More Questions Than Answers

Shortly after we arrived to Pokhara, Nepal, a friend introduced us to several children known as "street kids" living in the hotel downstairs. As I watched these young girls washing dishes outside the restaurant, they seemed content, even happy on first glance. Intrigued with our interest and big cameras, they giggled and exposed henna designs on the palms of their hands. I was relieved to see them smile because it helped me convince myself that they were okay.

Our friend explained that these children were sent away from their homes to work at this hotel... to earn a place to live, food to eat, and money that would be saved on their behalf when the time came for them to go out on their own. She explained that some street kids are sent to school. Others are not. It broke my heart to learn about this way of life. To really see it and look in their eyes. To wonder what it feels like... to be far from home, to accept what's been given to you without question, to have a job at age 10, to appreciate what little you have, to wish you had been given the chance to wear a school uniform and walk to school.

"But this is a way of life," they say. "It's just the way it is." And who am I to judge? I'm just a curious American woman with a camera who stepped in for a closer look one day. What do I know? Just because my children don't live this way, does it make it wrong? If these children didn't have this chance to live and work at this hotel, what would become of them? Is there hope in this scenario? Does someone love them? How do we help poor families keep their children at home and make it a priority to send them to school? What should I do? I have the questions, but none of the answers at this moment. I have to trust they will come.

To Stand on Broken Ground

I dreamed about this place several months ago... stepping slowly through mud and feeling a little tentative on broken ground. In my dream it was dim. I walked with people I didn't recognize and sensed curious eyes upon me, but I felt comfortable. Like I was meant to be there. I felt peace.

So it was oddly familiar when Jen and I walked with new friends, Renu (pictured above), Mukesh, Subhash and Sabi through one of Kathmandu's largest slums, home to many of Renu's students at Koseli, the school she founded. It was a gift to be invited here. To walk on this ground, step in these homes, and hear "Namaste." To share a glimpse of this reality.

I don't really have words yet to describe all that we experienced throughout Nepal. I could relay the sequence of events, identify the geographic destinations, share the motion sequence of steam lifting from a glass of chai on a worn wooden table beside a bumpy road, and show you the lighthearted iPhone images I made along the way... but the real weight of the experience sits in my images of the people who shared their lives with us. Jen and I are eager to introduce these Nepali people to you over the next several weeks, maybe even months... but for now, I want you to picture yourself standing on broken ground. And I want you to imagine what hope might look like.

When People Fit

In April, as many of you know, I spent several days and nights with Jen and Odette and her girls from Rwanda to document their reunion after four years of seperation. I cherished this experience so much. What strikes me about my collection of images from this period of time is the instant and vivid, very visible connection between Odette and her daughters. It was as if there had been no space between them. After four years of being apart, I expected some distance. Hesitation. Barriers. Yet none were visible. They just seemed to fit.

Let's see some connections today. Share an image of two people who just seem to fit.

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Congratulations to the winners of the Hello Summer contest:

The Grand Hello goes to Kelly Lagner Sauer.

And the 2 runners up are Lisa G. and Jenny Modesitt.

Thanks for all the summer goodness everyone!

And don’t forget to order your canvas from Hello Canvas before the end of June for 40% off!

We Are Together

There's nothing to say after a moment like this.   Only that to be together is everything.  I know now that much is true. 

It's not too late to be a part of this miracle.  For more of this story, go here.

Photo by Stephanie Roberts

Let's Bring These Girls Home

Jen Lemen with Odette's daughters, Grace and Lilian, shot by Stephanie Roberts in Konombe, Rwanda

“You’re writing your story everyday,” she told me. “You just need to decide what happens next.” It was precisely what I needed to hear at that moment from my friend and Picture Hope partner, Jen Lemen. It reminded me that the act of living one’s life on purpose is nothing like reading and everything like writing. And the work of writing a story most often begins as a whisper or a quiet feeling of knowing from within. It may not make sense, but you just have to learn to let it guide you.

So when Jen called to tell me that she and our Rwandan-native friend Odette had decided it was time for her to leave home and join Odette’s daughters, Grace (age 15) and Lilian (age 12), and their guardian, (Odette’s brother Innocent) in their temporary housing situation in Uganda on a moment’s notice, I knew there was no need for my predictable dose of questions and analysis. “How long will you be gone?” I asked tentatively, knowing we had more than two handfulls of planning to prepare for our next Picture Hope commitment in Nepal.

“I don’t know… but I’m not coming back without them.”

So she went.

She went because Odette has been apart from her daughters for four long years, not by her plan or choice. She went because the girls need their mother. She went because Odette needs her girls.

After several years of hopeful wait littered with road blocks and wrong turns… and the most recent several weeks of unraveling red tape, triggering slow into action, plotting what-if scenarios, traveling dusty roads and crossing sketchy borders, texting on battery fumes, rubbing coins for food, and painting hopeful stories in the dim of a future that is to come for Odette’s young daughters… Jen will very soon guide Grace and Lilian into their mother’s arms here in the United States.

And this story, a story of Turikumwe (meaning “We are together.”), is one that must be written. I’m honored to be a witness and to document and share this experience for you as it unfolds, with Odette as my guide. I will join her on Saturday to help prepare for their arrival.

But we can’t do it without you. Please chip in to help us decide what happens next.