Bienvenue o Senegal—one of the formerly French countries buried in western Africa somewhere between Mali, Mauritania and Guinea (have a look).

Destination: village. My dear friend Tatiana is serving in the Peace Corps for two years in one of the most remote Peace Corps sites in the country. When we spoke about my visit before coming, Tatiana mentioned meeting me in Dakar (the capital) when I arrived.

“You don’t have to do that, Tatiana…I’m sure I can figure it out,” I said with the false confidence of a seasoned traveler.

“Ummm…no. I’m meeting you,” she asserted.

Now I know why.

Heading Out

I landed in Dakar before sunrise where Tatiana met me and led me out into the city. She expertly haggled taxi prices in French with a swarm of drivers outside of the airport before landing on a price underneath the toubab—or white person—fare. I was already lost.

Throughout the day, Tatiana repeated this bargaining ritual with drivers in French or occasionally Pulaar (a local language she’s learning). But sometimes they spoke neither, so she resorted to arm waving and figure counting until we received the correct price. I quickly realized it takes quite a few languages to maneuver around Senegal.

Outside of the major cities, many Senegalese people live in villages and rely on subsistence farming

We boarded an overnight bus for the region of Kedougou that stopped on and off in confusing “breaks,” that were just long enough to disembark and try to find a spot to relieve yourself before the driver started honking and rolling away. After 10 hours, we reached the regional capital of Kedougou.

Getting Closer

There yet? Not quite.

The next step is a nefplas, a low-riding station wagon with nine people (or sheep…) crammed in. The car doesn’t leave until it’s full, which takes anywhere from one to seven hours. But we decided to take a break for a couple of days—in part to rest, and in part because the funeral of a local dignitary diverted the passenger cars away from transport service.

Two days later, we bought our tickets and sat down to wait.

Ethiolo is just starting to dry up this time of year, but some of the green is leftover from the rainy season

Eventually, Tatiana and I hopped in the back of the vehicle with our knees squished to our chests for the 86 km ride over the dirt road to the town of Salemata, still not our destination. We stopped in the town briefly to eat some rice and mafe, a sauce made from peanuts, and hit the road on foot.

“We’re almost there,” Tatiana assured me, “we just have to walk 10 kilometers that way.”

On Foot

Ok. So I would probably not have found this place on my own. It felt like we were journeying to the ends of the earth. And so far, we had not found a single road or transport vehicle by any demarcated sign or schedule (not that I would understand it anyway, given it would be in French…).

How does anyone get to these places? I kept thinking.

The dirt road through the center of Ethiolo with some residents!

Tatiana and I walked 10 kilometers towards the border of Guinea, passing the occasional man on a bicycle or woman sauntering with a basket balancing on her head. Each would stop, extend a hand and begin the back and forth greeting ritual in Pullo futa, the regional dialect of Pulaar:

Tanaa alaa? (Are you without the devil?)

Jam tung. (Peace only)

Sometimes the greeting continued…are you healthy? How are the kids? How did you sleep? As we neared Tatiana’s village, the greeting changed to Bassari:

Kamara? (Are you ready to fight?)

Ba (Yes, I’m ready to fight)

Mochande? (Did you come out of your hut in peace?)

Mochaneme (Yes, I came out in peace)

Families in Ethiolo construct their own huts out of local materials

Though the translations are a little strange, these greetings passed back and forth naturally between us and every traveler we passed. Greeting is essential in these parts.

Off the Beaten Path

After four days of travel, Tatiana and I traversed one final hill, dusty and exhausted, into the Bassari village of Ethiolo.

Meet Tatiana’s neighbors, Hellen and Arno

We walked past the first few mud huts with thatched roofs towards the sparse village center where a group of kids were all gathered around a recently killed goat.

“Ugh. Sorry, Laura,” Tatiana said, looking at the goat before yelling an enthusiastic, “Kamara!?!?” at the kids. They diverted their attention from the spectacle to Tatiana and me and shouted, “Taki! TAKI!” (Tatiana’s village name) followed by the rest of the greetings.

Finally there. Oh, and did I mention Ethiolo is actually only about 500 miles from Dakar? Not usually a trip worthy of four days. Needless to say, Ethiolo remains far from the beaten path. The occasional visitor or cultural tourist makes the trek, but things like running water, cell phone service and electricity still haven’t found their way out to these parts…save one solar panel with questionable functionality.

Even though it took a little time to get here, it should be well worth the strain. These two weeks, I’ll be pulling water and sleeping in a hut like the rest of the Bassari villagers and getting a taste of what it means to be really—I mean, really—out in the bush.

Since arriving in Jordan, I have been unable to move past one blaring cultural difference between myself and most of the female population here: the hijab.

Walking from the Global Hope office to my home stay may only take 20 minutes, but along the way I pass the full spectrum of female fashion. Nearly every woman I see wears some form of hijab, or head scarf, and covers her arms and legs completely in accordance with the religion of Islam.

Some women wear long black robes or floor length jackets to further conceal their bodies. Others wear face veils in addition to the hijab (this is called niqab). Other girls wear tight jeans, heels and fitted long sleeve shirts paired with a brightly pattered scarf around their hair.

Frustrated

Whatever the take on the fashion, it differs starkly with my uncovered brown hair as I walk through the streets. In my new context, my typical outfit of tennis shoes, jeans and a long-sleeved flannel shirt has gone from frumpy to, well…the verge of scandalous.

This scarf is a hijab. Some women choose to wear colors and patterns instead of black scarves.

Boys notice. I’ve never felt unsafe in Amman, but I’ve certainly felt harassed. My look doesn’t necessarily stand out—in fact, some people ask if I’m Jordanian—but my hair does. In some areas, it’s enough to attract stares, honks and the occasional, “yela habibi,” or, “come here babe.”

Like I said, I feel safe in Amman, but these encounters infuriate me. I often wonder…is the hijab the answer?

The Minority

Sometimes, I find myself fixating on this difference between me and the women I’m around. For many of us living outside of the Muslim world, the thought of a woman covering her hair, or her hair and face, or her entire body seems like a violation of women’s rights. In fact, some countries in Europe have banned the hijab (hair covering) or veil (face covering) in government offices and schools.

But what does it mean to the women who wear it? What’s it like living in a place where covering your hair is the norm as opposed to the exception?

Some women in Amman wear the niqab, but the regular hijab is much more common.

In the U.S., I’ve never asked a Muslim woman about her hijab. I try as hard as I can to ignore it, thinking they probably attract enough extra stares and comments without my nosy inquisitions. But here in Jordan—where I’m suddenly the minority—I’m free to ask more about the practice.

Possible Solution

So why hijab? First of all, the Koran (the holy book of Islam) requires women to cover themselves because—quite frankly—women are beautiful. Essentially, covering yourself as a woman is supposed to prevent drawing sexual attention to yourself.

The women I’ve asked about the hijab find my curiosity funny. They laugh at my questions about something that’s such a normal part of their lives.

“Of course I like wearing it,” one woman told me, “I’m much more comfortable around men this way.”

The streets of Amman are not a dangerous place for women, but that doesn’t mean they’re free from being hassled.

I heard similar responses from many women. I started thinking, maybe this was the answer to the unwanted street comments…

Test Run

On Saturday, I took a walk downtown. I wandered from shop to shop in my jeans and long-sleeved shirt, shaking my head at the occasional comment or leering passerby.

Then I went home, put on a floor length jacket, Googled, “how to wrap hijab,” and secured a scarf around my hair. I headed out on the town in my new garb for a test run.

I hesitantly took my first steps down the street, pulling awkwardly at my hijab. Surely somebody would notice that I wasn’t a local. But as I walked block after block through crowds of people—crowds of men—I realized that no one noticed.

Not only did no one notice, but no one said anything. Not a single comment.

Whose Problem?

In a way, I felt liberated. In this situation, my hijab freed me from unwanted, disrespectful advances. I could relax a little. Personal opinions aside about the symbol of the hijab, it definitely had an effect on how men perceived me.

But should that be my responsibility? If men behave inappropriately towards women, why should we cover the women? Are women solely responsible for maintaining respectful relations between the sexes?

Maybe somebody should have a little powwow with the men.

Me trying out the local dress for a walk through downtown.

The dilemma looks different in different cultures, and it never applies to 100% of the population, but any woman—covered or not—should feel comfortable around men. There’s a way to pursue a woman respectfully, and it usually doesn’t start with shouting, “yela habibi,” at her on the street.

Regretfully, I won’t be able to sit down and chat with every guy who makes an inappropriate pass at me. But I, as well as Jordanian women I’ve met, refuse to avoid walking, shopping and commuting alone in this town just because of some disrespectful men.

So guys and gals, teach your friends and sons how to respect women…and their fellow humans in general. It will make life a lot easier for all.

“Ahlan. AH-LAN. Somebody say, ‘Marhaba,’ you say, ‘Ahlan,’” said Julie, struggling to find the right English words to communicate her point. She decided to intervene after listening to me butcher the Arabic ‘hello’ ritual with two guests of the Global Hope Network office here in Jordan.

“Allan. Ahalan. AHlan…good, right?” I said optimistically.

“Ok,” she conceded.

Moments later, another guest arrived and offered the expected, “Marhaba!”

“Ahlan,” I replied, trying to mask my enthusiasm for nailing this critical Jordanian greeting.

“Keef eck?” he shot back. I just smiled blankly, wishing I knew the next part of the ritual.

Julie rushed around the corner and ushered the guest into another room for his meeting. She walked back to me, leaned over and annunciated, “Temam. Te-mam. Keef eck? Temam.”

None of these things are in my pocket-sized Arabic phrase book. In fact, everything I say from that darn book— complete with world’s best-selling phrase books boasted across the cover—is met with blank stares, a combination of my horrible accent and the evolving, slang-laden language itself.

Jordanian life is mix of modernity and Middle Eastern tradition, like this red and white “kufia”—the male headscarf of Jordan and the gulf countries.

Obviously, words will not serve me well here in Jordan.

A Different World

Much of the Jordanian life is new to me. For starters, it’s not just a country—it’s the ‘Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan.’ The capital city, Amman, carries itself with as much poise as being a ‘kingdom’ suggests. The streets are clean, pedestrians saunter on smooth sidewalks, occasionally interrupted by a carefully placed tree, and beautiful Arabic script accentuates the arches of stone buildings. There’s still bustling traffic and open markets, but they bristle with life instead of chaos.

The rituals enthrall me—the two or three or more kisses for hello, the right word for thank you when someone feeds you (as opposed to other expressions of gratitude) and how people can enjoy hours of conversation around a cup of tea with cardamom.

I’m also enthralled by the omnipresent politics. Politics are big here in Jordan. Even the 11 year-old son of my host family loves watching the news (a close second to Turkish soap operas).

Beautiful shapes and colors accent the buildings of Amman.

Good Reputation

Jordan is the Switzerland of the Middle East, sitting precariously between Israel, Syria, Iraq, Saudi Arabia and Egypt. The nation enjoys amiable relations with all of them, aided by the fact that it’s accommodated millions of refugees over the years. The situation makes for an interesting political, cultural and religious dynamic.

Before arriving in Jordan, I knew it had a good reputation for freedom of religion. The country is over 90% Sunni Muslim, but it respects the rights of people who practice minority religions.

That tolerance opens the door for organizations like my host ministry, Global Hope Network International (GHNI). GHNI is working outside of Amman to support development in rural Jordan, to bring hope to the hidden and hurting—and they’re doing it because of Jesus.

The village life in Jordan is not as luxurious as the nice sections of Amman and other Jordanian cities.

Without Words

But what does religious freedom look like in a place where you must register your religious status with the government? Where “proselytizing” to Muslims— but not to any other group—is against the law? How does an organization like Global Hope Network pursue relief and development with Gospel-based principles without mentioning…well, the Gospel?

I asked Rami, Global Hope employee, that very question.

“We just show love,” Rami told me. “I don’t say a thing. We just love them.”

For me, that’s easier said than done. Being in a foreign land reminds me how much I rely on words. The Global Hope philosophy causes me to reflect on my own spiritual life. Are my words doing the talking when it comes to my faith? Do my actions alone reveal what I believe?

Global Hope employees, Julie and Rami, work to bring help to people and villages throughout Jordan.

Actions that Speak

If I follow a doctrine that calls me to be among the afflicted, then I want to be there. It’s so easy to get hung up on intellectualizing our faith, but in the grand scheme of things, arguing about the proper distribution of the sacraments might hinder the broader, more important messages we have to share.

Christians in Jordan may be limited by the powers that be, but the problem calls them to step up. Their actions must speak. Not only must their actions speak, but Christians here must be in communion with all people—of all faiths—to end poverty and injustice, to focus less on the title of “Christian” and more on the universally accepted teachings of Jesus.

And the teachings of Jesus call for action. We have much to learn from Global Hope and others working for social justice here in Jordan. I’m excited to follow in the wake of people who speak daily with more deeds than words.

I could barely lift my head against the weight. A dozen Kenyan mothers fussed over me as I tried to take a few steps and failed miserably. I tipped sideways and nearly dropped the “Kiondo,” or women’s basket, I was carrying on my head.

The other women started singing and dancing as they walked forward. The basket’s leather strap dug into my forehead, but I ignored the discomfort and joined them. Thirty Kenyan women swayed to a beat with huge baskets balanced perfectly on their heads, swishing their glamorous traditional gowns as they walked.

Our kitchen was filled with baskets of food for the dowry ... but I had no idea one would end up on my head!

I was a six-foot tall white woman who struggled to balance a very tiny basket, attempted to mumble Swahili words I’d never heard before and consistently moved two counts behind the beat.

I should have been out of place, but in that moment I truly felt like family.

A Day to Celebrate

They descended at around nine in the morning.

Aunts, uncles, cousins and a string of friends arrived en masse, dressed in their traditional finest. They toted baskets full of fruits, vegetables and maize flour. Two men carried in an entire branch heavy with green bananas. The back door of my house became a minefield of shoes and everyone required chai and cake at once.

And the festivities hadn’t even started yet.

I found out from one of the cousins that I would be attending the final of three engagement ceremonies before the actual church wedding. Each meeting represented a new stage of the two families becoming one. At the final meeting, both sets of parents haggled to determine the daughter’s dowry.

The groom, my brother Kagia (left), couldn’t stop smiling.

A variety of factors go into determining Kenyan woman’s dowry, including her individual skills and level of education. Part of the idea of the dowry is to bring the two families together. Instead of having the groom’s family pay the sum all at once, the payments are stretched out over an extended period to make sure that the two families stay connected.

To my disappointment, I wasn’t actually allowed to see the haggling over the bride price. Apparently that aspect of the marriage tradition is only for the fathers and their chosen spokesperson, a close friend who’s an excellent bargainer.

The rest of us were required to follow another grand tradition in African culture: feasting. I appropriately stuffed myself, convinced I couldn’t eat another bite. Then a small man thrust a platter of steaming nyama choma (roast meat) in my face.

“I’m ok,” I said. “But thanks.”

Every conversation around me stopped as I said it. Awkwardly, I dug around on the plate just so everyone would stop looking. I popped the smallest piece I could find in my mouth and tried to pass the plate. My neighbor wouldn’t take it from me, so I looked for another piece … and accidentally grabbed the biggest bone on the tray.

In the midst of gnawing on it, I listened as the two families welcomed everyone and began some introductions. But instead of stopping after introducing the bride and groom, the families began listing off members of the wedding party.

Kenyans certainly know how to eat.

Unfortunately, that also included me, the mzungu with nyama choma juice dripping down her chin.

My host father wasn’t really sure how to introduce me. He looked at me affectionately as he said something that made the others laugh, although I didn’t understand. I felt too awkward to ask for a translation, but eventually I understood I’d been labeled a “cousin.”

Someone pushed me to the front with twenty or so other “cousins” who were each supposed to explain how he or she was related to the bride or groom. My cheeks ached as I attempted to cover up my nervousness with a fake smile.

Somehow, I didn’t think “random American living with the groom’s parents” fell under the category of family.

A New Name

By the end of the night, I knew I’d certainly made an impression at the party. But whether that impression was good or bad, I wasn’t quite sure.

Therefore, when one of the more boisterous “aunties” approached me with the Kiondo and motioned to my head, I went for it. At that point, I really had nothing to lose.

Somehow, the basket stayed on my head the entire way to the bride’s house. I sang and moved along with the others, just like a Kenyan woman would. Well, maybe a little less gracefully. My neck was killing me by the end, but I did it.

The crowd of women helped me set the basket down and then all tried to grab my hands at once. One of the oldest got to me first.

My brother with his new wife, Kate and their one-year-old son, Ryan.

She grabbed my arm and using all of her might, proclaimed to the wedding guests, “Wanjiku!”

And the rest of the party cheered.

Later, I found out that Wanjiku is a family name. It’s given to every firstborn women in the family to honor the paternal grandmother. By receiving it, I officially took up a place in Kikuyu culture. Not to mention that I gained around 100 immediate family members.

Since then, my family doesn’t call me Molly. When the introduce me, they don’t say I’m their “American” friend or that I’m visiting. Instead, they say I’m their daughter, their Wanjiku.

On the day of the wedding my family says they intended to bring home a bride, but they ended up bringing home a mzungu as well. They gained two daughters.

And the thing is, I know they really mean it.

From the moment I learned Tanari owned a camp just 85 km north of Nairobi, I waited for the perfect opportunity to finagle my way into going.

Luckily, Timo, who coordinates Camp Malta, and I became quick friends. In addition to both cultivating a love of the outdoors throughout the years, we also developed a special fondness for lunch—over which we daily share stories of our wilderness adventures.

The view from my boda boda

Every couple of weeks, businesses, churches and schools rent Camp Malta for a weekend getaway along the Tana River.

This particular weekend, a group from a local university decided to make the trek.

Adventure Awaits

Once in Town, Timo led us down River Street to where we boarded the matatu taking us to Sagana. After we finally ventured outside the city, the lush, rolling landscape mesmerized me for the next several hours.

Tanari derives its name from the Tana River

Thinking things couldn’t possibly get any better, I literally shrieked with joy when I saw Timo negotiating fare with a boda boda—motorcycle—driver for the last leg of our journey. Since the ride up the hill was a mere 15 minutes, I adamantly refused the head kerchief my driver insisted I wear as I released my auburn tresses to the wind.

We cruised up the rocky dirt terrain to the camp’s locked gate.

“Lemme call Kimoja,” Timo said, reaching for his cell phone from his jeans pocket.

A few minutes later, a young man in a red t-shirt and black windbreaker pants arrived with the key.

“Karibu sana,” he said shaking my hand.

Welcome.

Sam’s Story

Kimoja (Swahili for “that one”)—or Sam—first came to Camp Malta in 2009. He worked as a housekeeper for the owner of the nearby energy plant, who recommended him to Timo when the camp needed a last minute caterer for an upcoming event.

After receiving a more than favorable report regarding the cuisine that weekend, Timo inquired about Sam’s other skills. Sam shared that in addition to cooking and cleaning, he also had experience as a gardener and as a construction worker. A seemingly tangible answer to Timo’s prayer for a groundskeeper, Sam was hired immediately. The only unforeseen difficulty was the matter of his salvation.

Sam and his daughter, Wendy

As he prepared a dinner feast of ugali and sukuma wiki, Sam eagerly shared his beliefs with me. Every day he reads his Bible and prays to God. Yet, he doesn’t consider himself a “born again” Christian. He has his reasons.

For 14 years, Sam lived with his mother and his sisters—he never knew his father. When his mother remarried his stepfather, Sam was instantaneously disliked by his new extended family that feared he would inherit their wealth as the only son.

After completing his third year of high school, financial hardship forced Sam to dropout to help provide for the family of “saved” Christians who continued to abhor him. Eventually, the living situation became so unbearable, he moved in with an aunt along the coast in Mombasa—where he learned the art of accommodating international travelers.

Around this time, Sam met his wife and began saving up to marry her when she finished school. During their several year courtship, Sam enjoyed simply being her friend while encouraging her to embrace the opportunity to complete her studies—one that had been taken away from him.

Yet, tragedy struck a few years after their marriage. Sam had been working as a boda boda driver until an accident caused him to lose his job. Injured and unemployed with a wife and a new baby girl, Sam asked God to heal him and also to provide him with a way to take care of his family.

Shortly after, he received the call from Timo regarding the catering gig.

Sam’s temporary home

A Welcome Reflection

As Sam finished slicing the tomatoes for the sukuma, I told him that he is a lucky man to have such a beautiful wife and such a beautiful daughter and to live in such a beautiful place.

He blushingly smiled and told me he knew and he thanked God every day.

I blushingly smiled wishing I could say the same.

Reveling in my unexpected encounter with a man unaware how he reflects God’s own heart, I thanked Sam for the delicious food, for his kind hospitality and for the refreshing conversation.

“Karibu.”

I couldn’t have thought of a more appropriate Kingdom greeting myself.

We were in the middle of Kibera Slum when Pastor Fred got the call.

After crossing a small bridge down the hill from Tumaini Church, Fred picked up his ringing phone and answered it.  He walked ahead a bit, listening intently to the voice on the phone.

When he ended the call, I caught up to him.  “My wife was having a small surgery today and there have been some complications,” he told me. “I am going to join her at the hospital.”

His voice remained calm, so I wasn’t worried.  I assumed by his tone that it wasn’t anything serious.

Pastor Fred, speaking with some members of his congregation in Kibera Slum.

That’s why the text message I received from Fred an hour later came as such a shock.  I had written Fred to check if everything was all right.  His response stunned me:

Goretty has regained consciousness, but the doctor says she needs an urgent CT scan. Pray.

Getting the Word Out

The text hit me like a slap in the face.

After an incredible summer living with them back in 2009, Fred and Goretty have become some of my dearest friends.  In many ways, they feel like family.  So you can imagine my horror at learning that Goretty was in such a serious condition.

As soon as I could find a computer, I sent out a quick email to the World Next Door Prayer team and left a short update on my Facebook and Twitter feeds.  Within minutes, I was already receiving responses.

“Praying.”

Kenyatta Hospital, a massive structure visible for miles.

“We will pray!!!”

“Praying now.”

Confident that the word was out, I walked over to Kenyatta Hospital to find Fred and Goretty.

Kenyatta

Kenyatta is Kenya’s national hospital.  Not as upscale as Nairobi Hospital or as technologically advanced as Aga Khan, Kenyatta is where the majority of people here go who cannot afford expensive medical care.

The building is an imposing square structure that looks more like a fortress or bunker than a hospital.  As I walked through the gate, I could see why such a huge building was necessary.  There were people everywhere.

Inside, I walked through the crowds and wandered around a bit lost, finally finding Fred after 10 minutes and several phone calls.  He took me into the “casualty” area of the hospital (essentially the ER), where Goretty lay on a gurney in the middle of the hall.

Filled In

As we waited for the CT scan, Fred filled me in on the details of just what was going on.

Goretty was in the hospital for a biopsy.  There is a small growth on her kidney that had caused some complications in the birth of her one-year old son, Fortune.  After a year, she was finally getting the growth checked to see if it was malignant or benign.

Apparently, during the biopsy the doctor became concerned about a “problem” in her brain and ordered an immediate CT scan.  And that was all that Fred knew.  The doctor, too busy to bother explaining what was going on, had simply moved on.

There are people everywhere in Kenyatta.

And that’s when I joined them.  Fred a bit freaked out about this mysterious “brain disease,” Goretty still groggy from the surgery and me, trying to figure out just what needed to be done…

A Look Around

As we waited, I took a look at our surroundings.  The greenish, flickering fluorescent lights gave the hallway an eerie feel. William, Goretty’s brother, held a bag of IV fluid over her.  Apparently, only a handful of gurneys at Kenyatta can hold IV bags.

Honestly, I was a bit shocked to see Goretty laying in the middle of it all, seemingly forgotten by the hospital staff.  We waited and waited, but doctors simply walked by.

I looked around, wondering if I could do something to speed things up. My American sense of entitlement and immediacy had me almost shaking with frustration.  That’s when I started noticing everyone else.

Filling the dark hallway was a long line of gurneys holding one desperately sick patient after another, each one surrounded by a small band of concerned friends and relatives.  Some of the patients were lying on their sides and moaning.  Others were trying to sleep.  As I looked, one woman threw up into a bag.

Every one of them was in line for an “urgent” procedure.  When all was said and done, the only thing they – and we – could do, was wait.

Finally

Goretty lying on her gurney in the hall (there are no photos allowed inside the hospital, so I snapped this one secretly with my phone).

After more than four hours (four HOURS!), Goretty had her CT scan, which returned normal results.  There was nothing wrong with her brain.  She was admitted to the hospital for the night to recover from the surgery, and returned to her home in Kibera shortly thereafter.

Then came the long wait for the biopsy results.  Fred had to take the tissue sample himself to a hospital on the other side of town, wait for five business days, then return to pick up the results.  Finally, he had to take the analysis back to Kenyatta to have it interpreted by a doctor.

Nearly two weeks after the surgery, we finally received the news that we had been waiting for.  The growth was benign.  Goretty is going to be ok.

A Breathtaking View

For obvious reasons, the whole experience was an emotional one for me.  At the hospital, seeing people I love in such physical and emotional distress, it was all I could do to keep from bursting into tears.

Watching as soft-spoken Fred politely asked doctors how much longer it would be, I was infuriated by their indifference.

Seeing the conditions faced by patients in Kenyatta, I was wrecked by the injustice of it all.

But amidst the injustice and the waiting and the pain, there was one moment that truly overwhelmed me.  The moment came while I was standing at the side of Goretty’s gurney.  I remembered the request for prayer I had left on Facebook and Twitter a few hours before.

Fred and Goretty’s two boys, Fadhili and Fortune.

I realized that, at that exact moment, there were believers all over the world praying for Goretty.  Indianapolis, Port-au-Prince, Baltimore, Zhytomyr… Brothers and sisters in Christ, lifting up one of their own.

In that moment I left the tight confines of that hospital hallway and looked around me at a breathtaking and unprecedented view: the global Church awakening in ways that we could have never imagined just a few decades ago.

It was a powerful, moving experience and one that I won’t soon forget.

Surrounded by poverty and sickness and despair, I had a smile on my face – a smile not caused by callousness or indifference.…

It was a smile caused by hope.

The checkpoint was packed with people.  It was a Friday morning, so crowds of Palestinian Muslims were heading into Jerusalem to worship at the Al-Aqsa mosque. I stood in line behind an elderly man with a long beard and a brilliant white keffiyeh on his head.

At first everyone was in a good mood.  Men shook hands with old friends, women chatted together… But as the minutes of waiting turned into hours, peoples’ patience started wearing thin.

The line crawled forward.  Every now and then, someone from the back of the line would walk to the front and try sneakily cutting in line.  Most times this would cause a chorus of angry shouts and arguments.

It was hot. It was crowded.  By the time I finally reached the metal detector and x-ray machine, everyone around me (including myself) was in a pretty sour mood.

High Tension

The checkpoint in Bethlehem, crowded on a Friday morning.

The checkpoint metal detector is always a bit chaotic.  People going back and forth to get plastic bins, older folks dropping coins, soldiers behind bullet proof glass giving orders…  On this day I managed to get through relatively quickly, which is more than can be said for some of the people next to me in line.

Through another turnstile, I entered the document check area.  Since the Second Intifada, Palestinians have been required to have permits if they want to enter Israel from the West Bank.

Although I can usually breeze through with my American passport, most Palestinians have to show their permits and submit to a fingerprint scan.  Israeli guards stand around holding assault rifles. I watched as one frustrated Israeli soldier argued with a Palestinian man about whether his permit was valid.

Finally, an hour and a half after entering, I made it out of the checkpoint, down a concrete ramp and onto a waiting bus headed for Jerusalem.

Someday Soon

I found a seat and I was just about to pop in my headphones and listen to my favorite podcast when a woman in her late 60’s sat next to me.  She had a large white bandage over her left eye and looked completely frazzled after getting through the checkpoint.

I put my headphones down and gave her a quick smile.

She gave a half-hearted smile back, but then let out a sigh and put her hand to her head.

“Wow.  It was pretty crowded today, huh?” I asked.

The prayer bracelet I received from the woman on the bus.

“It is terrible. Terrible!” she said. “They treat us like animals.” She took her entry permit and identification card out of her purse and handed them to me. “Look at that.  Like animals.”

She went on to explain that she is a Catholic Palestinian who had recently had eye surgery and needed to return to a hospital in Jerusalem for more treatment.

Because of her physical condition, she isn’t able to lean down without help.  However, in the checkpoint an Israeli guard made her lean over to take off her shoes.  She had tears in her eyes as she told me how humiliating it was.

“I am an old woman!  Who am I going to kill?”

Just then the bus started to roll.  She slowly shook her head and said, “Someday soon this will all be gone.  Someday soon the king will come.”  Then she rocked gently back and forth and repeated, “He will be king… He will be king… He will be king…”

I murmured a quiet agreement, a bit stunned to hear hope for the kingdom of God expressed in such a simple, tangible way.

Nobody Knows

After a few moments, she quieted down.  I smiled and began asking about her family.  We chatted for a few minutes about her home, but eventually the conversation turned back to the security wall.

My goal was to tell the story of the Palestinians I met.

“Nobody knows what happens here,” she said. “It’s very painful.”

“That’s actually why I’m here,” I told her. “I’m a writer.  I’m trying to write about what life is really like here so that people back home can understand.”

Suddenly she got very serious.  She turned, stared straight into my eyes and pointed her finger at me.

“Write this,” she said.  “Write this.”

After saying this, she started digging through her purse. She pulled out a small devotional bracelet (cheap wooden beads with pictures of the saints on them) and handed it to me.  She didn’t explain why.

I thanked her and looked up.  Unfortunately, my stop was next.  I apologized that we couldn’t talk more and said a quick goodbye. Then I stood, walked down the aisle and stepped off the bus.  As I walked down the street towards the Musalaha office, her words echoed in my head…

A Rallying Cry

“Write this.”

Those two words have become a bit of a rallying cry for me throughout this trip.  As I have waded into this tense and terrible conflict, I have sought to understand the issues as best I can so that I can turn around and share my experiences with you.

There is life in the midst of the brokenness here!

In some ways, I’ve been successful.  Several people have told me how helpful these articles have been for their understanding of Israel and Palestine.

But in other ways, I realize that there is so much more that needs to be shared.  In my four short weeks in the Holy Land, I have only scratched the surface of both the heartache and hope that exists here.

A Challenge

I may return one day in the not too distant future to pick up where I left off, but for now, I want to leave you with a simple challenge:  get involved.  Don’t sit on the sidelines anymore.  Get in the game.

How?

Well, there are ways to join in the work of Musalaha, our partner organization here.  They always need financial and prayer support, but they are also currently looking for volunteers with a gift of writing (email me if you’re interested in learning more).

The people I met here will always have a place in my heart.

But beyond such tangible ideas, there are ways to engage your life with the Israeli/Palestinian conflict.

Reserve a portion of your heart for those who have lost loved ones in the conflict.  Pray that they would seek forgiveness rather than vengeance.  Ask God to continue to build his kingdom in this land.

And finally, be intentional about learning more.  Throughout my articles here I have recommended several books and websites you can use for further reading.  Take a look!  Dig deep!  Perhaps you too will have your perspective on the world completely changed.

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As I leave the Holy Land, my head is swimming with new ideas, my heart is overflowing with passion, and my feet are yearning to keep the journey going.

In the midst of many new conflicts and injustices, I have been given a new glimpse into the power of the kingdom.  Hatred has a whole new meaning for me now.  But so does forgiveness.

As I return to “everyday life” in America, I know one thing for sure:  my life will never be the same…

Well, my time in Haiti is over.  Although it was a very short trip, it was truly a fantastic one!  While I was there I got to dive deep into Nehemiah Vision Ministries’ child sponsorship program and spend a lot of time with the wonderful people of Chambrun.

I am thrilled to announce that, as of the writing of this article, we have helped to secure 15 new sponsors for NVM!  Because these 15 families, groups and individuals are willing to support children in Chambrun, the readers of World Next Door are playing a significant role in the transformation of that community.

Poverty is not something that can be fixed quickly!

Now, our goal remains 25 sponsors, and I will continue to push for new ones whenever I have a chance. But before we bring the articles for this trip to a close, I want to share with you one final perspective I found fascinating on this trip…

Good Intentions

Please take a moment to watch this clip from a TV show called No Reservations (if you are really strapped for time, watch only the second half).  In the show, Anthony Bordain, a chef and travel writer, visits post-earthquake Haiti to sample some of the country’s cuisine.

What he accidentally discovers through an act of good-will is just how complex and difficult aid and development can be.

First of all, props to Mr. Bourdain for being so honest about the results of his actions.  Many Westerners insist on believing that everything they do is helping, rather than hurting.  It took quite a bit of humility to admit that his plan backfired!

But what he learned in going for the “quick-fix” was an extremely important lesson… there is no easy way to bring about change in Haiti.

Long Haulers

Because of NVM, this child has a future…

This, my friends, is why I am so impressed with the work of Nehemiah Vision Ministries.

They are not working for a “quick fix.”  In fact, most of the things NVM is doing in the village of Chambrun won’t bear real fruit for many years.

But they are not in it for instant, feel-good results.  Pastor Esperandieu and his team are “long-haulers.”  They are not doing relief. They are doing development.

Instead of simply handing out food or money, they are providing a generation of children a quality education.  Instead of coming in to do a couple of major evangelistic events, they are painstakingly building a congregation with its roots deep in the village community.  Instead of simply bandaging wounds and handing out painkillers, they are educating the people of Chambrun about how to stay healthy in the first place.

You get the picture.

Very little of what NVM does looks great on a spreadsheet.  Board meetings aren’t accompanied by skyrocketing graphs.

But although the children of Chambrun aren’t much better off now for knowing geography and long division, when they grow into adults they will be equipped to work and earn a living in ways their parents could have never dreamed.

Think About It

This is why I am excited about child sponsorships.  Instead of pouring our money into an endless string of “quick-fixes,” we now have the opportunity to invest in a ministry that is truly in it for the long-haul!

Are you willing to be a part of the development of Chambrun?

So think about it.  If you haven’t already, take a look at the many children in Chambrun that are still awaiting sponsors by clicking here.

Pray and consider… Are you being called to invest in the work of NVM?

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Anthony Bordain learned the hard way that there is no easy answer to the poverty of a country like Haiti.  But I wonder… How would his perspective have changed if he’d eaten rice and beans with the kids of Nehemiah Vision Ministries?

It wouldn’t exactly be gourmet cuisine, but I guarantee you of one thing… it would be a meal he’d never forget!

Since the middle of last year I have written several times about a remarkable family called the Elliotts.  Aaron, Shelli and their three children Isabel, Sydney and Sitota are currently in the middle of a year-long adventure in Chambrun, Haiti working with Nehemiah Vision Ministries.

Although they are by most accounts a standard suburban American family, they have been following the Path of Yes for many years.  Saying “yes” to God so consistently has led them to some interesting and unexpected places.  Apart from taking numerous short term trips all over the world, Aaron and Shelli recently took the huge step of adopting an Ethiopian orphan and are now living in Haiti for a full year.

From left, Isabel, Sydney and Sitota.

While I was down in Haiti writing about NVM’s child sponsorship program, I had the chance to catch up with the Elliotts and to see where this current adventure has taken them…

Worn Out

When Aaron and Shelli picked me up at the airport, I could tell that they were worn out.  After four months in-country (three and a half of which were spent living in a tent!), they looked just plain exhausted.

As we drove out to Chambrun together, I began to understand why.

On the ministry front, Aaron and Shelli have helped to organize and train a ton of short term trip teams from the U.S. and Canada.  In the first 10 weeks of their stay, they hosted, taught, cooked for and debriefed over 350 people!  Having traveled with many high-maintenance American teams myself, I know how exhausting this can be… 

Aaron himself has made countless trips to the airport to pick up new teams, often making the trip three times in one day.  Sometimes it takes 45 minutes to get to the airport.  Other times it takes 2 hours.  Oh, and one time Aaron had to charge through a roadblock set up by angry protesters who were throwing things… You know. The usual.

There is lots of room for the kids to run around, but somehow they still manage to have a ton of extra energy…

The Kids

And then there are the kids.

Along with Shelli’s responsibilities with visiting teams, she is homeschooling Isabel and Syndey and trying to maintain a healthy family in the middle a developing country.  And although the girls work hard and usually have good attitudes, meltdowns and tantrums do happen from time to time.

But those normal emotional outbursts are nothing compared to what Sitota is capable of.  He really is a tornado.   In total “boy” fashion, Sitota manages to hit, deface or destroy just about everything he touches.  One time he poured nail polish all over their TV.  If Sitota isn’t happy in time-out, he’ll let everyone know.

Let’s just put it this way: raising children in a place like Chambrun is no easy task, no matter which country you’re from.

A Sunday Drive

All of this came to a head last month when the Elliotts went to the Dominican Republic border to renew their visas.

When these kids get back to “normal” life, they will never be the same!

Their leisurely drive was cut short when they came across a major tap-tap accident (a form of public transportation).  With the help of local police, they had to rush the crash victims back to the NVM clinic in Chambrun.

After things were under the control of the clinic staff, they began their journey again.  This time, they faced car-sickness, lots of sibling pestering and one complaint after another of thirst, hunger, exhaustion, etc.

The border was chaos.  Trucks everywhere trying to get into Haiti, lots of sketchy people asking them for their passports and for money, fights breaking out right next to them…  It was overwhelming.  Getting their passports stamped took around three hours.

When they finally returned to Chambrun that afternoon they were exhausted, frustrated and emotionally spent.

Calling

With all of these difficult and emotionally draining experiences, I think it’s natural to ask if it’s really worth it for the Elliotts to be in Haiti.  Wouldn’t it be easier for them to just go home and have someone else do the work?

Well, after spending a week with them, I think I know the answer.  Yes. It would be a lot easier for them to give up and go home.  But that is not what they are called to do.

Pastor Pierre, director of NVM, goes on and on about Aaron and Shelli.  “I have never seen someone so willing to just come and serve here,” he said about Aaron.  “Most Americans come in with their agendas and their plans, but Aaron simply comes in with open hands.”

It’s not difficult to understand why he feels that way.  With Aaron and Shelli taking over the responsibilities of caring for visiting teams, Pastor Pierre is free to pursue his own calling of growing his ministry.

Shelli and Aaron, we are all impressed with your bravery. Keep it up!!!

Because of Aaron and Shelli, Nehemiah Vision Ministries is better able to pull the village of Chambrun out of poverty.  Although it may feel difficult and overwhelming from time to time, they are directly helping the lives of impoverished Haitians every day.

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I don’t know about you, but when I hear stories of brave Christ followers like Aaron, Shelli and the kids, I am inspired to push ahead with my own calling even more.  Although they have faced many bumps in the road, they are moving forward, trusting that God will be there to meet them.

I want to live my life like that.

So keep on pushing ahead, Elliotts.  We believe in you!

Hello there!  Welcome back!  It’s been a busy winter.

Since coming home from Cambodia, I’ve been focusing in on a lot of the behind-the-scenes stuff that keeps World Next Door running: fundraising, administration, selecting our summer interns and working with our Kenyan partners to prepare for the summer.

But now we’re jumping back into the heart of what World Next Door is all about… new articles!!!

I’ll find out how Haiti is developing.

To kick off our spring season, I am heading back to Port-au-Prince, Haiti to reconnect with our partner ministry, Nehemiah Vision Ministries.  Here is what you can look forward to from this trip:

Haiti Checkup

Me with the Dazmas, the family that hosted me in their tent.

I’ll ask lots of questions, walk through downtown Port-au-Prince and visit tent villages to find out what, if anything, has happened since I was last there.  How has the rebuilding been going and what do we, as Americans, need to know now that the international media has moved on?

Checking in with the Dazmas

Although I won’t have time to stay very long, I will definitely check in with the family that graciously hosted me in their tent last time, the Dazmas.  I’ll learn how their situation has changed and find out what the future holds for this incredibly hospitable family.

Elliott Family Update!

As many of you know, the Elliotts (dear friends of mine) are a family of five that bravely chose to live in Haiti for a year to work with Nehemiah Vision Ministries.  Now, four months into their year-long adventure, we will find out how life is treating them in the village of Chambrun.

With NVM’s child sponsorship program, you can directly change the life of a Haitian child!

NVM’s Child Sponsorships

Finally, I will be digging deep into Nehemiah Vision Ministries’ excellent child-sponsorship program.  I will begin personally sponsoring a child and will spend time with him and his family, writing about how his life will change now that he has a chance to go to NVM’s school.

Our goal for this trip is to secure 25 new sponsors for NVM.  I count as number 1, so we have 24 more to go!  Perhaps you will be one of them.  For $40 a month you can forever change the life of a child in Haiti.  Think about it…

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All that to say… stay tuned.  It’s going to be a short, but very sweet trip to Haiti!