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. 

Stories.

As of today, I have been home for seven months and sixteen days. 

The year and a half I spent overseas was just the beginning of a much bigger picture God has begun to paint with my life. 

But embedded within it are the stories, and the lives of others. 

I carry them with me, like precious stones hanging from my neck. 

Holding onto the beauty of them, but suffocating under the weight.

I always said I would be a storyteller. 

It was a childhood dream of mine. 

Going on the race and finally being able to launch myself into a bigger dream of mine

allowed me to realize that I had neglected my dream of storytelling. 

I met hundreds of different people from a hundred different cultures. 

I cried a thousand tears for them. 

I laughed with them. 

I loved them. 

For the past seven months, I've held onto these precious memories.

Begging my mind to not forget the smells, the emotions, the life. 

But time seems to steal the rawness, the reality of it all, 

 despite my desperate attempts to keep the sand from slipping from my fingers. 

I always said I would be a storyteller.

So it's time now to tell the stories that I didn't know how to tell seven months ago. 

It's time now to let the world hear. 

I don't know how to even go about tackling something like this. 

I want more than anything to do them justice. 

I want to convey their stories in such a way that people really hear, see, smell, feel everything I'm writing. 

I don't feel equipped, or ready, or remotely prepared to jump into this. 

But I will try, if only for them. 

I always said I would be a storyteller...

Freedom Street.

Bangla Road, Patong. 

Phuket, Thailand. 

I have spent a lot of time trying to avoid actually writing about things that happened on Bangla because this is the place my heart was completely destroyed. Transformed. Moulded into something completely different. 

And it's hard to talk about the things you see when you know there is no way to accurately describe the smells, the music, the lights, the heartbreak. 

It was the hardest month of the race in many ways.

But the absolute best in so many others. 

Bangla Road was where I found Him.

Staring up at the glass boxes where white girls danced against their own free will.

Completely void of emotion. 

These women are not women at all, I thought

They are shells. 

Carbon copies of whoever their customers/pimps/tourists wanted them to be. 

Staring up, as a beautiful Russian girl twirled aimlessly on a pole, completely unaware of me. 

Completely unaware of the street below her. 

Completely unaware of anything but her own sorrow. 

That was the moment my heart broke in a way it never has. 

That was the moment my heart found His. 

And I was forever changed. 

It's impossible to ignore what the Lord does to your heart on Bangla. 

It was one of the hardest things I've ever done, walking down that road every night. 

But I had hope. 

I STILL have hope. 

And proof that Jesus is faithful to the prayers we prayed, the tears we cried, the hope we poured out over a year ago. 

Bangla road is actually about two blocks of neon lights with side streets. 

The side streets (called soi's) are where the majority of the bars are located, and each have a separate name. 

Soi Eric is right smack in the middle of Bangla and in the absolute centre of the red light district. 

We were told as we arrived to SHE ministries that we were not to go down Soi Eric. 

It was completely off limits due to some spiritual things and some local discrepancies. 

During the first week we were in Phuket, 

My teammate Kayla and I had the opportunity to prayer walk down Bangla Road. 

We walked down to the beach, and prayed there for a while. 

And as we were headed back up towards the giant mall at the other end, we stopped. 

We were right in front of Soi Eric. 

It was during the day so it was practically empty, save for a few maintenance men and bar owners setting up for the night. 

Kayla put her hand on a sign labelling it Soi Eric.

She said as she looked down the street, that all she could see was churches filling the empty bars. 

We prayed and declared together that Soi Eric was a place of freedom. 

The place where the Lord resides. 

We declared churches to blossom and for people searching for life to fill the empty bar stools.  

We stood in silence for a minute, 

knowing that even though we couldn't set foot in any of those bars, the Lord was working there. 

Every time Kayla and I would pass Soi Eric, we would glance at each other with silent knowing. 

God is going to do something big here. 

We would pray and declare freedom every time we passed by. 

And we left it at that. 

We left it in God's hands

and trusted that we did all that we could do. 

Today, I was flipping nonchalantly through my instagram feed, when I saw a picture a friend had taken of their Facebook status. 

This is what it read:

"Hearing that one of the Soi's down Bangla in Phuket is now called Freedom Street and no longer a part of the bar scene today, really encouraged me! Jesus does answer our prayers... This one has been 3.5 years in the works for me-and hundreds of others (really since 2006-for SHE) He is faithful!"

When I asked her which Soi it was, 

I could only hope. 

She excited exclaimed "Soi Eric!"without knowing my heart yearned for it. 

Immediately, I started crying. 

It was kind of like that awkward laughing and crying in complete jubilation. 

Soi Eric. 

Aka: FREEDOM STREET. 

Soi Eric. 

The centre of Bangla Road and the red-light district in Patong.

A street that was completely untouchable. 

Redeemed. 

Free. 

Something that seemed so impossible...

Oh my heart. 

How incredibly faithful Jesus is. 

He has shown me time and time again that He hears my prayers, 

but this one was so close to my heart....

I can't even handle it.

The joy in my heart is indescribable.

There is now a sign outside of Soi Eric that reads

"reserve your business spot today!" 

How FAITHFUL. 

How incredibly faithful. 

Join us in prayer for the businesses and CHURCHES (in Jesus' name) that are going to reside there now. 

No bars.

No clubs.

No ping pong shows. 

Just life. 

The Place Where My Heart Lives.

**all names have been changed for the protection of the women

I sat on the blue lounge chair, the light breeze shifting my short hair. 

I closed my eyes. 

The suns rays beat down on my face turning the inside of my lids a blazing red. 

I could hear the crystal clear waves lapping the white shore a mere 6 feet away. 

I listened to Ann*, her delicate friend and my squadmate laugh and splash each other in the bath-like water. 

I felt a drop of sweat slide off my forehead. 

Though many people saw it as a bad thing, 

I found that the humidity was comforting in a way. 

It made me feel like I was safe, comfortable, held close as it pressed incessantly against my skin. 

I was completely content. 

Happy.

Blessed. 

Right where I was supposed to be. 

My thoughts turned to her. 

Ann. 

Her laugh was so beautiful.

I wondered how many times tourists heard her real laugh. 

I could probably count the times on one hand. 

I hated that. 

I wanted to make sure that she was safe and in a place where she could laugh freely at all hours of the day. 

I realized then that I only had two weeks left in this place. 

My heart started to beat faster as I realized that in 14 days, I would have to say goodbye to her. 

To Bam*.

To Pearl*, who, to this day, I still can't bring myself to talk about without crying. 

To every girl I had come to love in such an incredibly short time. 

What is two weeks in the scheme of things?

Nothing. 

It's no time at all. 

And I was almost out of time. 

I kept my eyes closed and silently begged God for more time. 

I just need more time. 

It was then that He promised I would be back.

And I've held on to that promise for over a year. 

Since that moment, 

I have prayed for, cried for, longed for Phuket. 

When I got on the bus to Bangkok and then to Cambodia, 

I vowed to myself that I would do whatever it took to get myself back there and love those women right out of those bars. 

I left my heart there,

knowing it would be painful.  

Knowing that if I did, 

I would have to go back and get it. 

And so begins my journey back to where my heart lives. 

I cannot seem to find the words to express how grateful I am,

 to not only be given the opportunity to go back and love these women, 

but to also fulfill the deepest desire of my heart and to be a part of my dream ministry. 

To make this happen, 

I need to raise $10,000 which will allow me to live there for 2 years. 

My goal is to have $5,000 by the time I leave in January. 

If you are passionate about human trafficking and seeing justice brought to the nation of Thailand, 

but don't have the means to go, 

you can make a huge impact by partnering with me in my mission,

either prayerfully or financially. 

I am not expecting you to pay my way there. 

I'm expecting God to. 

But I also want to give you the opportunity to be a part of what the Lord is doing in me and in the nations. 

I want you to have the opportunity to be a part of something more, something tangible. 

I want you to have the opportunity to impact the nations. 

If you feel led to give, 

you can do so in person, or through the donate button on the right hand side of this page. 

Thank you to everyone who has faithfully supported me all throughout this crazy journey the Lord has me on. I promise, it does NOT go unnoticed. 

Please let me know if you would like to go for coffee so I can tell you more about my heart for Thailand and how God is putting things together so far. 

Much Love! 

Here's to the Dub.

June 9th. 

Exactly one year ago today, I boarded a plane in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia 

bound for China and then Los Angeles. 

I remember getting on the bus that would take us to the airport.

I sat near the front and stared out the window. 

My second to last flight of that season was about to happen, 

and I was so ready. 

But so NOT ready at the same time. 

I remember thinking over and over 

"I can't believe it's over. I can't believe it's actually over."

During the race, I was pretty sure the end would never come. 

We would talk about home. 

Dream about eating at our favourite restaurants, or the luxury of being able to be in a room by ourselves. 

I couldn't wait to get home and sleep in my bed for the first time in just short of a year. 

I had waited what seemed like forever to hug my family members. 

I was beyond excited to be around Canadians for the first time in a year.

But that meant saying goodbye to 49 Americans who had completely stolen my heart. 

My squad, my family, my mentors, my best friends. 

Bittersweet. 

So, so bittersweet. 

We arrived in LAX and everyone went their separate ways. 

I went to a hotel with 4 of squadmates and later that night, set out to explore Hollywood. 

The next morning, 

I said goodbye for real, and got on a plane by myself for the first time in a year, 

my parents and my brother ahead of me and the only family I had known for the past year behind me.

  

Since that day, 

God has been so faithful. 

I had the incredible opportunity to led an amazing group of girls as we ministered in Kenya, 

and I got to see them become amazing women.

I'm so honoured that I got to be a part of their journey, 

and I will cherish those 4 months forever. 

I came home from Kenya with a deeper intimacy with the Lord

and a whole new set of leadership skills. 

As I embraced a new season, I was brought into a family. 

A beautiful community similar to the race. 

Now I'm serving at Imagine Church and preparing to move to Thailand in six short months. 

It's been a crazy year. 

It's been hard, but like they say on the race; 

if it wasn't hard it would be boring.

And this year has definitely been anything but boring. 

I am missing my beautiful Dub squad more than ever today. 

I wish I could hug all of them, 

or sit down and talk about all the things God is doing and everything He's put on my heart. 

I wish I could laugh with them and take 30 bus rides with them. 

Eat Chik-fil-A with them.

Love them and be loved by them. 

So here's to the Dub.

You guys changed me, 

you loved me like I've never been loved.

You taught me so much and I never could have made it through that crazy trip without you. 

I miss all of you so so much.  

Love you, mean it. 

Finding Oxygen.

As I sat on the floor of the stand up shower in my basement, 

my tears mixed with the steady stream of water that poured from above me. 

Weeping on the floor of my shower is not a rare occurrence for me.

In fact, on any given day that may prove to be more trying than most, 

you could probably find me there. 

On the race, the shower became my sanctuary. 

It was the only place I could be completely alone. 

I've sort of carried that over into real life I guess. 

When I have questions, when I feel hopelessly lonely, 

when I need to cry for no damn reason at all. 

The shower is my place. 

The place where I find my oxygen. 

Lately I've felt... suffocated. 

I've felt hopelessly lonely. 

I've felt like I'm just floating.

And I'm exhausted. 

Which is frustrating because I feel like I haven't even done anything for the past 6 months. 

All I do all day long I dream about walking the streets of Phuket, 

I dream about loving the women in the bars. 

I dream about taking photos and writing blogs that will inspire people. 

I dream about being where my heart lives. 

How do you go about your day when your heart is somewhere else?

How do you breathe without feeling the pain in your chest?

How do you live without your heart?

Apparently you just hold your breath and hope no one notices you're drowning. 

Which brings me here. 

Weeping on the floor of my shower. 

Heart breaking, soul crying out. 

Seeking with everything in me.

And finding. 

Finding the only One who can get me through this. 

Finding peace.

Restoration.

Finding my oxygen.