The Grandmoun Kai
or: the coolest house in Limbe

On this compound there's a building. It's rock and cement fence slants a slow lopsided angle and many a rooster, chicken, and goat run through its gates. This once-vacant building now teems with life- the scuffling of footsteps, laughter that rings loudly, speakers that blare late in the afternoon, pots of noodles boiling. Where three heads once laid to sleep, there's now eight. Where a bench sat more empty than full, it now spills over and a second one is needed. The white painted walls and fresh countertops and stiff-sheeted beds now have scuffs and mud prints and wrinkles and bangs around every corner. These walls hold joy and struggle, sweat and tears, restless nights and incredible peace. They've welcomed those labeled unworthy, useless, outcasted. And it's become a place of incredible joy.

It's Sunday morning. The shower water runs as they pick out dresses and tie hair scarves on and there's all this Creole shouting and she pats my hand as we sit on the bed. "Aye aye aye..." In the afternoons, when the classroom is locked tight and pencils put away, I walk across the half-rocky half-muddy yard with the sun beating hot. With every footstep I chide myself for not walking this walk more often. The very first day I stood awkward, grasping for words and how to interact. Now my day is not complete without 8 "bongas" (the Ugandan fist-bump) and making fun of at least 2 grandmouns. I look for her blue checkered dress, ask where their linets are, and tap his frail shoulder then turn away teasingly. How I've come to love them...

That day -in the place where soot coats the walls black and dim light casts shadows- this home welcomes yet another. Malnourished and days away from dying, he is found and fed and loved. A week later I watch as he's wheeled (rather begrudgingly) to the lunch table. For a second, the sight sucks all the air from my lungs.

There's many a thing I don't understand about this culture -- how to balance a five-gallon bucket on your head, the way a tap-tap can hold a small army, or how to balance what seems like half a house on a bicycle. And perhaps one day I will successfully master the art of bicycle balancing, but what I will never comprehend is how a culture can so guiltlessly neglect its elderly. 

His shoulder blades pop from his thin white T-shirt. Her vacant eyes cry for her kids. His hands shake the water cup at the lunch table. Malnourished knees are bent in fetal position. This is the product of evil, nothing less. 

I speak of the things I can't wait to enjoy when my feet hit American soil- the pumpkin-soy lattes, cozy sweaters and brown boots, netflix marathons and 6-mile runs, grocery stores and crock pot dinners, unlimited texting and high-speed wifi, clean towels and my comfy bed... but the truth is, I have been absolutely ruined. How does one watch his rail-thing arms and sunken eyes march up and down the hallway with a smile a mile wide, and leave unchanged? 

I love to spin the words as the house grows still. Scribbled on well-worn journal pages is my heart finding its voice. My emotions and thoughts expressed with the tip of my favorite black pen; praying the scribbles I do share with the rest of the world are used by Him. But this.... this I cannot put to words. Only experience can share this. 

Late into the night we wrestle. I'm looking at a country that is capable of this- this starving of its elderly and abuse of its children. He came even for ones such as these. The truth of it is unfathomable. It seems almost a great injustice to love the ones who allow such cruelty to exist. As the drums and chants echo late into the night, my aching heart bleeds. Can they really not see? And here is where I find myself. Thankful that this building is, and praying it continues to be. Praying this building I've come to love so dearly changes their lives too. Praying that this building will stand as testimony of His great love to a community lost in darkness.

This is life apart from Him. Surely in this country one can taste the horrors of hell. But here in this building where their faces light up and their laughter rings loud, I know also this: here you can also taste the great joy of heaven.

Inwardly, I still struggle to wrap my mind about a lot of things. My heart is full of the brokenness- of newborn babies who die and 9-year-old's with cancer, broken family homes and children left parentless, starved elderly and beaten children. Honestly, "His ways are higher than ours" sounds a lot better etched onto thin paper than when you're staring in the face of suffering. This question has haunted me many a time throughout the years, and I've yet to hear an answer that appeases the troubled heart. Even so, I find myself in the arms of a God who won't let me go. And that. is. enough. Mainly because I know it has to be. His ways we will never fully understand. But we can know Who He is, and we can choose to let that be enough. 

Tonight eight heads burrow deep beneath pillows and freshly washed sheets, with bellies full and hearts well loved-on. And it is all because He loved enough to stir in hearts the desire for a building and the lives wiling to serve here. Their lives are being changed and seeds of hope planted. Daily I fall more in love with this mission's heart, and daily I am humbled and inspired all the more by the great faith and sacrifice my eyes have been so blessed to witness. 

And though I try, it's one of those things that aren't meant for words.

The Moments That Make Our Days

or: keeping it wordless

Cheeky monkey (or "chicken monkey" as Carl says)

Typical sight.

Cooking Saturday afternoon lunch.

Asleep and headed to town.

Riding in style (so they all rolled over and one fell off).

Post-afternoon play nap. All tuckered out.

One special boy's pajamas on another special boy.

Chilling in the boot and cruising through town. Because we can.

Our class.

Abel, showing off our word wall.

17-27-9

Ricardo explaining the green-yellow-red stoplight.

Typical pre-school morning sight.

Grandmouns.

Maria and Prevelia, braiding hair.

After school spelling words.

My favorite spot.

38 Things You Don't Fully Understand Until You've Been to Haiti
otherwise known as: the things Anna misses about America

- that fluffy, cotton-y, fresh-towel scent.
- the convenience of a local grocery store.
- 'oh crap i forgot to pack..' boxes from home that hold things like tank-tops and chapstick and dark chocolate covered acai berries.
- when power outages are an uncommon thing.
- the sacred dance of sorrow and joy.
- when a rat is no longer simply a boy's fun childhood pet.
- your treasure lies in hearts and lives and stories and moments.
- clean feet.
- iced lattes to-go.
- what it is to be without the high-speed connection of a fast-paced world. disconnect yourself.
- your dad's hugs at the end of a really long day.
- the excitement of water balloons. embrace the insanity. and run around the compound 1/2 a dozen times while you're at it.
- his hands on your face. fearfully and wonderfully made.
- your morning adventures consisting of rat-chasing from beneath the t.v. to the kitchen to the boy's bedroom.
- those hammock chill-out's that keep you sane.
- a task being completed without 1/2 a dozen interruptions and complications.
- watching him brought from soot-coated walls to white, clean sheets. hope.
- amazon-primed chocolate. and spelling books. in that order.
- computer problems equal ants emerging from your keyboard.
- "The people walking in darkness have seen a great light…"
- Creole does in fact jumble in your dreams.
- there's immense joy in something as simple as a kitty pool.
- their love. forever grateful.
- he will reach and grab for a toy. and oh, your heart will soar.
- how you can almost lose your faith in a third world country if you're not careful.
- multiply anything you do by five. at least. oh? you need to buy bread? Better plan to bring enough children to fill a seven passenger van for that.
- his giggles.
- morning pencil sharpening that lasts 30 minutes. the struggle is real.
- the irony in having papers and binders and no hole-puncher.
- Grace is free. but it is not cheap.
- ibuprofen and 12 hours of sleep can work small wonders, people.
- his rail-thin arms and gaunt eyes and how this place breathes of hope.
- late night sister chatting.
- staring in the face of suffering, how do you love a country like this?
- your phone holds an on-going 'things to bring back' list. feeling kind of screwed.
- it's ok to stay behind a closed door on some days. vital even.
- Come Lord Jesus.
- at the end of a day where kids don't listen and two hundred things go wrong and you just miss them.. a cockroach can crawl across the table in front of you and that is the. breaking. point.
- despite it all, a peace will encompass your every day and every moment. because deep down you know it: He has set your time and your place, and it is beautiful.

Meet Michael
otherwise entitled: the other half of my heart

Two steps forward, one step back. Working with a child with special needs, this has become the mantra we march to on most of our days. Every day this small boys steals more and more of my heart. I've become quite attached, it would seem. He's my smile in the morning before school, and one of my last cuddles before leaving the compound at 5:30 in the evenings. 

More often than not, he can be found chilling in his pac 'n' play-- entertaining himself by looking in his little crib mirror, gazing at the flickering light and spinning ceiling fan, or stripping himself stark naked. haha. His favorite food is spaghetti, the little picky eater. And heaven forbid you try to feed him blueberry flaxseed oatmeal (talk about one of the most distraught, upset looks). He loves Sleeping At Last's song "Saturn" and has yet to fall in love with the complicated melodies of Thomas Newman's pieces. Often his hands flick beneath his chin, as though contemplating deep, deep thoughts. He loves to stare at lightbulbs and the sunshine that filters through the mango trees in the backyard. He'll spin and scooch himself off his colorful foam mats until his feet rest upon the smooth, cool cement floor. Right beneath his ears (near the crook of his neck) you'll find a never-fail tickle spot. There's a 50-50 shot at peek-a-boo making him giggle, or entirely overwhelming him. Humming his little melodies and sounds back to him will make him keep up the charade for a few minutes. And he has the best laugh. 

For the first three weeks, I banged a toy rattle on the ground. Desperate to get his attention, I tried just about everything I knew while we sat on the multicolored mats for an hour. I spent late night hours google-searchig and highlighting books, searching for answers. I longed to see that somewhere in those oft vacant-looking eyes there was still a small boy who could be reached, who could interaction and connection and engage. And I cried. Because three weeks in and there was absolutely nothing to show for all our efforts. And yet, no sooner had the tears blurred my vision when he grasped for the toy, threw it over his head, and roared with laughter. Over and over again, we played this game. He spun and patted and found his toy, a mess of giggles all the while. Such utter bliss. 

Most days, I still feel like I'm grasping at straws to help him connect and engage this beautiful world around him. What he does one day, he won't show any interest in the next. Few things are consistent-- other than his spaghetti breakfasts, overalls being the one thing he can't wriggle out of, and the way I love him so. 

Until you know them, it's easy to look upon the special needs child with a sense of pity. We tend to fail to see the potential because sometimes what one can't do overshadows what wonderful things they are capable of doing. The joy is infinite, and the milestones all that sweeter. We celebrate the small victories... the way he pats my face and pulls for my arms, and how he is finding his voice in that he cries if you try to sit down and hold him at the same time, how his legs fully extend and relax, his scooting off the mats and finding his toy bag, that small bit of weight he'll bear on his half-bent legs. When I see his face, I do not see a child with a disability, labeled by the world as 'different'. The cultures that label such dears ones as 'invaluable' miss. so. much. What he can't do, the ways in which he isn't 'normal' so-to-speak, I hardly even recognize. Because to me he is simply Mikey. I have seen who he is as a person-- fearfully and wonderfully made in the hands of his loving Creator who makes all things good and perfect and beautiful. 

Special needs has become a huge part of my heart as the years go on. Two years ago I boarded a plane absolutely terrified.. because special needs?? I wasn't experienced or qualified for that. Little did I know, oh-so little did I know the joy those 6 months would hold. And somewhere along the way, I've become the girl that now prays to see him stand. I whisper it in his ears and pray it as I still his shaking legs with joint compressions... I believe these legs will one day stand. Call it foolish, overzealous, vain. Certainly I have had moments where I feel so naive. But I believe he is fearfully and wonderfully made, I believe in that little heart there's great strength and sheer determination, and I believe in a God who does the seemingly impossible. 

Until then, we grasp for toys and track water cups. We lay face-to-face on the dirty foam mats and revel in the joy of the ordinary. I roll the ball and he shows no interest and that's okay. Watching his personality emerge during those afternoon balcony chill-out's has been a most precious treasure. Because in the end it's not about toys grasped or things accomplished. It's believing in being fearfully and wonderfully made, finding the beloved, and reveling in Him calling us so.