My name is Bill. I have no legs. I am just fine.

Sitting in quiet. Girls are in bed. Warm coffee to my side. Nothing but the music overhead putting them to sleep. I treasure time with them. I often wonder what normal life would look like for me had my path led me differently. Normal life could have easily led me into marriage again. Quickly. Years ago. Children. House. Dogs. Homework. Late nights with sick children. Rocking them. The feel of a baby snuggled up next to me. I crave that sometimes. And I'm not convinced it's not in my future. Not convinced that it is. That's the tricky part about surrender. It's not up to you. What "normal" women wouldn't want all of that? Some people envy my life. But would they if they lived it? Would they sacrifice what it would take to have it? Sometimes I envy their lives. Sometimes I don't. Somehow I believe there is room for both: The life of the mission field and the life of the family. Is that normal? No. Not even remotely. But it doesn't mean it's not possible. It just means it's harder, and

I am learning that we don't do hard very well in our culture. We do easy. We do quick. We do acceptable. We do normal. But hard and unselfish and humility and out of the ordinary. We don't do well. Why? Two reasons: We don't have to because we are Comfortable and We are Afraid. Simple as that.

There is a homeless man in Nashville who has no legs. He is around 60 years old. The night before I left to go to Haiti last year, it was raining. Hard. I was running to the bank for a last minute ATM cash run for travel needs. And I saw him. Barely able to see out of my window, I caught glimpse of him. He was in the corner of an old abandoned building, under an awning. Soaking wet. My mind immediately went to the Haitian people that I would be seeing from the earthquake. Hearing stories of amputated limbs with no anesthetic. Women. Children. Men. I was drawn to him. Turning around I drove up next to him and rolled down my window, "Are you ok? Do you need anything?"

"NO, Honey!" Big sweet grin, "I am just fine. Just trying to stay out of the rain a little bit." He was there in his wheelchair. Pants legs as ghosts below his knees. Nothing. He seemed helpless. And he was drenched. "Are you sure? Maybe I can take you somewhere or call someone who can take you somewhere dry and safe." "NO, Honey!" I am just fine" I left knowing that maybe he WAS fine. But I wasn't.

Something penetrated my spirit that night. Something deep in my soul. I knew there were new horizons that God was going to lead me into. And I was afraid. And I was uncomfortable. But I didn't care.

I returned from DR Congo last week. Over two saturated weeks of hearing stories of child abductions, crying tears of injustice for young girls who have been raped, abduction by rebel forces being re-enacted by the very children forced to be soldiers. Overwhelmed at the need we found there and bursting at the seams to put things in place to make that happen. Wonderful Weariness I call it. But it is wearisome nonetheless. Jetlagged sprinkled with an intense skin allergic reaction to an "African something"  left me pretty much in a bed of misery (for me) for a week. First day back, behind at work, I dropped by RedBox at McDonald's on my way home to watch a movie as I caught up on things at home. Long day and I was tired.

I looked to my right. He was there. Same man. Same wheelchair. Same smile. I couldn't believe it was him! I stopped and smiled at him - of course he didn't remember me. Taking my movie, I walked over. It was cold.

"Do you need anything? Can I help you with anything? / "NO, Honey! I am fine! Might could use a cup of coffee. It's 49 cents inside. It may warm me up." / "That's all you need? No food? You aren't hungry?" /"NO, Honey! I am fine! Just a cup of coffee might be good to warm me up. It's 49 cents inside."

I go in and get him the largest cup of black coffee they had and took it back out to him. Hands miserably chaffed, he put his beer can down to grab the coffee. Face chapped and red. Disheveled. Joyful. Truly. "Thank you, ma'am!" I smiled at him in adoration.

"What is your name?" I asked. "Bill, my name is Bill. What's yours?" "It's Beth or Bethany. Either is fine." "Oh that 'Bethany' may be hard for me. But I can call you Beth." .... I would love that. I gave him a God bless you and went back to my jeep. Taking about 5 seconds to soak that in.

Sitting in my car. Just returning from one of the most dangerous places on earth to live, to help believe in and bring life 100s of children of war - I saw Bill. Where? Right in front of me. Where was he the night before I flew to Haiti? Right in front of me. I look down at my hands and I notice that, strangely, they are

Right in front of me.

I have understood the good samaritan like I have never in my life. There is one message in that story that screams to me. The Wounded One was no where but right in front of them. Every Single One of Them.

They did not have to search for their purpose or calling or passion in life. They just had to start with what was Right. In. Front. Of. Them!

But there was only one to come to pick him up, bandage his wounds, and lead him to safety. He didn't have to fly across oceans or battle customs or fear gun shots in the middle of the night. He just had to begin. And help the man. One person. At at time.

Right in front of him.

The reason we don't? For me - its because I am either looking past them at where I am going or feeling hopeless that a difference can be made. In our corporate mindset of making all things streamlined and running efficiently, we seem to forget that human nature trumps what is optimal. And Life happening doesn't fit well into spreadsheets.

You see, until we are in Nam and our legs are amputated in the war and the addiction to pain killers came upon us like a thief in the night and alcohol became our only friend because who wants to take care of a crippled man and, then, we find ourselves outside of McDonald's simply asking for a cup of coffee to keep us warm. If we can't find the answer to find a home and shelter and locate his family and set him up on disability and a rehabilitation center in order to make all things neat and tidy in our box of entitlement - then should we do nothing? If we cannot fix the broken pieces completely and perfectly - then should we just always let the chips fall where they may? And just where will they fall? Where?

I believe the answer is not even remotely found in making all things fit together perfectly. That's not our job or role. It's definitely our part to try to play in the answer. But the answer is also found in looking down at that moment to the man on the side of the road we are passing. The Jewish Man. The lonely lady in the elevator who is a single mom. The refugee center who needs someone to teach them English. The flower that would light up your wife's life for today. The second it takes to bend down and look into your child's face to say "You are important to me." Does it fix everything? Not a chance. But maybe it's not in the fixing.

Maybe it's more about the mending. The momentary mending that Jesus' love is heard the loudest and seen in the most radiant of colors.

"My name is Bill. I don't know if I will remember yours or not, ma'am." Me, smiling "You don't have to." Feeling that cup of coffee he allowed me to give him was much more of a treasure to me than it was to him. I say this often. Life is not easy doing this as a single women. Cravings for family and a partner and some sense of normality run deep. But there is one thing it is. One thing above any other. Worth it. At least for now. Oh, there in one more thing it is:

An Absolute Privilege. Such a privilege to be able to be the hands and feet of God. Pitiful as they may be. They are......

His, b

.Bold.

.Bold.

May I be bold.

Daring in the face of Danger. Radical amidst the pains of reason.

Tall among the towers of your creatures. Yet Tiny in the palm of Your hand.

Thirsty in the rains of Wealth. Light in the crevices of Darkness.

Pure Strength in an immersion of Pain.

May my Wounds serve as your Resting Place and

My Scars speak of your Beauty. Maybe my Song be Your Story and

My Death sing of Your Life.

May I be Dangerous.

May I be Courageous.

May I be Unmovable.

May I be

.Bold.

~ b ~

"To Kill The Mind" - What we discovered in DR Congo

“How many rebel groups are there in Congo?” I asked. They all start laughing immediately.

“There are many. In North Kivu there are many. In South Kivu there are many.”

Looking at his bookshelf in search of something.

We were at one of the few centers in town that work with former child soldiers. I was filling the air with as many questions as it could hold, and it was saturated. Trying to understand this place. These people. These rebels. These children. He pulled a book from the shelf and turned to a page that listed the rebel groups. He started turning the pages. One. Two. Three. Four. Then he showed it to me.

The list: FDLR, PARECO, CNDP, LRA, Mai Mai (five different sects of them). And then I noticed the numbers to the left.

“These phone numbers… are they the phone numbers of the rebel leaders?”

“Yes. They are there.”

I shook my head. I couldn’t help but laugh and shake my head. They laughed with me. Sometimes you just have to.

“You have the cell numbers of the rebel leaders?”

“Yes, but they change often.”

I would imagine they do. The more questions I asked, the deeper I felt immersed in it all and the more I understood. Question. Answer. Question. Answer.

What did I find out? Much. Much that I knew. Much that I didn’t. For starters:

- Children too young to carry large guns are given pistols

- They are also filled full of drugs and placed at the front line as a human shield.

- The drugs make them feel invincible. They tell them the bullets cannot hurt them”

- Approximately 150 children per month are rescued and brought to the transit center in Goma. There is only one transit center. It has only 200 beds for the rescued children. In doing the math, that means that the children are only able to stay long enough for the transit center to find a family member for them to stay with. More boys will be coming in soon and they will need the room.

- I say “boys” because rarely are the girls rescued. They quickly become wives of the rebel soldiers and are hidden when the UN (MONUC), UNICEF, or the Red Cross come to rescue them. They are taken at young ages, and it is rare that they ever return. Ever. They become the wife of a rebel leader. His sex slave. Sometimes at the age of 12.

- Only the children with severe mental disturbances (those basically who cannot be controlled after rescuing them from the bush) go to a type of mental hospital for sedation and emergency treatment. They only stay there until they are controlled. Back to the transit center until a family member can be found, with little to no counseling or rehabilitation.

- Many of the boys fear going home because they are afraid of being abducted again or rejected by their families. These boys often become street children or return to the rebel force because in the rebel army there is food and they have a gun. And with gun there is power… and money.

- Some of the boys we worked with were abducted by three different rebel groups on three different occasions.

- Once they leave the transit center, they are given a certificate that basically says “I was a child soldier, and I was rescued” It somehow deters the rebel forces from re-abducting them. But not always.

- There are basically three ways that the children become rebel soldiers.

1. Some children are abducted from school or from their village by force.

2. At times, the rebels come into the village and actually meet with the chief of the village. They tell him they want a certain number of boys and a certain number of girls. If the parents do not give them to the rebel leaders, they are killed or they may kill the child or other villagers. Sometimes the parents must choose which of their children they give away.

3. There are also some occasions that the children go voluntarily. They may have nothing to eat at home and their family has no money. As I said, in Congo – guns are power. Because guns are often where the money is:

“Where there are minerals you will find the rebels and with the rebels you will find the minerals”

- So if you are hungry and you want to be powerful – sometimes an older boy may join the rebel force by choice. - Both girls and boys are soldiers. Both are used to cook, fetch wood, and used as spies. Both are used as slaves.

- The children are rescued by negotiations by only a few organizations that the rebel forces adhere to. The UN, UNICEF, or the maybe the Red Cross. There is often a meeting set up and the organization negotiates for the children to be released. Often, the rebel forces hide the children so they are not found – especially the girls. - Other times, some rebels may be arrested and the UN will go into the jail and ask for those 18 and younger to stand up so they can release them into the transit center.

- In the transit center, they do not only work with former child soldiers. They also work with street children, vulnerable children, and those whose have been abandoned because their families have accused them of being sorcerers. There is a special program in the transit center specifically for children who have been abandoned due to parents’ accusations of them being sorcerers. Abandoned.

What I found most disturbing was that there is little true rehabilitation currently going on in Goma for these children. Not that we were able to find. Most are only kept at the transit center long enough to place them into a home with a family member after being out of the bush only 2 – 3 weeks. The programs once assisting the children (mainly boys) with a deeper sense of rehabilitation and healing have had their funding reduced as of last year.

The good news? We worked with a wonderful program that we cannot wait to support more and more. This program not only helps with the boys’ healing (physically, spiritually, and emotionally), but it teaches them a vocational training and teaches them to be leaders of peace in their communities. All led by local leaders on the ground. Redemption is beautiful, and we were so honored to be a part of that.

“So what happens to them?” I asked

“They are often rejected by family and then they re-enter the rebel force or the government army or they go on the street.”

Four facilities in one day and they all say the same thing.

“There is a great need for care of the spirit. The rebels they try to kill the mind of the children. They try to kill the spirit for their good. There is a great need to help them come to life.”

Father God, It isn’t often that I have no words. I am in my bed tonight in a daze of drowning in new knowledge and need. Need for your grace and peace in this place. For these boys. For these girls trapped in the bush. But I am more determined than ever to help them to find it. They are worth it. I think of Emerson. So tiny. Barely able to make sentences that you can understand. What if it was him? What if that was Haley, Julia, or Emma who had been taken and used as slaves or wives for the rebel leaders? Would I fight for them? So hard. I would fight . Thank you for leading us to these wonderful men and women who believe in them as much as we do. Open the doors of support for them and for sponsoring these children. Show me the way, Lord.

I am

Yours, b

http://www.exileinternational.org

Dancing Crutches

She wouldn’t look at me. In fact, if she did look at me it was only for a split second and she would look away. She was around 16. Her eyes were Flat. Angry. Hidden. Harsh. It was as if she was tucked away inside of her Self. Her soul as broken as was her body that could only walk with crutches. 70 – 80% of these girls are victim to sexual violence because of the wars and the culture of Congo.

I tried a few times to hug her, but she flinched each time. It’s a reaction we see in a lot of children who have been abused. I couldn’t even put my hand on her shoulder. She would pull away. Her head was shaven close, her spirit was closed, and she was never without her two crutches that held her up. Crutches sometimes indicates that a girl or women has been sexually violated so severely that they are unable to walk normally again.

She was always behind the other girls. Off to the side. As if she didn’t belong. But she did. She just didn’t know it yet. Today was more of the same. Rarely am I not able to connect with a child. Even a teenager. Given enough space and time, they usually open up. But she was determined not to. We did the art therapy trauma workshop with the younger and then the older girls. Two separate groups. The younger group first. Toward the end, when we were handing out the crayons and paper to the girls, she hobbled in on her crutches. She seemed to come alive a little more around the younger girls. Like she needed to be needed. So I took advantage.

“Will you help me?”

She looked down at the crayons and paper. Without saying yes, she took them and started handing them out. After distributing them, she came back for more. This time she looked at me. I smiled. Again trying to at least pat her shoulder. She let me, and she didn’t flinch. What has happened to her, Lord? What is her story? During the time we were working with the younger girls, the group from Hope Center was giving the older girls a short test to assess their level of trauma. This means that the older girls had just been asked to recollect their most traumatic event. So when it was time for them to begin, they didn’t want to be there. They’re not used to talking about their feelings. Let alone their worst memory.

“They are tired and they do not want to talk anymore. I think we should do something uplifting for them” Kavira told me. I was quickly forced to throw out my plan in all of 2 minutes while having about 40 teenage girls stare at me with sad and angry eyes.

“I know what you have talked about today is hard. Sometimes when we talk about our pain, it causes us to be sad and remember things we haven’t thought about in a long time.”

She was on the front row. Looking down. Looking up. Looking back down.

“But if we don’t talk about our pain and our secrets, they just get bigger. But I want you to know that God is bigger than your pain. The plan He has for you is so much bigger than you can even imagine! When I look at you, I see beautiful young women. My wish for you is to see yourself through the eyes of a God who loves you so much! I think that’s something to sing about! I think that’s something to dance about!” (There are times that I feel like I’m pulling something out of my back pocket and don’t know what it even is. Sometimes I just open my mouth and, while my lips are moving, I’m praying for God to give me the words. This was one of those times)

I ran over to the drum and started playing. And I mean playing! They all laughed at me so hard! Not sure if was because they didn’t think a white girl could have rhythm or if I was just making a fool out of myself. Either way - they were laughing : ) And before long….. they were singing and then they were dancing. And Singing and Dancing. And SINGING and DANCING. We were grabbing all of them into the circle and dancing with them and singing with them. I looked over and saw a familiar face with crutches once used only for sustaining. Yep, she was dancing! With her crutches ! But not in the circle. She couldn’t. She was on the outside. And by the look on her face. she was dying to get in. I came to her slowly, and she let me guide her into the circle. Not just smiling - she was beaming! Not just standing – she was dancing! I was holding up one side of her (SO excited that she was letting me) and she was dancing with the other. We danced and danced. Sang and Sang.

Before we ended our time, we got down on our knees and prayed together. I looked beside of me and she was there. She was there. Not only there. But by my side the rest of the night until I had to leave. And I hated to leave.

Driving away I wondered if she would dream of her dancing crutches as much as I would. I hope she does….

http://www.exileinternational.org

Driving Through Hell to get to Heaven

There is a scene in the Movie ‘Mother Teresa’. She is riding through the roads of Calcutta. It’s like she begins to see her surroundings from a different set of eyes as she drives through the streets and looks out the window. The cries of the hurting seem louder. Those who are begging in the streets seem to call her name. The empty. The lonely. The poor. The physically distorted. All begin to call to her heart and she says at one point “I have lived here for many years, but it is like I am seeing it for the first time.” It changed her.

Wrapping up an amazing trauma training for over 100 local leaders at HEAL Africa, the team left for the Rwandan border. Carl. Benson. Robert. Instant brothers. It’s funny how close you can become to those who share your heart cry in only three days. It was me and the driver. Playing a game of charades to explain where I needed him to take me (I’m getting good at that – and it’s quite humorous). I know enough Swahili and French just to get me into trouble, so I try to keep my mouth shut.

Driving in quiet. Window down. Sunset to the left. I soak in the city of Goma. Starting to take a few shots. I was gently reprimanded.

“No photo. Not good. Police and then the jail. It is Congo, you know. It is terrible.”

I put my camera to my side, but knew I would be using it again. I’m stubborn like that. Slowly, I begin seeing that tiny part of Congo like I have never seen it before. Nothing to distract me. Just me. And Congo.The empty seemed to cry to me. The lost looked desperate to be found. The wounded screamed to my heart. Black dirt streets. Black volcanic rock walls. Black lava stained city.

And then I saw him.

At first I couldn’t make out what it was. It looked like an animal crossing the road, but as we approached – I noticed. It was not animal. It was not an animal at all. He was a man. He was a young man in the heat of Goma traffic and he was crossing the road. Crawling. Across. The. Road. Not just any road, mind you. The roads in Goma are ash filled and lava tainted. The volcano erupted in 2002 and wiped our 70% of the city. The after-effects are everywhere. Houses built out of lava rock. Walls built out of lava rock. Roads are… well.. simply just broken lava rock. Driving in the car feels a little like driving up the side of a Rocky Mountain.

As we get closer, I see that his hands have flip flops in them. He is holding them, or rather, using them. As Shoes. On his hands. Two hands down, he lifts up the rest of his distorted body and shuffles it a few feet. Hands down (using them as his feet), he lifts the rest of his body up again. He lifts and scoots. Lifts and scoots. Cars passing him. Motor bikes dodging him. Black dirt covering him. I rarely take pictures that I feel may be disrespectful. I see a lot of things that I simply don’t take pictures of. But somehow, I knew I needed to take his picture. I did so, as far away as I could without making him feel like a spectacle. Immediately feeling guilty. Like I shouldn’t have. Then I met his eyes as we passed him. He was to the right of the car. I was looking out of the window down on the ground at him. Our eyes met. I smiled. He returned one. So brightly. I waved at him. He waved back. And we drove on.

In the middle of the street. Using his hands as his feet. Mangled numbs of legs that must have been bruised and beaten. Covered with the black dirt of Congo. He Smiles.

But that was just the beginning of the drive. Passing person after person who was maimed or handicapped. Children on home-made crutches. Both men and women riding on make shift wheelchairs that I have only seen in Congo. The pedals and gears of the bikes are placed at hand level so they can “pedal” the three wheeled contraption with their hands. For those that have no pedals, they are simply pushed down the street by a few others.

One man in particular had no legs at all and only one small arm that he was using to steer the three-wheeled chair being pushed by two other people. Stop and go traffic, we kept passing him and catching up to him and passing him again. His head was larger than the rest of his body and he had one limb where two legs were to be. And he was smiling. Laughing, actually, with his friends who were pushing him.

Passing child after child carrying 6 – 7 cans of water. Women carrying 4 times their weight in charcoal and wood. It felt impossible. It felt like we were driving through darkness. A few nights before, I had some very intense and evil nightmares. I could feel it somehow. The heaviness. But what I could feel more than anything was that they didn’t know it was heavy. When you are always surrounded with darkness, you don’t realize how bright pure light can be. And if you ever get a taste of it – you long for it. So if there is little chance you can live in the light, maybe somehow it’s better not to taste it. Maybe. Maybe not. My heart was overwhelmed. My mind was saturated. I kept going back to the young man crawling across the street. What is his name? What is his story? What through the name of God do you do with a city like this? How do you begin to help such a broken country? I drive through neighborhoods in America, and I see houses that engulf those living in it. The food we (I) throw away in one month could feed one country in Africa. Somehow it’s not ok. Somehow there should be an answer. Or at least there should not be a settling that comes with giving up. There is an answer. There has to be.

We finally pulled up to the Catholic Guest House. It felt like we were pulling into heaven from hell. I couldn’t get in my room soon enough. I took the cover off of the bed and immediately laid it down in the floor facing Lake Kivu. The volcano to the right of me. And I sobbed. And sobbed. And sobbed. Praying that God takes my heart and makes it His. That He would show me my role. My heart began to hurt for the injustice. Those who are suffering here. The women peddling their own make shift wheelchairs. The man crawling in the street……..the man crawling in the street.

And Then I Stopped.

I looked up. I looked out over the lake. I looked up at the sunset. I stopped and stood still. Wait.

He smiled at me. He Smiled At Me! In the middle of the ash road. Covered with remnants of a volcano. With flip flops on his hands that he used as his feet.

He Smiled At Me.

It was one of those moments where you rise above the world and look down on it, surrounded by a new perspective. I saw things quit differently. Maybe. Just maybe – he has more within himself than we will ever be able to hold in our wealth filled hands. Maybe he has found more Joy in life with his limitations in his country of little than we will ever have the slightest opportunity to grasp. Maybe it is us who needs saving. And, maybe, just maybe.. it is he who needs to teach us.

And maybe….. I have found my Calcutta.

Father God, I ask nothing more tonight than to help me to see life through spiritual eyes. That I can love through a spiritual love and learn through a spiritual heart. Teach me. I am your student. You are my Lord. I am

Yours, b

Full Circle and a Saw

So many more blogs before this one… but this is the only one completed. And one of the most recent. Thank you for prayers and support – both financially and in your heart.

Sitting down at the Catholic Guest house tonight to eat dinner. I am the only guest here and have been for the past three nights. Totally alone in the building. Going to bed each night to the sounds of the Lake Kivu’s waves and the singing fisherman in their boats. But tonight the singing is different. I begin praying right before I start eating, I hear the priests over head. It’s Sunday and they are in worship. A bit startled at first becuase I thought I was there alone. But being started by such song is refreshing. It quickly gave way to a wave of peace just listening to them singing together in soft French rhythm. The only word I can make out is “Halleluiah.” But it’s the only word I need to make out. Beautiful how that translates in any language.

I start to stare out the window and think back to a man. A man….. He is standing up. Bleeding. Huge swelling goose-egg on his forehead. He lifts his shirt and pats his stomach. Fingers to his mouth. I stand there in shock. He is telling me he is hungry. He is telling me that’s the reason he stole my phone. Everyone is standing there now and time stands still. Someone pushes him again. One more kicks him. And he walks away.

It all happened so fast. I am greeting the former child soldiers we will be working with later in the week.

“My name is Shadrach”

“My name is Augustine”

“My name is Innocent”

“My name is Love”

And then… the commotion. The chaos. The yelling. A man had reached in the car and stolen my phone from the seat. The boys immediately took off and a crowd gathered all around us.

“They are chasing the thief!"

Not being able to see what was going on and not wanting to leave Christian and her baby in the car alone. I feel helpless. In a forever three minutes they had found him and drug him back around the corner. All I could see was kicking and hitting and stamping his head in the rock and more kicking and hitting.

“Stop! Make them stop! It’s enough. You have to stop!”

About that time, there was a man who came around the corner with a hand saw. I froze. He looked at me. I later found out that he had come to saw off the hands of the thief. Yes, indeed.

“Let him go.. just let him go” I said as calmly as I could.

The thief stood up and looked at me. It was then that he told me, in his own way… “I am hungry”. Bleeding. Wounded. “I am. Hungry.”

Head spinning. I was rushed back to the car, and we left. The boys followed on foot to make sure I got to my destination safely. Later being told that they might not have stopped if I wouldn’t have stopped them. They were protecting me. They are not trained to stop. They are trained to kill.

I have been thinking of them all day. The man. The boys. Thinking of how quickly the former child soldiers went back into defense mode when triggered. Wondering if I wouldn’t have done the same. If my family was hungry. If I needed to feed my baby. Would I? Would I steal? If I were trained to fight at such a young age. Would I? Would I kill? Thinking of the irony in the fact that one of the main causes of conflict in Congo is the fighting over minerals: Gold. Copper. Coltan.

Coltan. In every cell phone and every laptop. Every cell phone. Like the one that was stolen from the car.

And so it comes – full circle.

Father God, I keep coming back to praying for that man. That he finds food tonight. That somehow this is used to bring him closer to you. I am mindful of the boys and how they do not have a mother. Use my words and our time with them to teach them Peace, Love, Healing, Hope. As they sleep tonight, help them to feel you closely. Settle their spirits. Settle my own. “Here’s my heart. Take and seal it. Seal it for thy courts above.”

I am surrendered. I am

Yours, b

Rwanda... may we learn from you

Rwanda

I look around this country. Green. Plush. Beautiful. Clean. Growing. Flourishing. You would have never known it was covered with such bloodshed 15 years ago. Around one million people slaughtered in 100 days in the genocide. One Million.

The stories of forgiveness here after the genocide are simply more than human. It is not just forgiveness. It is reconciliation. It is not just reconciliation. It is living in true freedom. Not that the pain isn’t still present under the surface. It is there. But so is the forgiveness. I doubted it was real. In the back of my mind I thought maybe it was a forced forgiveness. A forgiveness dictated by a government. But whether it was or wasn’t….

It is alive. It is real. It is breathtaking. It is lived out in the hearts of it’s people.

Rwanda – may we learn from you.

Sitting across from Pastors, I hear:

‘You would not believe the forgiveness. They came to us with many ways to reconcile and judge. But we said “this is the one that will work for our people”

“There is a women who has taken in the young man who killed her family. She is now not only forgiving him – she has taken him in. She is his mother”

“You would not believe. Even three hundred from the villages would come together. Even small children. And they would come together for Gacacha and decide to forgive”

“We are not Tutsi. We are not Hutu. We are one people now”

May we learn….