Why Africa?

It is not uncommon for people to ask why you go on short term mission trips. It's not even uncommon for people to snarl or crinkle their nose and say things like "what about the people in the US who have needs" or "why not just send them money" or my personal all-time favorite "I think it's awesome that you do that, I could never do that." It is my favorite because prior to my first trip, I thought the same way, only I thought I would NEVER do that-not that I couldn't. I don't say that from a critical spirit, and while I can understand where those questions come from, recently someone flat out asked me "why Africa?" This one was different. This one struck a cord with  me and quite frankly, I wanted to know why also. At the time, I brushed it off and didn't think much about it, until one restless, non-sleep filled night, as I laid in bed, tossing and turning, frustrated that I couldn't hit the off button on my mind and send myself into deep sleep, the question popped into my head "why Africa?" What is it about this place that keeps your heart and mind so consumed? So, I started pondering that question in the early hours of the morning..and this is what I came up with.


There are a hundreds of places, literally, that are in desperate need and some of them are as close as your own backyard, while some are as far around the world as one could travel. I didn't pick up a globe one day, spin it around, and plant my finger on the first place it stopped. I didn't drop a few countries in a hat and select it bingo style. I've traveled and done mission work in other countries and my love for them is no different than my love for the people of Africa; anymore than my love for any of Gods people is or should be. While I can remember always having a certain intrigue and interest in Africa, the truth is, I didn't choose Africa, Africa choose me, and long before I ever stepped foot on its soil. The politically correct Christian-ese answer might be "I believe God gives us all, individually, particular inclinations towards certain things." And while I absolutely believe that is true, that is not what draws me back time and again to Africa.


The people, the children-I think they they took one look at me, and they knew. They knew I would never be able to shake the red dirt off my feet. They knew that the sound of the African drum would forever resound in my mind. They knew I would look deep into their beautiful charcoal eyes and see beauty, wonder and hope. They knew I would gaze at the smiles of countless orphans and I would see myself. And that when I did, I would never be able to turn my eyes back toward a life that was dead-set on self-fulfilling motives.


Even with those realizations, I kept thinking and searching my heart for something a little more deep, tying my heart to Africa. As I continued to toss and turn, it came to me. Despite the amount of suffering and need that I have been witness to, I see a joy that far surpasses anything you can begin to imagine. While in some places they have grave need, absolutely, and no one would deny that, they find contentment in the simplest of things. They do not measure life in terms of what they do or don't have, but rather give thanks for their daily bread. And most often, in their case, it truly is just their daily bread


One of the things I cherish most about the people of Africa is their abundant generosity. A bracelet, a shirt, a meal, their last chicken, they would give it all to you, just to show you honor and thank you for being a part of their lives. Western visitors innately want to refuse gifts, because deep down you know it may be the only possession they own, but you don't, you shouldn't, because it would shatter them. To them, giving isn't a mathematical equation. There's no 10% calculation, no -let me fetch some old clothes, toys or leftovers for you, or let me see what I have left. No, to them, it is the way of their heart. Give first, think second.  They have shown me what it means to truly live sacrificially and that there is nothing on this earth more valuable than serving each other humbly.


More so, I cherish their uncanny ability to face the gravest of circumstances with a smile that could melt the polar ice caps and a hug, that could warm the hardest of hearts. And when they worship God, they REALLY worship God, as if He really is God and not a cosmic magician, or lamp-rubbing genie. Their faith is strong because God truly is all they have to look to, they are not clouded by possessions or distractions. They teach me so much more than I think I could ever teach them, and words cannot do justice to the amount of love and respect I have for them...


No, I didn't choose Africa. Africa choose me.

The Prosecution Rests

Criticism: 
a : the act of criticizing usually unfavorably criticism;
b : a critical observation or remark criticism;


Criticism. Despite my attempts to conceal my disdain for the way that some things are done, particularly in the Christian realm, sometimes I fail miserably. For the most part I keep things, particularly thoughts, to myself. But being passionate as I am, sometimes it is difficult to conceal those thoughts. It is hard to look at the world we live in, seeing the utter chaos and brokenness that exists-even in the church, and just sit back and smile. Passion has always been the driving force behind my pursuits, and it's spectacularly difficult for me to sit still when it's ingrained in me to do quite the opposite. So it becomes easy to then say, I know something can be done, because I've been a part of or seen others do it and criticize those who do nothing. Particularly those who preach, teach, disciple, know and understand fully what the Bible says about our brothers and sisters (not strangers) in need.
On the whole, I have to face the facts, I think we are missing the mark on a lot of things, myself included. We have hundreds of millions of orphans, hunger beyond human comprehension, homelessness at an alarming and all-time high, HIV spreading, millions of people who still have yet to hear the gospel of Christ -all the while passing the task on to everyone else. Love is not a calling, it is an action, a verb. And none who call themselves Christians are exempt.
But, lately, God has put this sort of bell in my head that rings when I realize that instead of inspiring, or encouraging people to give, go, or serve, I am instead being critical. I'm mature enough to admit it and to freely express the tendancy I yield to more often than I would like to admit. God is so clear about love being the answer, grace being the motivation, not guilt nor criticism. It wasn't until I saw it rear its ugly head at me that I began to see the effect it has. While waiting at a stoplight, a gentleman collecting funds for an organization tapped on my windshield and pointed to his bucket. I politely smiled and said no thank you, to which he angrily pounded his fist on my window while cluthching a coin and said "it's just a penny!" I shook my head no again and he begrudgingly walked away. I was flustered for about a second until I clearly heard God say, isn't that what you do when you assume people don't care because they don't give where you give, or go where you go, or aren't as passionate about the things I have made you passionate about? Like a ton of bricks crashing to the ground, my heart fell. "But that's not what I was doing God? I just want people to be inspired to go, give, serve- anywhere, not just where I am?" To which God said, "Are you sure?" Truth. I couldn't be sure.

Absolutely my heart screams for the least of these, and more than anything I want us as Christians to love others as the Bible calls us too, but the lesson I learned that day was that having a critical spirit is not the answer. That day reminded me of Jesus while hanging on the cross. Despite what he had just endured, He simply said "Forgive them father, for they do not know what they are doing." Luke 30:34 NIV

Forgive me Father. I am just a dumb sheep trying to make a difference. Thank you for your grace and for always showing me where I fall short, while pointing me back to the narrow path. May we lovingly but with persistance and passion-encourage, inspire and more importantly live a life of selflessness that needs no explanation, but leaves instead a mark and a legacy that screams to others-I want to serve that way too.

Understanding Thanks

A year ago during this same holiday season, nestled between two incredible mountains, snow falling and settling in blankets all around and sitting in front of a roaring fireplace, I celebrated Thanksgiving in Vancouver, Canada. Despite the nostalgia that reminds me of what an incredible Thanksgiving that was, I am even more still in awe of what a year has brought to my life; of the things that God has done and the changes that have resulted in my heart and life. And while most days I am completely baffled and if I was being quite honest, terrified, I am really, really thankful. 

I am thankful that my identity doesn't reside in my past but only in the incredible name of Jesus Christ. My identity isn't defined by the difficult childhood that I lived through or the adult life that I almost tragically destroyed time and time again with my infinitely disastrous decisions. I am thankful that I have never had the resolve to give up or quit; by the grace of God it just absolutely never occurs to me. I am thankful to beat every statistic and every odd the world has stacked against a girl who comes from circumstances as I did, and do it with a laugh and a smile, instead of a bitterness and a cynicism that plagues so many with troubled backgrounds. 

I am thankful that I choose to make seemingly foolish, spur-of-the-moment decisions like saving up funds and resigning from my then job to travel through Europe for a month. I muse at the memory of sitting in a cafe in Paris, strolling through the streets, gazing up at the Notre Dame Cathedral or the breathtaking view of Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower. I laugh at the expression on my face staring at the Mona Lisa and thinking how much bigger I thought she would be for one. And for two, feeling silly for thinking of how ironic it was for a girl like me to even be standing in front of the Mona Lisa at all. I remember the feel of air brushing my face, the smell of the water, as I traveled by trocadero or Italian taxi (boat) in Venice and having dinner on the canals of a truly beautiful city in Italy. I remember the rain falling in Rome and the bad timing of a terrible cold I caught, not stopping me from seeing this historic ancient city. I remember the long train rides between destinations and the strangers who sat beside me. I am thankful for the energy to climb the steps to Neuschwanstein Castle in Bavaria, Germany and the realization that I was standing in a room where Kings once laid. The adventure of Amsterdam and the culture of Prague in the Czech Republic still reside in the forefront of my mind as if it was yesterday, when the reality is that it was eleven years ago. I am thankful to have surfed the waves of Hawaii, hiked Diamondhead and taken in the view of the island of Oahu by helicopter. I love that I have combed the beaches of Mexico and skiied the slopes of Whistler, Canada just days before the winter Olympics. There is something majestic and almost child-like that happens in the midst of mountains and snowfall, I am convinced..

Despite having three universities on my transcript- one on the west coast, one on the east and one in the south (hey, they are all part of the adventure and play a significant part in who I am today), I am thankful that I choose to resume my college education at a later time in life, when again, no one would have doubted as to why I wouldn't. I am thankful to have the memory of walking across that stage and receiving my diploma at the ripe age of 29, realizing I was the first in my immediate family to have done so. I wish words could describe the emotions that welled up inside me on that day, the overwhelming joy and sense of accomplishment I felt at knowing I did it, I really did it. I figured out how to pay for it (well technically I am STILL paying for it), how to manage it, how to do it working full time and studying full time all while fighting the daily, and sometimes more frequent mind games of "you can't do this, just give up." I am thankful for the blessings in my career path that unfolded so effortlessly and the timing that seemed to know exactly when to present itself. I am thankful for the abrupt shift from corporate America to full-time ministry, despite my fleshly attempts at avoiding it each time I heard God whispering in my ear, "this way." I am thankful that God has designed me so that when I say I am going to do it, I absolutely know I am going to do it- come hell or high water, and quite often it's a combination of both. 

But what I am most thankful for, above all, above overcoming my past, seeing the world (which I must admit vehemently, changes the way you see everything) graduating from college, all of it, is the faith that I have been blessed with. It's a gift; I know it with every beat of my heart. My faith in God, in Christ, in the future, even though it is spectacularly difficult to trust sometimes, is a gift and not at all from within me, but all from my Father. I know without a shadow of a doubt that I couldn't muster an ounce of strength without the power of God. I am painfully aware of my weaknesses, and my inability to breathe, much less move without God calling it to be. And I am thankful for something that many are unable yet to give thanks for, and that is my story, my testimony. Every painful memory, every difficult trial, every last breath that has brought me to where I stand today and I wouldn't change a second of it, because I have come to realize that the view from the top of the mountain is much sweeter with the recognition of the sweat, the blood and the struggle it took to climb it. There isn't a climber in the world, a marathon runner, an Olympic athlete, who crosses the finish line or reaches the top of the soaring peak, and says, "it wasn't worth the fight." It's always worth the fight, everything worth having always is! Even more so is the realization that your story is for a purpose much greater than yourself or mastering the temporary things of this world such as success or material possessions. It wasn't until I set foot on Cambodian soil to serve orphans that I finally realized the reasons God had for allowing so many things to occur in my life. To hear girls say "you are like me sister" and to understand what they meant and how that encouraged them, literally changed my life. Since then, I have been able to use my story to encourage the orphaned in Zambia, South Africa, Ethiopia and Uganda and I know what God is calling me to do in the near future; it's only the beginning. It is scary, but absolutely exhilarating all in the same. 

You know, I used to wonder how Joseph did it. How he endured the unfair life that he was catapulted in by his brothers. How he lived through the loneliness of being abandoned by his own family, slavery, false imprisonment and just what that must have made him feel deep within. Even though I knew he ended up being in charge of the largest kingdom there was, I knew how his story ended, I still felt sorry for him because, well if I am being honest, I still felt sorry for me. Then one day, reading his story again, it all fell into place; it all made sense. He too had to go through the blood, the sweat and the struggle to see the view from the mountaintop. I no longer felt sorry for Joseph, or myself, I felt thanksgiving toward God for the stories He allows to be a part of and sorrowful for my finite mind and its painful inability to see the big picture. Now instead, I look up to Joseph for the way he humbly and gracefully handled every lot he was given in life, and second to Christ, aspire to be like him. Now I just look up at the top of the mountain and simply say, "i'm coming up." If my God is with me, then who or what can be against me. If my God is with me, there is nothing we, together, cannot do.  

Yep, my cup runneth over, and I am just plain thankful. 

The Number 26

It strikes me now, reflecting back, how routine, simple moments can have lasting impact if you live life with your eyes wide open. A few weeks ago, out on a simple lunchtime errand, I took a drive to my neighborhood drug store. As I was traveling down a busy road, cars flying by me in a panic to get to and from lunch destinations, I turned on my left blinker to enter the drug store parking lot- and there I saw him. He wasn’t famous. He wasn’t an old friend. He wasn’t someone I even knew. But, I saw him nonetheless. He stood on the corner under the traffic light, rain pouring down on his back, a sign clenched between his soaked hands and dripping wet with these words scribbled in permanent marker- “homeless, please help.” As I watched this man walk back and forth in the storm, anxiously looking into the eyes of passersby, it was as if I could feel his dignity vanishing with each step. Water splashing up on the curb, lightning flashing in the distance, nothing seemed to faze him; he was robotic. Despite my fixation on him, something else caught my attention in those moments. I began counting all of the cars that passed him by. One by one they flew, not even taking a second glance. Most of them were preoccupied on their cell phones, distracted by the rain, or realistically just looking for a reason not to notice the man. I could only count the cars that came at me, the ones I was facing from my intersection, but in a matter of seconds I counted twenty-six cars. If I were able to count the ones going the other direction, I’m certain that number would have more than doubled. Twenty-six, I was completely paralyzed with that number. Realistically, thousands of cars pass him by in a single afternoon and statistically, maybe a few gave him any assistance and probably even less took the liberty to smile or say hello.

Instead of focusing on the contempt and sadness I felt at how easy it is for us to neglect the people we see in need, I focused instead on him. What it must feel like to stand wet and cold in the rain, waiting and hoping to earn what little money you can. How with every car that passes by, every nervous glance of pedestrians and drivers, it must crush your resolve and deplete your strength. I wondered what it was like to be hungry, really and truly hungry, and be uncertain of when that feeling would come to an end. More than the physical needs, I wondered what it must be like to wish that people would look at you, actually just look at you. Even more so, how it must ache to long for a conversation, which must be painful to realize comes rarely, and even then typically comes wrapped in expectation- because often people don’t know how to communicate, much less love, without expectation of a certain reciprocation. A horn blew behind me and with a startled jump I eased my car into the drug store parking lot, leaving behind the man who had me captured. My heart ached for him.

What was I to do with this moment I was given? I look at everything as an opportunity to learn, an opportunity to grow and be more like Christ. So, what was it God? What I know is the man I saw that day is Gods son and he matters as much to God as me or anyone else. And despite our prideful ability to measure need out of our own limited mind, it is just as important to make sure my new friend on the corner has food, has assistance, in the same way I make sure I do. My friend has the same reason to expect human connection and love the way I do. The only difference between him and I is that he has grown accustomed to being ignored. And what I learned that day is… It’s not ok to expect to be ignored. No fancy words, no vicious rhetoric, it’s just not ok.

Stall Tactics

Upon viewing one of my dear friend Laura and her families' blog (for updates, encouragement and never-ending entertainment, go to http://littlehoffman.blogspot.com/) I found myself both chuckling and also momentarily pondering the phrase they used for their daughters adorable attempts at avoiding bedtime; "stall tactics." In her case, sweet Meron, being of the two-aged range, uses her irresistible charm and genetically God-given dimples to dissuade mommy and daddy from the evil perils of bedtime! While I smiled and laughed heartily watching the video and at this precious child of God, I couldn't help but wonder if God smiles at us the same way.  I couldn't help but wonder if, when we use our own child-like tactics of stalling our "Daddy" in His efforts of expressing parental rights- giving clear directions and discipline, if He giggles at us too-or if He is displeased.
Granted, in my case, bedtime isn't something you normally have to fight me to get to, most likely I will beat you there every time. But, in the rat race that life can sometimes be, I use stall tactics to avoid the parental direction given by my Father, by God. Especially if it means I have to get out of the comfort seat and jump in a sports car going 95 miles an hour, whipping around a windy mountainous curve. Despite the fact that I much prefer the speed of life which thrusts heavy wind against your cheeks and leaves your hair tousled in knots, I sometimes equally have the guarded mentality of wearing my self-made safety belt for the ride.
What is it about Divine direction that causes us to employ stall tactics instead of obedience? What is it about the unknown, the uncertain, the unseen, that forces us into a pit of fear and retraction instead of full blown excitement and joy that God has given clarity to the once clouded? I ask myself that question as I sometimes feel like a little girl with pig-tails. Void of dimples, I use my sheepish giggle and sometimes swiftly bat my eyelashes to falsely charm my Father into letting me slide just one more day- or so I like to think. As if the Creator and Master of all can be charmed..
I doubt highly that He is charmed by my stalling, but I do know that He loves me, undeniably I feel it.
I feel it in the slip of a tiny orphaned hand pressing into mine. In the tears of a hungry child cuddled into my arms; starved physically, but also emotionally in his desire to be held just five more minutes. I feel it in the encouragement from twenty-nine incredible team members who walk this journey of life with me,  vowing to sacrifice whatever necessary for one more child to know Christ, and to have a hope and a future. I marvel at His love in the creation and feel it in the pink sunrise over the African mountains or a majestic sunset over the source of the Nile. I feel His love everywhere.
Call it stalling, but God wastes nothing on me. He teaches. He guides. He disciplines. He is showing me the beauty in simplicity and the awe in things that this world can not provide. He shows me in visions of splendor on this earth, things which no white picket fence, or Hollywood created American dream-life can offer, and I am being transformed from the inside out. I am learning that He uses even our tantrums, even or fits, undeniably our "stall tactics" to show us what is really important in this life here on earth. And I am humbly and eternally grateful.
It's bedtime and I'm headed to the Bible for a quick bedtime story with my Papa. I'm banking on using my stall tactics in staying awake while I read and He speaks. I have an inkling, like sweet Meron probably does when her dad reads her a bedtime story, I'll be saying- just "one more Daddy".....

Who am I?

There are moments in ones life that are especially monumental. Moments where you can't quite put your finger on it, but you know that everything has changed, will change, or it is about to be flipped completely and utterly upside down. These times are often preceded by a lot of grumbling and praying, asking God "what are you waiting on?" Ironically, you find yourself questioning God without a clue of what you think He is waiting on in the first place. It's more of a self-focused, restless, I am ready but don't know what I am ready for type of grumbling. Then, life takes a swift twist and you find yourself smack dab in the middle of a major torrential downpour of God saying, "OK, here it is, here is what you have been wrestling me for, now go do it." All of the sudden, like a child having his favorite security blanket ripped out of his hands and taken to the trash bin, you find yourself kicking, screaming, and groaning saying "God, you can't possibly be talking to me? No way. Uh huh. Who am I?" Monumental moment, yes, because it changes everything, literally, but instead of leaping with joy you find yourself in a different position, one of bowed knee and face planted in the carpet seeking strength to even process what has been laid before you. Much less having the courage to get up and actually go do it.
Inadequacy. This is the only word I can conjure up for the feelings that arise within, when God calls you to do something completely out of the realm of your comfort zone. Instead of focusing on the truths you have told others thousands of times, truths such as "He will provide for what He calls you to do." You begin to focus completely on the lies you hear from the other side "Who are you to do this? You can't. That's crazy." And in all honesty, those aren't just coming from expected origins, but also from those around you. Not necessarily in words but in actions, expressions, easily read in body language or the absence of words where there is clearly need for them.
Be honest with yourself, you hear it even without others, "Who are YOU?" "Look in the mirror, what do you see? You can't do this and nobody will expect you to." If you are anything like me, nothing keeps you paralyzed more than the fight between the feeling of inadequacy and the all out war you want to rage on overcoming that same paralysis; I am a fighter. I believe in great triumph and overcoming obstacles. Stories of seeing people push themselves beyond all human boundaries and defeat all odds, absolutely motivates and inspires me. I always go for the underdog. I believe in change and I believe unequivocally it starts from within. But, in all honesty, monumental moments are both exhilarating and completely terrifying all in the same.
The natural tendency would be to seek the affirmation of those around you, believing that a positive word might spur on an extra dose of adrenaline needed to defeat the internal sense of inadequacy. The difference there is in our expectation vs. reality; not everyone will respond how you think or even hope they might. Instead, it usually yields more doubt, more fear and yet even still, more inadequacy.
Searching for some encouragement from God, I stumbled upon Exodus chapter four. Moses is stammering. He confesses his own lack of eloquence and imperfection. Frankly, he's scared. Sound familiar? How does God respond? The LORD said to him, "Who gave man his mouth? Who makes him deaf or mute? Who gives him sight or makes him blind? Is it not I, the LORD ? Now go; I will help you speak and will teach you what to say." (Exodus 4:11-12) Again, like many of us, instead of being encouraged by a word from GOD HIMSELF, Moses continues groaning. He fumbles for words and responds just as many of us do, by asking God to send someone else (Exodus 4:13).
Who am I. From the beginning of time, it is evident that many have asked that same question when in essence, none have been great. From an orphan turned queen (Esther), to a mass murderer turned most passionate and avid writer in all of the New Testament (Paul), there are none that have been selected because of their nobility and valor. God chooses the lowest of the low. The weak. The questionable.

We can keep doubting, pouting, kicking and screaming, or we can obediently and faithfully jump. The best thing that can happen is that you fail. The worst thing that can happen is missing out on the invigorating experience of being on the path you know God specifically has laid out for you. Personally, I'd rather go for the latter.

This is Africa

Imagine with me if you can, the most disgusting, vile and inhuman place on earth you, your children or any children for that matter could conceivably live. Picture the surroundings. Smell the stench. Hear the sounds. Take it all in. Now throw it out, because whatever you have pictured doesn't come close, can't give true justice to the dump; a place countless children inhabit in East Africa.

My mind races as I anxiously ponder the right words to help paint this picture clearly. As I recall the stench of rotten trash, the aroma of human excrement wavering in the muggy air, starved dogs aimlessly wandering the mud soaked land, all encompassing a community of orphans and some of the most impoverished people I've ever encountered in my time here on this earth, tears stream down my face. I close my eyes and I can see the children walking barefoot, covered in mud, in urine, snot caked under their nostrils, digging through trash to find any possible remnants of food. I see their hands reach out to be held. I close my eyes and I can see the desperation in their charcoal eyes, the bones protruding under their hole-filled clothes. My mind flashes back to the lunch my team shoveled quickly on our bus. Peering out the window watching curious faces stare longingly at the rice we gulp down, my heart is ripped open. I rush back to help feed the children only to return back to the street five minutes later in shock; a three year old street orphan shoving rice in his mouth, rice he got from the trash we had just thrown out five minutes earlier. For the rest of my life I will never forget that picture. I will never forget his little hands, the speed at which he shoved the rice in his mouth, how he almost choked on his tiny hand because he couldn't get it in fast enough.
I feel the lumps in my own back as I imagine sleeping atop trash, I feel the ache as I picture tears streaming down the face of a child who longs to see his mom and dad again; hating AIDS and the destruction it causes. Just when you think your heart can't take more, you hear stories of rape among young girls; imagining life for the child that grows within her belly, conceived during the most evil of acts. Just when you feel relief coming, you trample over piles of human excrement, realizing you have just stumbled on the public bathroom..
After you take that in..then you travel through the community doing home visits to families. As you push through the garbage, trample through the mud and pouring rain, ask permission to enter the home, more horror awaits you. I shudder at what else could have been seen were electricity even an option. Flies swarm, dirt and grime cover every surface, babies huddle in a corner in oversized torn shirts; I listen while a mother describes her life through tear soaked eyes. Focused not on the tiny mud-built shack that houses countless people, I turn to the mother. As water spills out of her eyes she re-lives the death of her husband only a week prior. Eighteen years of marriage, only 38 years old, life at a screeching halt before it had even began. He was the only source of income and his only source of income consisted of sifting through the dump to find scraps, hoping to sell what he could to provide enough food to sustain his family one more day. As she continues to wail, frightened at what the future holds for her and her family, tears begin falling from our eyes. For twelve dollars a month, her rent is paid, can you fathom that? Every house we entered, every hand we held tight, every child we scooped up into our arms, was another example of Gods clear calling in James 1:27. "Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world."

Survival is an art here; it's a skill that has been learned not by choice but by force. This is a community that not even it's neighbors will go near. They are outcasts, forced out of the eye of people within distance to yield at least some minimal relief. It captured my heart. It stole my affections. It's a dump, but God is the God of this city. He has a plan and purpose for these people and I intend to do whatever I can, inspire others to do whatever they can to move boldly to help. Once you have seen, you are responsible. We have seen. But now you have heard.

This is Eastern Africa...

More to come soon...