Forgive!!

My friend invited me to teach Vacation Bible School (VBS) at her church 10 years ago when I lived just outside of Baltimore. I had worked in youth ministry during college, so I naturally volunteered to help with the youth. She laughed and said, "No way. I'm putting you with the 4-year-olds."

The 4-year-olds?!?!

"There's no way you'll be able to handle the youth. They're from the streets," she said.

Now, I wasn't completely naive to the realities of urban living. I knew the youth and I would have very little in common. I definitely grew up in South Carolina's suburbia with kids calling me OREO because of my voice, my interests and my neighborhood. And The Wire wasn't even on television back then, so she was right that I had no real frame of reference for life on the streets. But these are church youth, I thought. How bad can it be?

But she refused to budge, so I reached into my Old MacDonald bag-o-tricks and tried to remember every delightful e-i-e-i-oh from my childhood. I put on my happy face and read through the lesson plans to prepare for the cute little tots. We were going to be talking about forgiveness, using the story of the prodigal son returning home.

The kids were sweet. We had games and music and plenty of Hi-C and animal crackers, so they were happy. I started a little rhythmic call-and-response with them after learning the lesson:

"When your brother or sister hits you, what do you do?"

"Forgive!" we all shouted together.

"When another kid calls you a name, what do you do?"

"Forgive!!"

"When someone takes something from you, what do you do?"

"Forgive!"

That's when a sweet little girl jumped up-and-down raising her hand.

"And what about when someone drives by your house shooting at your window?" she asked.

Silence.

I sat there staring at this sweet child in pink with barrettes dangling from her braided head. This sweet child whose only knowledge of anything driving by should be the delightful melody of "Pop Goes the Weasel" announcing that a van filled with ice cream is just around the corner. This sweet child who was waiting for my cue so that we could all shout out "forgive" together.

And I was silent. All of a sudden the easy answer wrapped up so politely in this VBS lesson plan seemed so hard to say.

Forgive.

As a group, we all talked a bit more about the drive-by shootings. The kids shared how they would drop to the floor, wait for their parents to crawl towards them and all huddle together. They had their drive-by plan down to a stop, drop and roll kind of science. In just four years.

+++

Bishop Desmond Tutu says there is “no future without forgiveness.” It is truth. But just like so many other truths, it's easier to say than it is to embody. It's easier to shout in a sing-song way with 4-year-olds than it is to toss back at gang-bangers as bullets fly through your window.

It must be practiced. Daily. Practiced until it is our way of living. Practiced until it's natural. Practiced in the face of great difficulty until it's easier.

I write about a trip to Uganda in my book and share the stories of some of the most beautiful young women I've ever met.

I asked one girl for her prayer request, and she asked me to pray that she might forgive the LRA soldier who raped her.

Forgive.

I go on to write in the book:

I don’t want to paint a pretty picture of forgiveness—especially in a war-torn place. I think even the simple declarations of forgiveness and prayers for forgiveness that we heard in Gulu were steps on a very long road. This road will probably be filled with a lot of painful debris—memories that will embitter and frustrate once again. There are likely many hardships and unexpected bumps that may make the course of forgiveness seem frightening at times. This process may take longer than any of the forgivers imagined when they first chose forgiveness.

In the end, though, it’s the most beautiful road if you choose to take it. And the first sign of beauty begins in the choosing.

May we choose to practice forgiveness. Not the easy, polite church school answer kind of forgiveness, either. May we choose the messy hard road of forgiveness and release.

peace.

You Ain't Taking That from Me . . .

A friend told me that Natasha Bedingfield's new song "Strip Me" reminded her of me, so I decided to buy it on my cell phone immediately. I usually like Bedingfield's songs and the 30-second Amazon.com demo sounded great.

As soon as I listened to the full song, I knew I'd uncovered a new theme song for the rest of 2010: Take what you want, steal my pride. Build me up or cut me down to size. Shut me out, but I'll just scream. I'm only one voice in a million, but you ain't taking that from me.

The next time I listened to it at nearly full volume in my car, bobbing my head and throwing my free hand in the air, I was trying to simply jam out. But before I knew what was happening, I burst into tears. As I listened to the words and sang out, I thought of the 14-year-old girls I met in Moshi, Tanzania, through the Compassion International sponsorship program ministry. I thought of Judith, Siwabena, Gladness, Beatrice, the two Jasmines, Margaret and Witness--the girls who after just one afternoon of visiting with them seem to find their way into my thoughts often.

These young ladies live in a place and financial situation that we in the U.S.A. might pity. Because of their state in life, we sometimes talk about children like them and say that we need to be "their voice"--the "voice for the voiceless," we say, to inspire others to care about them and help make a difference (Read my sister Lanecia's blog that talks about this, as well).

But when I met these girls, I was so moved by how smart, strong, confident and compassionate they were. Judith dreams of traveling and visiting Italy one day. Beautiful Gladness sings with great joy and reads incessantly. She is smart and witty and waxes poetic on politics and Black Americans (and she called me a "spinster," but that's a story for another day, I suppose). Beatrice cares for her mother who is HIV+. Witness is HIV+, does well in all of her classes and loves writing her Compassion sponsor. And Margaret wants to be an evangelist. Actually, she is one already, and she preached for us the day we visited their ministry. When I asked about how people felt about women in pastoral leadership, Margaret and Gladness quickly informed me that girls can do anything they want to do if they are "confident in the Lord."

These girls face enormous challenges daily. Some of them have buried too many parents, siblings and friends. If it was not for sponsorship, they might have to go without meals or education or hope for the future. There are a lot of things they do not have. A voice, however, is not on that list. They have powerful voices, and I cannot wait to hear how their voices ring out when given the platform and opportunity to bring their thoughts and hopes and dreams to the world. I think of these girls whenever I hear this song now.

Take what you want, steal my pride. Build me up or cut me down to size . . .

I'm only one voice in a million, but you ain't taking that from me.

Hip Hop started out in the heart . . .

Lanecia and I watched the screening of this documentary Bouncing Cats, which features the story of Abraham "Abramz" Tekya and the Breakdance Project Uganda. Lanecia met Abramz a couple of years ago when she was in Kampala and took a hip hop class at the BPU (hehehe).

Find this film screening somewhere near you. Seriously. It's a must-see. Good stuff. And it features K'naan. :)

BOUNCING CATS film trailer from nabil elderkin on Vimeo.

Walking

Walking: that's what I've been doing the past two days.

I walked uphill and downhill. I walked barefoot on smoothly paved roads past manicured lawns, flamboyant trees, a tiny white kid running and chatting with his tiny black friend in Chichewa all alone with no parents in sight, and a number of tall brick walls topped with electrical wiring that protects the foreigners who have chosen these elaborate and expensive homes in this still developing country.



I traipsed around on red dirt paths in my dusty sandals, across wooden bridges with some unhinged slats, stepping over discarded banana peels, skeleton corn cobs and flattened plastic bottles, past homemade signs for fruit stands, tuck shops, more flamboyant trees (my favorite), small homes made of mud or brick or metal scraps, straw walls that would take very little huffing and puffing to blow down, and two tiny Chichewa girls laughing and clapping and singing a little rhyme in English.

This is Malawi--her beauty, her contradictions, her complexities, her roads . . .

Today's walk was with my dear friends of Tiwasunge (Tee-wah-soon-gay). These friends are all HIV+, and they have come together in this community-based organization to care for one another and support each other. These friends are beautiful.

We walked all around Kampala village (the Olivers' neighborhood--they do not live with the other foreigners or "azungus;" they live among Malawians) for home visits, praying with bedridden members of the community and meeting orphaned children whose school fees are paid for by Tiwasunge.

I met Cedric, whose parents both died of HIV. He was fortunate for Tiwasunge to pay his fees through form 4 (secondary school). He applied to university but did not get in. But Lucy says it matters not if he got in or not. "If they don't get into university, we have a problem. If they do get into university, we have a problem," she says. In Malawi, I've met too many young people with dreams and hopes and acceptance letters for their preferred university whose education comes to a screeching halt after form 4 exams. Who will pay for their university fees when they are accepted? For the young people supported by Tiwasunge, Lucy has no answer. The organization just cannot afford the expense. Education is power in Malawi--power over poverty, over disease, power to assist their neighbors, to educate other Africans, to increase the hope on their beautiful continent--and these young people quickly become dis-empowered after secondary school.

I also met a woman who has been bedridden for four months now. We could not mention HIV to her or around her, though that is her diagnosis. She believes she has been bewitched and that she has ways to get rid of it. Which means she's probably not so consistent with her ARV's if she takes them at all when the Tiwasunge friends are not around.

She was lying on a piece of foam placed haphazardly on top of bed springs in a dark, dank room that smelled of mud and smoke and manure. We visited her, prayed with her, gave her fresh bananas. Tiwasunge usually wash their patients, feed them more, take their clothes and wash them, provide medicine. They have used their limited funds wisely on supporting education and food for the orphans, but this means they have not been able to afford all of the materials for home-based care in the last couple of months. The bag I remember them carrying 2 years ago on home visits is now very light. But their spirits and belief in prayer is as strong as ever. And I know they will persevere, that God will provide.

I am tired from all of the walking (literally . . . about to take a nap). But I am also tired from all of the disparity. I am tired of seeing 9-month-old babies who are emaciated and don't look like they've been here a day more than 3 weeks. I am tired of knowing HIV destroys lives daily across the world, especially knowing that it's a disease that people can live with if poverty didn't rear its ugly head.

I am also energized to reorganize Pray With Africa and partner with Tiwasunge. I am energized to see what God will do with Tiwasunge and how I can be a part of their story. I am energized to think more about the way I live and how, without even thinking about it, I contribute to a poverty that kills worldwide.

I am hopeful. God is good. And God is desperately in love with us, God's children. The end of our stories is abundant life, and knowing this gives me hope.

Nyali Mushroom Project

The women of Galilea United Methodist Church here in Blantyre, Malawi, grew tired of not being able to contribute to church finances. So they decided to grow mushrooms.


Well, the decision wasn’t immediate. The women thought that maybe starting a small business would help them to generate some income and become more able to tithe regularly. They also hoped it would help them be able to attend women’s events and meetings that may not be in walking distance. So they considered many business options before finding a man three months ago who said he would show them how to grow mushrooms if they would buy his seeds.

So in Malawi’s hot temperatures, mushrooms thrive in the rainy season but not as much in the heat of today. So with a bit of construction help from the men of the church, the ladies built a small hut that could protect the mushrooms from the sun and heat. They keep the hut wet and cool. It’s really quite amazing.



Then they take maize stalks and chop them into tiny bits to use as fertilizer. They place the maize stalks chips into plastic bags with the mushroom seeds and tie them to wooden sticks that hang in the shed. And, voila! Mushrooms soon pop out of the bags.



Apparently, these mushrooms are delicious (I think we’ll eat the bag I brought back with me tomorrow night at the Oliver house), so they have had no trouble selling them at all. In just three months, the ladies have started a little business and are already talking about growth. Plans are in place to build a second shed, double their mushroom production and maybe learn how to harvest seeds themselves so that they don’t have to keep buying them from the guy who first approached them.

I’m really inspired by their work and loved visiting the Nyali Mushroom Project today (Nyali means “lamp”). These women certainly are radiant and going to do amazing ministry with their proceeds. I’m excited to see it grow . . .

A Beautifully Warmed Heart

I love Malawi.

The sun feels good on my skin.

The foliage is bright with greens and oranges and purples.

The sun sets behind chez Oliver, and I am moved to do nothing but be still and stare.

And, the best of all, the people I've met here are warm and friendly and beautiful.

As my friend Miss Ruby says, it's happy here. Very, very happy here.

It's so happy here that yesterday when I discovered at 9:30 that I was in charge of training at a writing workshop for the Malawi United Methodist publications team that was supposed to start at 10-ish, I pulled on my inner "hakuna matata" and somehow (and by somehow, I mean by the grace of God) pulled together a workshop. While Kara had asked me to be a part of the workshop a while ago, I was assured that I did not need to prepare anything and that I would not be in charge. Something got lost in translation, however. But I loved everyone in it so much and had so much fun, that it lasted until about 5:30 pm! And I was still smiling as I went to bed later. Everyone just warms my heart.

Then I worshiped at Galilea UMC, where I worshiped with the Pray With Africa team back in 2008, today. I hugged Montfort and Steve, whose family hosted me two years ago, and felt like I was returning home. I sang next to Tereza (or "Ma Katumbi," because she is my Malawian mother). I hugged Daniel and Francis, new friends who embraced me wholeheartedly because they met my sister Lanecia in March. Everyone just warms my heart.

We came back to the Olivers' house, and I played cards with Carter Russell and watched a movie with him and Claire Marin. The two of them are joyous, and I've enjoyed a couple of days getting to spend time with them. Jeff made grilled cheese sandwiches, rice and tomato soup, and all five of us enjoyed a nice lunch together. Yummy. So much warmth in my heart . . .

And we ended the evening with Ma Katumbi and Lucy, the founder of the Tiwasunge community of HIV+ persons who care for one another, coming over to feast with us for dinner. I love Tereza so much. And I have never met Lucy because she was not here when we visted Tiwasunge in 2008, but she has felt close to my heart. Her love for Tereza radiates, and I am so grateful for her in Tereza's life and in the lives of so many who are HIV+ here in Blantyre. I'm not sure that she knows what an amazing example she is for people all over the world through her ministry. I was honored and humbled and happy to feast with both of them tonight. And I'm also glad that Lucy could give me a good update on Ma Katumbi, who has been quite sick lately, and I could talk with her about taking her medication. Being with them is beyond heartwarming . . . and I'll spend the morning with them. Lucy explained to me that Tereza's son wanted her to come back home with him for a little while so that he could care for her. He lives many hours away from Blantyre. She would not go, though, because she kept telling him that her daughter Ciona was coming to see her. So she delayed her trip home until next week. Love, love! Love all around . . .

So I will sleep well this evening and look forward to the ways my heart will be warmed all week in Malawi, the warm heart of Africa.

peace.

Don't hush, little baby . . .

The Compassion babies are very loud.

They run that toddler-run . . . away from their mothers and then back to their mothers. They laugh. They scream.

I’m in Tanzania right now visiting with Compassion International who will be one of the key groups at the United Methodist Youth 2011 events. Since I’m one of the emcees for the event, I’ve been blessed to visit some of the work Compassion does in Tanzania through their child sponsorship programs.

Today we visited mothers and babies in the Compassion’s Child Survival Program (CSP) in Arusha, Tanzania (not far from Mt. Kilimanjaro). This is where I met the loud Compassion babies.

I’ve visited a number of African countries and met a lot of African babies. And the thing I’ve noticed about many of the babies I’ve met is that they are calm and peaceful. Most of them sit on their mothers’ laps and watch life happen so quietly.

But not the babies we met at the TAG Bethel Student Center where the CSP is run. These babies played peek-a-boo with us. They giggled when I tossed them into the air. They tugged at my beaded necklace or became fixated on my colorful Ember beads.

This is when I knew the work I was seeing was something special. The other babies I had met were so quiet because they were malnourished. They had no energy to cause a fuss. They were too dehydrated to cry tears.

But the babies I met today have been given a chance at life that many children in extreme poverty rarely get thanks to the amazing work of the people in their communities who run the program and the generous donations of people from around the world who support the program.

I saw this video when a friend posted it on Facebook last week. Why aren’t we as people of faith screaming from rooftops that we’re mad as hell that there are children who are lethargic not because they are just even tempered but because they have NO FOOD? What does it take to make us mad as hell that people in all corners of the world have nothing when so many of us have more than we ever need? Who have we become?

May more babies feast on the hope found in loud giggles and big tears. May more mothers be blessed with the ability to feed their children and watch them grow than mothers who become way too familiar with the process of burying their babies.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy.

Summer's Winter

I’m very aware of death whenever I leave the continent of Africa. This is not necessarily because of seeing so much pain and dying. I think it’s actually because I witnessed so much aliveness! So each time I leave, I’m aware that anything can happen between the moment I leave and the moment I return to the continent. Death can creep into all of that aliveness so unexpectedly. Every once in a while, winter finds its way to summer.

There’s Joseph—so strong, so resilient, so much going for him. I expected to receive emails about the day he was coming to the U.S., sponsored by New Balance, to run in a major race. Or sweet baby Kofine whose body was frail, but who I thought had a chance at life with the year’s supply of food that was given to her family and Peter’s constant care for them. So when I received messages this past year that both Joseph and Kofine died as a result of poor access to good medical care, my heart froze. What seemed like summertime in their lives was a lie.

Then there’s Marion in Malawi and Lavergne in South Africa—both HIV-positive. Honestly, despite my prayers, I expected both of them might breathe their last breaths maybe before I even landed back stateside in 2008. But when my sister went to both countries this past March—nearly two years later—she returned with images of both women standing, smiling, surviving . . . so beautiful! A summer revival in what I thought were wintered lives.

But in the midst of summer, came winter. And I learned this week that Marion died a few days ago.

the Winter pins me
for a moment, my Summer thoughts had consumed me,
convincing my mind they would not forsake.
I imagined the sun would kiss my skin again, leaving it sticky
I promised to call it a beautiful residue
I pictured walking with my head high, slicing
through summer’s thick air
smiling at couples in sandals
holding hands and sipping lemonade
on a sweet summer stroll
but then Fall and I met, he erased
the summer’s cicada songs from my memory
and lied to me
never warned me of December’s early coming
my limbs were captured, encased by ice
it was almost beautiful—a crystal tree
if it were not also a prison to my bones
I shivered, unable to escape cold
even then I believed I might tiptoe into Spring
quietly like a kid sister returning a diary or a
sundress she never asked to borrow
then February
seized my body
refusing to let me March
now I watch snow fall on skeleton trees
and concede to Winter’s heft
while birds learn morning tunes and tulips bloom
in someone else’s yard

3 july 2004

A few months ago I had the idea to write a poem about HIV/AIDS and seasons. I played around with a few words. Then this week I found this poem , and I’d written it in 2004—untitled, but the (very poor) working titles were “Death of AIDS patient” or “Living with AIDS” or “Dying with HIV/AIDS.” How funny to have an idea this year that I actually had in a writing group one time 6 years ago. I honestly didn’t remember I’d written it. My friend calls it self-plagiarism. I find it fitting to have found it just hours before my friend Kara called to tell me of Marion’s surprising death. And so I share it today in her memory. (I think I'll title it "Winter Song: An AIDS Lament." Maybe.)

I leave you with Marion’s prayer request Lanecia collected back in March:

My prayer is for my family. I pray that God should give me a house. When I was very sick Tiwasunge took care of me. I ask God to continue guiding them. As I'm still strong I ask God to give me capital so I can relieve the burden on Tiwasunge because I have 7 kids. I pray God should bless Tiwasunge. Amen.

May we experience many more springs and summers than fall and winters. But may we accept the cycle of all things and live fully into whatever season life has given us this day.

People Like Me

What I love about hip hop--real, pure hip hop--is that it puts music to storytelling. One of my favorite storytellers these past few years has been the dusty foot philosopher K'naan from Somalia (though he spent a significant part of his life in Canada when his family had to flee his war-torn homeland).

So many songs have spoken to me on different days since I've been listening his latest CD Troubadour almost obsessively the past few weeks. Today, though, his song "People Like Me" spoke most to me. I felt like the stories in this song were having a dialogue with the stories of people on our Pray With Africa prayer community. Specifically, this morning I was most moved by a prayer on our site from a woman named Monica:

I pray that I may find serenity and strength to overcome an addiction that I have had for many years to doing harm to myself. I cannot do this alone--only by the grace of God and the blood of Jesus Christ who has given and sacrificed all that I require for this life and the eternal. Help me to love myself that I may better love and serve others. Amen.

All around the world, there are hurting people surviving on hope and a prayer, and I like that K'naan writes his own prayer, asking God to open the doors of heaven for hurting people like all of us . . .



Heaven, is there a chance that you could come down
and open doors to hurtin' people like me
People like me (4x)

Is it fair to say that I am stressing out
I'm stationed in Iraq, and they won't let me out
My homeys said I was stupid for even joining
My counselor said that my decision was disappointing
How she had good for good state colleges
and with my good grades it wouldn't have been a problem
but they don't understand the power of significance
more than brilliance and certainly more than dividends
and if you ask me now would I repeat it
Would I fight in a war I don't believe in
Well the answer is if not me where the cancer is
they been doing this before Jesus of Nazareth
and after all this time it is still deadly hazardous
and bush isn't really being all that inaccurate
When he says we're winning the war cos its staggering
but that's 'cause we're killing everybody that we see
and most of us soldiers we can barely fall asleep
and time and time again I'm feeling incompetent
cos my women back home, we're constantly arguing
and i must be crazy cos all I'm obsessing with is
her Myspace and Facebook and who's commenting
I swear to God if she's cheatin' I'm doin' her ass in
I can tell with one look and it came to me sounding
like something from a song hook

Heaven, is there a chance that you could come down
and open doors to hurtin' people like me
People like me (4x)

Meet Sarah, the proud mother of young Sebastian
suburban professional went to college in Ashland
In self pity she suddenly cried,
would my life be important if I suddenly died?
Neighbors saying what a nice women she was
keeping mostly to herself ever since the divorce
and with the company downsizin' and the fall and all
she really shouldn't take it that personal at all
It wasn't her boss who had his eyes on her thighs
and got a rise from her risin' off the desk though
and despite rememberin' sayin' no plenty of times
it was still a damn surprise being let go
and now stuck with a mortgage she cant afford
and too educated to blame the corporate world
She got on welfare and hated it case work a power trippin'
and generally being degraded if,
nothing else she was treated sick
and ineffective which is the worst thing
that she'd been left with
Damn, no magic from David Blane,
no painter to pain this pain,
No Morgan Freeman to narrate the shame
So she took refuge and prayer
kinda like findin' God in the phone book
and it came to her sounding something like a song hook

Heaven, is there a chance that you could come down
and open doors to hurtin' people like me
People like me (4x)

I guess I told you about myself to a degree
just by telling you about people like me
but people like me they speak politely
they don't start no beef or piece of white meat
Everybody gotta eat but everybody doesn't
which is why i want to tell you about my favourite cousin
he and I grew up where the sun shines
and we both partook with the gun crimes
and we both liked American rap rhymes
even though we didn't understand one line
if you remember my line of notes in my last album
I talked about a close call with a grenade
I think we both must have been about 7th grade
But don't panic. We both survived without damage
But we developed a bond like we survived the Titanic
But when the country became frantic
my mother tried to get us out, planned it
to the last detail except the plan got derailed
'cause there wasn't enough money for the plane tickets
How bitter when my mother had to chose who to take with her
so my cousin got left in the war and that's just hard to recall
but now i take refuge in prayer,
kinda like finding God in the phone book
It came to me sounding kinda like something from a song hook.

Heaven, is there a chance that you could come down
and open doors to hurtin' people like me
People like me (4x)

Heaven, is there a chance that you could come down
and open doors to hurtin' people like me
People like me (4x)

[ K'naan Lyrics are found on www.songlyrics.com ]

Add Your Voice!

Pray With Africa

My friend Will says, "My life is stupid!" when he thinks about how amazing and unbelievable some parts of his life seem. In Will's definition of "stupid," then, I must thank God for just how stupid my life is becoming.

In five weeks I'm going to Africa! I'll be there for six weeks, visiting six countries. I'm traveling the continent with my friends Cary and Austin, carrying our clothes, our camera and our pens and paper. We're collecting prayers of the people in each of the countries we're visiting and then bringing these prayers back to the United States, encouraging the world to stop praying for the people of Africa and, instead, join the the prayers they are already praying.

six beautiful countries
meeting hundreds of beautiful people
listening to hundreds of amazing prayers
for six amazing weeks

Yes, my life is stupid!

Here's our Pray With Africa video (featuring music by none other than k.s. Rhoads):

Pray With Africa


As I prepare for this journey--this pilgrimage of sorts--I invite you to pray with me.

10 Days

The past ten days of my life have been a magical, mystical delight. I've been covered in the Holy Spirit. I've spent my days with people who believe in the joy of a purple tree and the hope of radically changing the world. We've had epic conversations until the moonlight nearly turned to sunrise. We've been inspired by each other over green tea and sushi. We've lied on blankets under a starry ceiling listening to beautiful people creating beautiful music. I've been moved by stories of Congolese boys and their falling whistles. I've been touched by talking with some high school-aged pilgrims, exploring the way. We spun in circles, dancing with 5-year-old Selby to music that expressed God's greatness. I've hooped with children whose names I don't know but whose smiles have found a home in my memory. I've inhaled God's glory and felt grace in my lungs.

May I breathe like this forever, Lord?

The light in their eyes . . .

*

I believe the glitter in their eyes was hope. Maybe it was just good old-fashioned excitement, but it shined like hope to me.

The Hope for Africa Children's Choir from East Africa sat along the front row of The United Methodist Church General Conference session, listening to the leader of Liberia share words about reviving a broken country. I’m sure they did not understand all she said about eradicating poverty, providing education for all children—especially young girls—or healing the wounds of war. They did not have to understand it. Their eyes captured every ounce of the hope she wished for her country.

They are mostly orphaned children who know, all too well, the stories of despair from their part of the continent. They were little girls and little boys who know war and AIDS and child soldiers. They may not have understand all she said, but they held her in their eyes. And the little girls whispered through their smiles, “You inspire me.”

President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf—a glimpse of hope for young girls worldwide—moves me in so many ways. Her passion and compassion match her intelligence and drive. She is transforming a nation, inspiring a continent and exemplifying resurrection in a world where death seems to be the victor. And my favorite moment of my entire experience listening to President Johnson Sirleaf today was the bright gleam in these children’s eyes. You could just feel it.

I pray they hold it forever.

*A UMNS photo by Paul Jeffrey

Ali Farka Touré, musician from Mali, dies

I discovered Ali Farka Touré only about two months ago. He's amazing. Since downloading his music on iTunes, I've listened to it nearly every day.

This morning I read that Touré died in his sleep Monday in Mali. If you've never listened to him, I encourage you to check him out today in celebration of his life and his music.

Beautiful History!

I awoke this morning celebrating Africa! Sworn in today as president of the Republic of Liberia, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf makes history as the first female head of state in the entire continent of Africa. What a beautiful day it is today for her! Not only does she make history today, but she starts her leadership to revitalize a terribly depressing situation where about 85% of the people in the country are unemployed and even more are illiterate, according to Today show reports. Like many other nations on the continent, Liberians have limited access to clean water and acquire diseases as a result. The number of people infected with HIV/AIDS continues to increase.

Does Johnson Sirleaf shake in her bones?

Not for a minute. Despite the whelming task before her and the threats to her life, she goes forward with amazing courage.

So I go forward with her in prayer. I want to see her succeed because she is a woman in an unprecedented role. I also want to see Liberia resurrect. This country, established by free black Americans in 1822 through the American Colonization Society, is so much a part of US history. Their flag resembles ours. They speak English. Their capital Monrovia is named after our 5th president. I watched a Discovery Times Channel documentary where the people of Liberia talked about how they sometimes even consider themselves our 51st state.

The U.S. must celebrate with Johnson Sirleaf and support her presidency. I'm thrilled that Laura Bush headed a delegation from the U.S. to attend the innauguration. Additionally, President Bush claims Liberia to be a priority of his government, sending a small group of U.S. agents to protect Johnson Sirleaf and spending about $840 million last year to help Liberia recover from civil war. I hope Bush will continue to work closely with Johnson Sirleaf and the Liberian people.

I celebrate! It feels so good. And while many other countries have entrusted their leadership to women, Liberia still beats the U.S. in this achievement. So I hope she'll be a shining example to women and men worldwide with her leadership, grace and strength.

It's a beautiful day in history!

Oh, and she's a United Methodist, too!

Remembering Sweet Lisa (Part 2)

(Lisa moved in closer as I took a photograph of her. It's all out of focus except her earlobe now, but I still love this photograph)

I must admit that I helped the team very little the days they built the soup kitchen for Concordia Methodist Church on top of the hill in Knysna, South Africa. Instead, I played with Lisa.

She is a sweet girl, eager for me to hold her and hug her. Many people asked if she was my daughter, which I loved. The maternal being in me has been dormant, and I’ve never desired to be a mom anytime in the near future. I shocked myself with my instinct to be with her. We fit each other. She did not speak much, but she smiled and laughed and played. She clenched my hand as we prayed. And she listened as I talked, talked, talked in English. She would nod her head in agreement or sometimes giggle and shake her head furiously to inform me that I was asking a silly, silly question. She cried as we said goodbye at the end of the day. And she ran to me with an incredible glow when we saw each other again.

Lisa lives on the hill where she and the other Xhosa-speaking South Africans can look down upon their gorgeous town, which really doesn’t belong to them at all. They have the most beautiful view of Knysna, overlooking the Knysna Lagoon and the Indian Ocean. They see the gorgeous homes on Leisure Isle where the British, U.S., Australian citizens and people from other wealthy countries in the world own vacation homes they occupy a few months of the year. They see the extravagant homes and beautiful living of the white South Africans. They see this from their homes, which look like mere shacks, have no heat and often no running water or electricity.

The so-called 3rd and 1st worlds co-existing . . . sadly, the people on the hill always had to acknowledge what was down below. The people below could live life without ever looking up.

I met a young lady named Noxee who showed me her home on the hill, and she said, “We have such a beautiful view! I love it!” She didn’t complain about the disparity. Some children asked me to climb higher on a hill with them because they wanted to show me their great view. They didn’t mention the amazing homes below or the boats lining the lagoon. They showed me the ocean and marveled at its beauty.

As I remember Lisa I wish for her to go to school, grow in her dreams and get down off the hill. I want her to have the opportunities of her country that all the rich white kids have. I want her to keep the spirit of the hill, though, as she captures these other things. It is a spirit of love. It is a spirit I love.

This felt like home. This made sense to me. It helped me see the people from whom I come . . . and they are loving, giving, proud people. Passionate, musical, moving people. Hopeful, strong, persevering people. People who lean on hope in the midst of obvious trials. People, like Noxee, who appreciate their beautiful view instead of envying other’s possessions. I am very proud to come from Africa. From my journal entry 5 June 2005 after my first day on the hill
(Noxee and me)

Remembering Sweet Lisa (Part 1)

I stared at some children beyond the wire fence. They journeyed back-and-forth several yards between a home and a tiny store, settling every once in a while on a patch of grass between the two places. This was their career.

I began taking photographs of them eating their apples on the patch of grass. I watched them walk back-and-forth. I wondered who they were. And I wanted to play.

When my lens would not zoom any further, I drew closer to them, stood on their grass and said hello.

“Auggghhhh! Auggghhh! Auggghhhh!”

They hiccupped their screams as tiny feet ran quickly across gravel and dirt road into the house. The back-and-forth ceased. They moved inside-and-out from inside the house to just enough out of the door to see if the weird talker was still usurping their office space.

I laughed and played our little game of peek-a-boo, wishing I hadn’t scared them. I wanted to think they were intrigued by me and wanted to play, as well. They were genuinely frightened, though, and disturbed that I had taken their grass.

A little disappointed by their not wanting to play with me, I considered walking back to the church inside the fence and taking more photographs of the Belmont UMC youth laying foundation for the soup kitchen we were building in this South African community in Knysna. My head turned towards the church, and I saw a cow . . . in the middle of the road.

And even more beautiful, my eyes caught a tiny little girl in front of the cow checking out what was going on in the church yard. Then she turned and looked at me with every bit of my intrigue reciprocated. I patted the grass next to me, and she accepted my invitation.

I spoke. No screams, no running away. She simply looked at me and inched closer. I asked her name.

“Lisa,” she said.

Externally I smiled, and I’m sure more words fell from my mouth even though Lisa primarily spoke Xhosa. My internal smiles were far louder. Sweet Lisa, traveling with a cow, captured me immediately. My soul beamed. And it still does as I recall this first memory of Sweet Lisa.