enter.  My family thinks the magic food fairy lives at our house, but nope, evidently it lives in Burundi.  Who knew?  The eating area was outdoors.  It had a roof but was not all the way enclosed.  Al Fresco every meal!  Fantastic!  The bathrooms were mostly a nice surprise.  The showers were cold but worked.  The toilets were functioning and complete.  Each shower and toilet had its own stall.  What more could one ask for in Africa?!  We quickly divvied up rooms and designated which side was the boys bathroom and which was the girls.  Not too bad for a home away from home.

         Sadly, our accommodations were only temporary.  The next morning we left for the village.  We stayed about 15 minutes out of Bugenyuzi.  The bedrooms were about the same as before, but the bathrooms were slightly different.  Our toilet had half of a seat while others had none and you never knew when it would flush.  The showers consisted of a bucket of water.  I suppose still an upgrade from the village we were about to enter.

     Being partially clean and still unsure how to use a toilet without a seat we were able to return to Bujumbura where our luxury nets, showers and toilets awaited us.  We were all pretty exhausted and went to sleep rather quickly.  Friday morning when I woke up I left my room to go enjoy a full toilet seat.  So nice, and it flushed!  I left the little stall and walked by the sink where a older man was brushing his teeth.  Through the spit and foam I think he looked at me and slurred out, "Good morning".

Keep walking, make no eye contact, "Uhhh, Good Morning".

     I walked rather quickly back to my room.  "There is a guy in our bathroom!"  Donna and Anna looked at me only slightly concerned.  Anna said, "well, if he was brushing his teeth, then I bet he is almost done and you can take a shower."  Thanks Anna.  Maybe taking advice from a teen was a bad idea.  I paced my room, which was more like spinning in place, and waited to see the intruder walk out.  I told the girls I was going back in.  I grabbed my shower items and clothes and boldly took off.  As soon as I walked in the door I was face to face with a guy covered only by a skimpy towel.  I noticed his eyes were rather large at this point but I did not stay long enough to see the size of anything else.  Thanks to my marching band days, I was able to quickly do a perfectly executed about face and get the heck out of dodge!

     The whole team was trying to figure out what to do.  We came to the conclusion that we would just switch sides with our boys and call it good.  But God bless Gary.  He was talking to the other team that was staying there and he asked how their stay was going.  The guy that was brushing his teeth last I saw him said, "It is great, except I can't get over the coed bathrooms!"  In a gentle tender way that only Gary could do, he told them that actually there are two sides to the building and the other side is the boys.

     Note to self, add "Girls Bathroom" and "Boys Bathroom" signs to the packing list.

Then Came Wednesday

     Seriously, I LOVED being in Africa.  My heart longs to go back and it is so odd to think about a group going without me.  In fact, I really believe a second trip would be so much better.   So, this is an entry that is a bit odd, but it was a huge part of my experience.

During all the years we have worked with students it has been frustrating to us when they go to camp, a retreat, conference, or mission trip and have a mountain top experience but two weeks later it is life as usual for them.  How can they not be changed?  Who would have thought a trip to Africa is what it would take for me to finally get a glimpse of what has been happening.

     I was so blessed to get to know Gary Yonek on my trip.  He is a treasure!  He was along with us documenting the whole experience in photos and video.  He talked about how behind the camera made him feel like just an observer instead of a participant.  That idea stuck with me.

      Tuesday I came home to an empty house.  Ken and the kids were all at camp (yes, even Maverick!  Ken is crazy!)   Our logic was that I would be tired from the travel and time change so he would bring me the kids on Thursday when we closed on the house.  I had no idea how vital that day to myself would be.

      Tuesday night I rented a movie and just relaxed.  Then came Wednesday.  I woke up and my whole world had changed over night.  That morning I realized the house we built in Africa seemed like a mansion then, but it was only about the size of my bedroom (as I wrote about earlier).  I ran a couple errands and felt so alone.  Not because my family was gone but because the streets were full of cars but no people.  It felt sterile.  Cold.  In Africa, there were people everywhere!  In the street, along the street, in the market, in fact we drove over the grains people were laying out to dry because there was no where to go that was clear of people.

     These things kept happening to me all day long.  I started thinking about the sweet baby I wrote about that was sick and my heart just hurt.  People would call and ask how the trip was.  I had no words to express.  All I could do was cry.  I did not have these emotions while in Africa, so why now?  Don't get me wrong, it was sad while I was there but somehow that sadness multiplied times 100 now that I was home.

     I was flooded with regrets.  Why didn't I take the time to grab a translator and sit with people and hear their stories?  Why didn't I take more moments to play hopscotch?  Why didn't I pray for more people?  Why didn't I share my heart more openly?  Why didn't I just relax and be my silly self?  Why didn't I take the moments to get to know my team better?  Why didn't I try more than once to show the sick baby love?  Why didn't I dance with the people?  Why didn't I get a picture of... People would ask me questions about the trip and I would have no answer, all I could say was, "I don't know why I didn't ask that" or "I guess that would have been a good idea to do".   Usually I am pretty good on my toes and am able to share on a deeper level or connect with people.  What was going on?

     It had been less than 24 hours that I had been in America and I was lonely.  I missed being with my team.  They were clearly more precious to me than I had understood even a day earlier.  Donna (who went with us) was also home alone so we quickly decided to get together.  I found that she was feeling many of the same things.

     When Maverick (or any child) sees something for the first time, he usually just looks at it.  What is it going to do?  What do I do with this?  He simply takes it all in.  He may try and touch it, but for the most part he just wants to watch and learn.  While in Africa, I think I was just like Maverick.  When you go and do something you have never experience before, I think you just take it all in.  Watch and learn.  It was how Gary described only I was without a camera.  An observer.  A tourist getting all my pictures and my souvenirs.

       My brain was on overload.  It was taking in more than I could process.  Each experience was new and I did not have time to decide what to do with how I felt or what I thought.  I was outside my comfort zone so I was just taking each moment and trying to make it feel normal and comfortable.  "How can I dress to feel normal in this situation?  Is it a skirt day or pants?  We are not suppose to wear sunglasses and my eyes are extremely sensitive so today I think I better wear a hat to shield the sun.  Do we bring our own water bottles with us or do we bring the ones we bought?  Should I eat the fruit?  This is not pealed so I better not.  Did I take my pills?  I better grab some bug spray.  Does anyone have hand sanitizer?  Do I bring my camera this time or leave it?  Should I sit by a window so I don't get car sick or is someone else getting sick too?  What do I need to bring in my backpack today?  Now what do we do since the men from the other group are using our bathroom?  What time is it here?  Can I call home now or is it too late, or would it be early?  Is my mosquito net long enough?  Lizards!  No one warned me about lizards!  Oh man!  I wish I had my camera, I didn't know we would be seeing the hippos.  How much water should I drink or not drink so I can avoid the bathrooms?  How in the world did my feet get this dirty under socks, inside my shoes?"

     When I got home, it was safe.  No wild cards.  Nothing to preoccupy my thoughts.  Home is where I let my guard down.  My brain was open to think about what I had just been through.  I never knew that day to myself would be so incredibly vital.  Think about it, if I came home to be full time mom to four kids, close on a house and move right away, when would I have had a chance to stop and think.  When could I have been still?  Reflect?  Never.  It would have too quickly been life as usual.  Africa would have just been an experience.

     I would bet this is what is happening to our youth (or really all of us).  Mountain top experience and then life as usual turning what we did into an experience instead of a heart change.  The experience is the manual, the processing is the project.  What good is the manual on the counter if we never start the project?

    This changes everything!  Now taking kids to camp or on a service project is just the first step.  We need to take the time to ask questions that help them process what they experienced.  Help them take the time to let it shape who they are.  We need to do the same.

      Next time I get to go (because I hope with all my heart there is a next time), I will no longer be a tourist.  I have all my pictures.  I know what to wear.  I know there are lizards.  I know if I skip a malaria pill it is not detrimental.  I can consider using the bathrooms an adventure. I will be able to do more that watch and learn.  I can sit down and hear the peoples stories.  I can be still and process what God is giving me as it comes.

        Be still.  See what God is doing and take the time to let it cement into your life.  Allow Him the space to change your heart, your perspective, your passions.

Land of Contrasts

     We love our new home! We are pretty much settled as long as you don't go in the garage or the basement. I feel a bit Pharisaical having the places you can see clean but those hidden areas still filthy. Ha! Oh well, all in good time. 

     

      One of the things we greatly enjoy about our place is the outdoors. We live in the middle of town but it looks like country all around. This morning I woke up and heard baby birds nesting somewhere in the tree beside our window. We have enjoyed several nights of eating dinner outside. And even as I write, I am sitting on our deck surrounded by trees and lightning bugs. The silence is being broken by locusts, an owl in the distance, and occasional chirping birds that are flying by. Beautiful! Peaceful. Relaxing. 

      

      When I thought of going to Africa the words beautiful, peaceful and relaxing were not what made me sign up. After 27 hours of traveling our hosts simply wanted us to stay awake for a few more hours so we would get adjusted quickly to the 6 hour time difference. They took us to a beach restaurant. It was glorious. The view was breath taking. We were sitting at a table on the sand, shaded by a palm tree, breathing in the slight breeze that cooled things down, sipping on my first passion fruit juice, and relaxing to the sound of water. It was not at all what I had expected to experience in a third world country. For a brief moment I felt like I had stepped into someone else's life and was on an exotic vacation. 

     As we were driving the next day I was smitten by the beauty. The luscious forest with an array of greens, quilted valleys, 


clear blue water, mountain top views.  

There were trees I never knew existed like the fan tree. 

     I had never seen land of this magnitude. I could not help but just soak it all in. I was abruptly jolted out of my basking by the sight of a couple dilapidated structures. I shrugged that off and continued my admiring. A few minutes later came another interruption. Every few miles this would happen. Houses that were half built but abandoned by an owner who did not have the money to finish it. 

     Impromptu markets on the side of the road where people were trying to sell anything they could. Children playing next to the road in the dirt. A boy with a staff in hand tending to his family cows, goats, or sheep. 

Unspeakable beauty then the reality of poverty, unspeakable beauty then the reality of poverty. I looked at Jay and told him how odd it seemed. He simply said, "Ah, Africa. The land of contrasts." He was spot on. 

     

     The poorest of people living on the most lavish of lands. A people with nothing living where others with riches would give bountifully to live. Funny how all we can see is our circumstance. Two sides of the world, yet humans are all the same. Not rich because of what we have but poor because of what we don't.

"Photo Photo Photo"

  

One of my goals while in Africa was to get some pictures of "authentic Africa" for a collage to put on my wall upon return.  I suppose what I really was thinking of was  making a collage of National Geographic on my wall.  You know, the women with stuff on their heads.  The children that look hungry and dirty.  The people out in the distance working the fields.  The poverty and run down market places.  It was sure funny to hear when people looked at my pictures after I got home.  I heard two comments over and over, "it looks like a Compassion International advertisement" and "it's like looking at the pages of National Geographic".  Yes!  Mission accomplished.

 

 









        Well, needless to say, not all of Africa looks that way.  However, it was on more than one occasion that Donna Gasset and I looked at each other and said, "This is the real deal!"  We were not in the tourist areas.  We were in the most remote areas of Africa.  We went to the places most eyes never see.  There were no lions, zebras or elephants but there were huts, dirt floors, older women whose faces carried the weight of the world, the beautiful garbs, beans and rice, babies with flies on them, and more things balanced on heads than I knew possible!

The hardest part about getting pictures was as soon as your camera surfaced you were surrounded by little faces saying, "photo, photo, photo".  Getting my "authentic" pictures proved to be difficult.  I even tried hiding to get a shot, but they would find me!  I don't think they had any idea that those images would end up on paper.  They were just content to see it on the back of our cameras.


Their responses were precious.  The kids would form a mosh pit of sorts to try and see it.  I admit I am slow at times.  It took me a while to realize they had never seen an image of themselves.  They had no idea what they looked like.  Take a minute to wrap your brain around that.

      I decided to walk around while the children were contained at VBS and find the adults.  "Would you like a photo?"  One guy looked at me and rubbed his fingers together as to say, "how much money you got?"  Ha!  It was not for my benefit.  I just wanted to give them a chance to see God's incredible creation of themselves.  I decided to stick to women.

The women were excited at the chance to get a picture.  They would look at the image and laugh.  I figured out they were mostly looking at each other.  Almost as if they were a stranger in the background of your picture that you tend to ignore.  I began taking pictures of individual women so they would know it was them.  When I showed them I would say, "mwiza" which means "beautiful".

I have no idea if they were glad to know what they looked like.  I often look much better in my head than in real life.  In fact, I can feel pretty good about myself until I see a mirror or a picture.  It makes me wonder, do they deal with self image issues like us?  Not knowing what I look like would make it hard to compare myself to others .  If I never saw what I looked like, would I be more likely to believe that how God created me was perfect and beautiful?

Home

We have all been on trips.  Man, there is no place like home though.  It seems like coming home is fantastic for everyone but for all different reasons.  What is it for you?  Your own bed?  Your favorite chair?  Not living out of a suitcase?  I really like that everything is in its place.  Home.  We just moved into our new house.  I love it, but it still does not feel like home.  Probably because not everything has a place yet.

There are certain things that are very important to me.  The way my house smells is close to the top of my list.  I am quirky in many ways.  One of my quirks that most people don't know about is when we get home from a long trip, I want to be the first one to open the door so I can see what it really smells like.  I figure if the house has been sitting all week with no air flow, there is no better time to get a whiff of what the place smells like at its core.  Strange, I know.

As with many mission trips, we were able to build houses.  There is no question these houses are needed.  The Batwa are literally living in huts.  The huts are basically straw gathered into a big half ball shape.  Then, nine people go lay down in it.  Home.  It is hard for me to wrap my brain around the idea of what home would feel like for them.  The smell of dirt.  You have nothing to put in its own place.  No favorite chair.  No bed to call your own.  When they duck into the entry, what do they feel?  When it starts to rain and they run for shelter, their home does not provide it.  Home.

When we were building the houses it was super exciting.  We knew we were part of a life changing thing.  We laughed and joked as we passed mud down the line to smash in-between the bamboo stalks.  Joy filled the whole area.  This building brought hope.  We celebrated when it was done.  We took pictures and stood back and admired.

A few short days later I was in my home.  I woke up in my bed without a mosquito net.  Ahhh.  Home.  When I opened my eyes that morning it hit me.  The house we rejoiced over and considered life changing, the one that the Batwa were literally dancing and singing about, was no bigger than the size of my bedroom.

A Hard Working White Woman

     
We were able to build two houses while we were in Bugenyuzi.  So fun!!!  Harvest for Christ is the group we were working with.  They work really hard to be sure there is not a mentality of "the white people are here to save us!"  I was taken back when we arrived to start the building.  If any of us had a mentality that we would come in and be the hero, our egos were quickly shriveled.  There were already posts in the ground.  The building had begun long before we got there.  The second day was the same.  I have no idea how early they were up, but they had been building for a while before we got there.  We were not there to build a house for them rather we were there to assist them while they built a house.  I love that!  So empowering for them and I am thankful knowing that after we left, they could continue to change their story.

The second day it was time to start putting up the tiles for the roof.    They were all in a big truck that had to be unloaded.  We started out with the tiles being handed off the truck to people who would then carry them down the hill to the house.  I was leery of doing this because I had hurt my ankle a few weeks before and I was pretty sure it was not going to withstand the journey up and down.  I offered to start a human chain.  A few of us would be given the tiles off the truck and pass them down the line.  As I began to look around, I noticed I was only being given three tiles at a time and those around me were given six or seven.  I certainly did not want to be shown up so the next time I was given the tiles I stayed there to be handed more.  They handed me another, then another and slowly but gently they handed me one more.  I said thanks and passed them along.  When I went to get more I was happy they were willing to trust me with six tiles at once.  I took all six and passed them along.  When I turned around this time I heard a bit of laughter.  I took the tiles and there was more laughter.  After a few rounds of this, I turned to my translator, who happened to be next in my line, and asked what they were laughing about.  He replied, "When you take the tiles they say, 'A hard working white woman!'  and they laugh."  This continued until the tiles were all unloaded. "A hard working white woman, bwahahahah!"  Grab tiles, "A hard working white woman!  Hahahahahaha"  My translator even turned to me at one point and said, "You really should tell your husband how hard you work."  Ha, I think after being home with the kids for 10 days in my place he is pretty aware that he married a hard working white woman.  :)

The Gas Station

  I really don't intend to go every other day with sad, happy, sad, happy.  It just seems to be going that way.  (That was your warning that this one is sad.)

One of the first places we stopped was an old gas station.  This was a stop that no words can convey, and not even a picture's thousand words are able to tell this story.   Bear with me as I try.  This gas station was in a place called Kibimba.

This stop was on Monday (our first real day there) and we were peacefully bouncing around in the bus.  Many conversations were going on as we were getting  to know our translators and each others stories.  We heard a voice call out over all the chatter.  Although I do not know Kirundi, it clearly meant to "stop".  Our driver Fabreese (or as we called him "Febreze") quickly pulled over and sat very quietly.  There was a building beside us.  As we looked out our windows the reality that we were in a country of pain was before us.  In Burundi there are two main ethnic groups, the Tutsi and the Hutu.  On October 21, 1993, rumor was spreading that the Tutsi army had assassinated the Hutu president, Melchior Ndadaye.  Hutu civilians gathered over a hundred Tutsi children and teachers into this gas station.  The Hutu said that if the rumor were true, they would kill all these people.  It was true.  I was staring out my window at the very place that a short 20 years ago a hundred children were burned alive.

What do you do with that information?  Do you sit in silence?  Do you get out and pay your respects?  I got out.  I am not sure what my plan was.  I really did not want to be there in the first place.  I was perfectly content knowing and saying the word genocide.  I was not ready to look it in the face.  It was a moment that I was glad I had a camera.  I guess that sounds odd.  Somehow though, I was able to hide behind it.  Be a spectator of the situation I found myself in instead of a participant.   It is like a horror movie that keeps playing over and over in your mind.  I was standing on the same floor.  I could almost hear the cries. I will spare all the details, maybe for your benefit, maybe for mine.

There is a memorial built beside this gas station.  On the front are the words “Plus Jamais Ca” which means "Never Again".   In the center of this memorial is a cross with the date and inscribed in French, child victims of genocide.  The parents of the victims come every October 21 and lay a memento at the place their child is buried.

Hopscotch

 ​     It was not all sadness and heart break.  One of my favorite moments came when mother nature called (thankfully not for me!)  I am not sure what you would imagine the toilets to be like in a village that has nothing.  Multiply that by ten and you may come close.  I am not going to lie.  I strategically rationed my water consumption to only have to use the facilities in the evenings when we had an actual toilet, even if it had no seat.  Let me tell you, this is one area that my planning and organizational personality really came in handy.   Not once did I actually have to use the “bathroom” in the villages. TMI?  Trust me, you would brag about this too.

     Anyway, another person on my team had the unfortunate need to use the bathroom.  We had to go in groups.  One to use the hole in a box, one to guard the door because you could not close it completely without passing out, and one to distract the entourage of children that follow you.  This time I had the job of distraction.  I tried singing with them but they gave me the look of, “what are you doing?  Is that really how Americans sound?”  So, I moved on and decided to play a game.  I quick did a WWJD in my head.  Of course!  I bent down and wrote in the dirt, just like Jesus did, and drew a hopscotch!  It never says in the Bible what He wrote, but I have an inkling it was hopscotch.  It was a beautiful, unscripted moment that I was able to break language barriers and play.  They loved it!  As the dirt dusted over, they would scramble down to redraw it.  I loved hearing the children’s laughter.  I cherish the thought that even today, they may be drawing a hopscotch in the dirt and remembering a white girl who loves them and the God who sent her.

The One Story

     Right after I got back from Africa people would ask me, “How was your trip?”  I was at such a loss for words.  I can’t hardly say it was great… yet, how is something life changing not great?  My friend Gary who was on the trip asked what was the “one story”?  It took me about half a second to know what my one story was.  The one story that has forever changed me and brings tears to my eyes even as I write.

     I loved seeing all the babies!  Their precious faces were so innocent.  They had not asked for the life they were given.  They had no idea that flies resting on your face is not normal.  They had no idea that the next five years were going to be a battle of survival.  Many of the babies whose eyes I gazed into would not survive to age five.  I knew that, but sometimes knowing in your head and knowing in your heart are very different.

        There was a particular baby that caught my attention.  Whenever I saw him, he was alone and he was crying.  I felt so sad for him.  Most babies were being carried around by someone who loved them.  This little guy seemed to have no one.  At one point I tried to approach him to see if I could hold him for a moment.  Touch is so healing!  However, as I got closer, he started to cry harder.  My pale skin can be a bit startling in the summer but I guess to him it was down right frightful.  Next thing I know I am surrounded by people peering at me wondering what I did to make this baby so upset. I said, “he was already crying, I swear!”  It was a moment that I wondered why I had not learned Kirundi before I came!  The crowd faded and the baby was once again alone, still crying.  I knew it was not that he needed a diaper change since they did not wear diapers.  Yikes!  He was probably not hungry since the babies are the only ones that are fed very well since mom is nursing (very publicly and unhindered I might add).  I hunted down one of our translators and asked him why this baby was always alone and crying.

“He is probably very sick.”

     That was so heavy. In the village of Bugenyuzi, they burry a child a week.  In that moment I knew, if I were ever given the chance to return, those eyes were not ones I would see again.