Homeward Bound.

I have officially booked my flight. 

I am officially moving to Phuket, Thailand on January 7th, 2014. 

It feels completely surreal to see my name on an e-ticket to Phuket. 

Mostly because for months, there has been a little voice inside my head telling me I'm not meant to do this. 

That I am not meant to travel the world and tell stories. 

I am not meant to introduce people to the great, uncontainable love of Jesus. 

That I should just suck it up and stay here because I'm turning 23 and it's time to start actually working and saving for retirement... or something like that. 

I guess my whole internal conflict comes from hearing people talk about how hard missions are,

and how they had to literally give up everything to go. 

And in my heart, I know that's true most of the time. 

But the dream I have for my life, the deepest desire of my heart is to do missions. 

It honestly feels like I had to give up everything to come home... 

I would silently wonder if something was wrong with me because I WANT to be uncomfortable, and sweaty, and stared at constantly for my white skin. 

I thrive eating mystery meat and dancing for 3 hours in church. 

I live for the moments when I get to worship under more stars than I've ever seen,

and I am much more comfortable sleeping on the floor than a bed now... 

So I've been struggling with this idea.

Shouldn't I want to stay here like everyone else God? 

Shouldn't I be comfortable here?

Shouldn't I love being close to my family and friends?

I guess the answer is no. 

Because the fact that I am so assured in my spirit that this was the life I was always created to live, it makes me actually shake with joy knowing that I am stepping into my destiny.

I'm tired of thinking that my dreams aren't allowed to line up with God's dreams. 

And honestly, if it weren't for God's plans, I wouldn't be here in the first place. 

I am not saying that I didn't have to give up things when I chose this life.

I've had to give up a lot in the past, and will have to give up a lot when I get on my plane on January 7th.

I am leaving the best roommates I will probably ever have. 

Meeting guys is almost impossible overseas (not that I'm looking to meet guys, but I do want to get married eventually...) 

I'm trusting God that my family will be alright without me. 

I'm trusting God that my friends here won't forget about me. 

I'm giving up security and choosing faith instead. 

which we all know is never easy. 

I guess what I'm trying to say is I have never been more excited to do anything in my life. 

My dreams are coming true. 

It has been one heck of journey leading up to this, but it will pale in comparison to the journey I am stepping into. 

I am still looking for monthly supporters as well as one time donations. 

If you feel led to donate, please look at the support page for instructions on how to do so. 

Michael

This is for little Jacob. 

Because he lived, and he died.

And it mattered. 

Swaziland. 

A country plagued by HIV/AIDS. 

A country nestled in the arms of South Africa.

A country with beautiful, rolling landscapes and strong mountains. 

We arrived in Swaziland after a very long, sticky, bus ride. 

We had met at one of our teams locations in Mozambique and all 50 of us piled onto two bus-like vans. 

As we headed out, there was the usual excitement in the air. 

Starting new. 

New month.

New country. 

New ministry. 

As minutes turned to hours, I put my headphones in and stared blankly at the African countryside.

We reached the border, and it started raining. 

Our driver didn't have a passport. 

T.I.A. 

Nothing surprises me anymore, I thought.

We all laughed, because we had already gone through customs and exited Mozambique so we couldn't go back in. 

But we weren't allowed to continue into Swaziland because our driver couldn't legally drive us. 

So we were stuck in no-mans-land. 

Hours passed. 

Darkness fell and a smooth, lurking fog crept in. 

We sat on the pavement and prayed. 

The border was closing at 8pm, and none of us really wanted to spend the night at an unprotected border crossing in the middle of Africa. 

At 7:48pm, the other driver we had called for came barrelling around the bend and we all cheered and praised God for His unrelenting faithfulness. 

On we went. 

I stared out the window into the blackness and rain that surrounded our vehicle and dreamed of what this next month could look like. 

God had spoken to me about Swaziland many times throughout my preparation for the race and I knew there was something big waiting for me here. 

This would be a month of transformation, I was sure of it. 

God had big plans for me and Swaziland, I just didn't know what they were. 

We dropped one team off at their ministry location and after being blessed with a dry place to sit and some fanta to drink from their contact, we were on our way. 

It was 11pm.

I was tired. 

Rikki needed a pillow so I gave her mine. 

I don't know how long it took for us to get to the mountain. 

I lost all sense of time. 

Our contact had sent her son in a truck to the base of the mountain so that we could find the nearly hidden road leading up into the rain. 

As we headed up, we could tell the driver was struggling. 

The jerking and grinding of the transmission was only one indicator. 

We had been driving for about ten minutes when all of a sudden, the engine roared to an angry stop. 

Literally sitting at a 45 degree angle.

It took me a moment to acknowledge that we had stopped. 

I didn't really understand the gravity of the fact that we were stuck on a random mountain in Swaziland in my sleep deprived stupor. 

I looked at my iPod, my eyes protesting at the sudden flash of light to my retinas. 

2:37am. 

Our men decided it would be best if we all got out of the bus and they tried to push it to get it started. 

After what seemed like an hour, the bus came roaring past us as we hiked up the mountain. 

Our contacts came with an SUV and picked up some of our squadmates that had gotten sick from the bumpy, winding roads. 

Once we knew the bus was running for good, we piled back in and marvelled at how the mountain just kept going up. 

I thanked God over and over that we didn't have to hike this in the cool darkness. 

Another hour went by as the poor bus chugged away, transmission screaming in protest the whole way. 

We reached the top of the mountain and tried to decide who was going to sleep where.

Our contacts had prepared dinner for us at 6pm and they wanted us to eat, so we did. 

At 4:43am I climbed into a broken bed with Rikki beside me. 

We woke up at 10:30 to go to church.

I remember being woken up to screams of delight and my teammates claiming that they had never seen something so beautiful. 

Climbing out of my cocoon of a sleeping bag, I stumbled expectantly to the window. 

Breathtaking was an understatement. 

It seemed impossible not to fall on your face and worship for God's incredible creation.

This was our home for the next 4 weeks. 

 I wandered through the days and weeks waiting for my "big thing" to show up. 

I felt swallowed whole by the lies of the enemy. 

I would sit out on the rock every day and watch the sunset, or cry under the stars, not knowing where I fit. Not knowing how to be okay. Not knowing how to push through. 

I was broken.

I was beat up. 

I was squashed under the weight of the atmosphere of the whole country.

I could feel the hearts crying out for truth, but I couldn't get up off the floor to give it them. 

Did I even know what the truth was? 

Because I couldn't find here.

Not when there are hungry bellies and hopelessness hanging on every human I encounter. 

Two weeks in, everything changed. 

A woman showed up at the orphanage. 

She didn't tell anyone her name. 

She looked frail, like the wind could blow her right off the mountain. 

In her arms she held tightly to a massive bundle of blankets.

As the staff approached her, she held out the blankets. 

The way she carefully transferred them to the Auntie's arms gave me the impression that these were not just blankets. 

The Auntie looked into the blankets and smiled. 

That's when I realized there was a baby inside the bundle of cloth. 

A baby? 

This small woman was bringing her baby here? For what?

They talked, and exchanged knowing glances. 

And then the Auntie brought the bundle of blankets into the baby house and the woman turned and began her journey back down the mountain. 

I found out later that the woman had tried to get money for her baby. 

In that moment, I wondered how on earth someone could be so desperate that they would feel the need to sell their own child? 

How is life ever that bad?

But then I thought of her. 

And how the tears ran down her cheeks as she handed her sweet baby over to a stranger. 

I thought of how her hands trembled as she wrung them nervously. 

And how she put her head down and walked away, probably knowing she would never see her child again. 

And my heart broke for her. 

For her child. 

How Jesus? 

How is this even real?

How is someone so bound by poverty and illness that they have to give their children away?

How do I tell these kids that they are loved and wanted when many of them have stories similar to this?

Is this country even redeemable?

The moment I first looked into that bundle of blankets, I knew that it had to be. 

If only for this one little boy. 

This little baby boy who, with one glance, stole my heart completely. 

When I looked into that bundle of blankets, I saw two big, brown, knowing eyes staring back at me.

Eyes that seemed too big for his face. 

His little mouth opened as he wheezed for air. 

The skin on his cheeks was rough and dry. 

His scalp was peeling badly due to malnutrition. 

They said he was three months old, but he was much too small to be three months. 

He looked like a newborn. 

Frail and scaly. 

But I looked at him and I loved him. 

He became my safe place. 

We needed each other. 

I would go every single day to the baby house just to hold him.

I would look into his tiny face and everything would melt away into the sounds of his cooing.

Or the excruciatingly cute way he would snore when he fell asleep in my arms. 

The Auntie's who ran the baby house would laugh as they saw me coming.

"Here is YOUR baby!" they would laugh as they handed him over time and time again. 

And he was my baby. 

In my heart, I knew that my days in Swaziland were quickly coming to a close, but I couldn't think about leaving him. Not yet. 

He didn't have a name.

I decided I would name him Cedric, which means "loved". 

And oh, was he loved by me and everyone around me.

It was only a few days before I left that they decided to name him Michael. 

I would sit on the wooden playground outside of the baby house with him in my arms everyday. 

I would watch him smile at me over and over.

He would coo and gurgle noises at me constantly, like he was telling me stories. 

Like he was telling me how much he loved me too.

He would look right into my eyes and he would tell me.  

I would lay in bed at night and have visions of him running around as a toddler in my living room at home. 

I imagined him laughing and giving me that charming smile from the backseat of my car. 

I imagined him snuggling up with me in my bed, while I sang him to sleep.

I inquired if it were even possible for someone to adopt internationally from Swaziland. 

The answer was made sense to me, but didn't lessen the blow at all. 

Because of the AIDS epidemic overtaking the country and the theory that it Swazi people will be extinct by the year 2050, 

the King of Swaziland wants to keep all the children in the country. 

I very seriously considered dropping out of the race and staying in Swaziland. 

I very seriously considered adopting Michael. 

I didn't care what my team thought.

I didn't care that I was unmarried and only 21. 

I prayed and prayed for him to be mine legally. 

But I felt like God was saying to trust Him with my baby. 

The day came to begin our travel to Thailand, and I wasn't ready. 

I kept telling myself that I needed to walk up to the baby house and say goodbye to Michael because I might never see him again. 

But I couldn't do it. 

I couldn't look into his big, brown eyes and tell him that I wouldn't be coming back.

I couldn't hold his tiny body and feel his tiny heartbeat knowing that I wouldn't feel it again. 

I couldn't. 

I just couldn't. 

Because if I didn't say goodbye, maybe he would know that I was going to come back for him one day. 

I sat near the back of the bus. 

I stared out the window as the acacia trees flew by and we made our way down the mountain for the last time. 

I was leaving my heart behind, swaddled in blankets, and it was one of the hardest things I've ever done. 

Yesterday, 

I was shown a recent picture of Michael by one of my teammates who had friends who went to the very same orphanage we worked at. 

I couldn't hold back the tears as I looked into the tiny face of a boy who still has my heart completely. 

I couldn't seem to look away. 

I studied every part of his face, memorizing it again. 

I've missed so much of his little life, and that kills me. 

But I think the hardest part about it all is knowing he will never remember me. 

He will never remember the countless hours he spent wrapped up in my arms.

He will never know how desperately I loved him. 

How desperately I still love him. 

How my arms ache to hold him.

How my heart yearns to know what his little laugh sounds like. 

I don't know if I will ever get to hold him again.

I don't know if I'll ever see his charming smile again. 

But I do know that I gave him everything I had to give. 

I loved him unlike any other. 

And even though he won't remember it, I will. 

I will remember him the rest of my life. 

Baby Michael changed everything for me.

He rescued me from the pit of lies I was in. 

He shifted my perspective.

And somewhere in the middle of nowhere Swaziland, 

there is a little boy who will have my heart forever. 

1:08 AM

I've been trying to write for days. 

I've spent countless hours in Starbucks, in my bed, in my secret place, trying to form my thoughts and mould my heartbeats into cohesive words. To no avail. 

I've been less inspired than usual, lately. I suppose that's alright sometimes though. I don't always have to have everything tied together with a pretty bow. I don't need everything I do to scream with creativity. 

Lately, I've felt dried up. Nothing left to give. Tired. So very tired. 

Yet here I am, at 1:08am knowing that I have a very full day of chasing 12 two year olds ahead of me, writing. Feeling the need to somehow pour my soul into something. 

What happened to the love of writing that I used to possess? I used to find joy in forming perfectly crafted sentences, intentionally placing words and then replacing them. I used to love writing. Now it seems such a burden to make my thoughts sounds even remotely comprehensive. 

I have a burden to tell the story. My story. Their stories. 

At night, I dream of their faces. One by one, they flash by my mind's eye like a movie replaying over and over. It's a good thing. I don't want to forget them. But how do I find words that mean enough? How I put together sentences and paragraphs that could ever mean enough? They are not just stories. They are people. Humans. That I loved. Babies that I gave every part of my heart to. Old women who I laughed with. Prostitutes I cried for. 

They are so much more than just stories to me. 

I want more than anything to do them justice. If I am called to write their stories, then I want to do it with excellence. I want them to be more than stories to everyone else. 

And I just can't seem to find the words. But I guess that's alright sometimes too.

I'm learning what it means to rest. I'm learning that it's okay to be a little selfish sometimes. I learning that boundaries are necessary. I'm learning that I need vulnerability to function. 

So I'm just going to rest. And see where this thing goes. Maybe in doing so, I'll find my heart again.