On the Inside

I can't get it out of my mind. Those eyes. The feel of her hand finding its way to mine. The certainty of his steady presence in the dark. How she showed me the faded photograph of herself in the smart red suit. How we embraced because there were no words between us. How his small hand smoothed the hair away from my face and tucked it behind my ear without hesitation. How she looked out over her land and seemed to glow under a fading sun. How he insisted that I take his bible and asked me not to forget. These moments surface... tugging me deep down to a sliver of a space that makes my heart ache. A place where logic fails and courage is required. A place with no exit sign.

The first time we met she had welcomed me like a long lost daughter, the child she never knew.  I went to her arms as if I had always belonged there and then sat back to hear the stories--how she had been dreaming of me for thirty years, how she had been waiting, how relieved she was I brought the lights.

This visit she confesses the dream was not an easy one, that she had seen a white woman coming into her house with torches, how she feared that the house would go up in flames, how it disturbed her so much she told her two closest sons and her daughter, my good friend, years before we met.  She tells me, only now, that all her dreams had come true, only none of it happened the way she imagined.

The house would be a new one.  The light would be her eyes shining at the thought that she had ever been afraid.  The fire would be the love that ignited when we all gathered in the same place, equally enchanted by the other.  The torches would be a bagful of headlamps that made her laugh and laugh to see the light shining from her head as she made her way across the room.

I ask her what she's dreaming now as she holds my hand, the one with the gold ring she gave me, the ring that is turning my finger green and making me happy.  Everything will happen in its own time, she tells me, not willing to give away any more secrets.

Besides.  What could we dream that could be any better than this--to be together, body, mind and spirit?  What could we imagine that could give us any more comfort?  What could possibly give us any more hope?

Toward the Mountain

We were headed toward the mountain on the backs of rented motorcycles. The place where Innocent goes to fast and pray for days at a time. He was eager to share it with us and chose the shady space beneath the tree at the summit as the setting for his story. I felt unsure about this excursion at the outset... miles away from the quiet village of Mutara... my arms wrapped snuggly around Mupenzi's waist wondering what would happen if I let go... But as the dusty path lead us closer to the base of the mountain we would climb, I found myself easing into the experience. Loosening my grip and letting go.

Pureness of Heart, Depth of Hope

House girls and boys, many of whom are orphans, take on the brunt of household tasks in many homes throughout Rwanda... fetching water from the well and sticks from the ground, cooking food on open fires, washing dishes and clothes in small plastic basins, sweeping and wiping dust from floors twice each day, cleaning the latrine, and carrying young children on their backs. They do this work in exchange for a place to live and food to eat. Some are paid modestly. Few have opportunities to attend school, despite their sincere desire to learn and hope for a better life.

Betty never complained, though she was quiet from time to time. Lost in thought. Orphaned as a child during the genocide, she and her brother, Desire, made their way as refugees from Congo to Rwanda. She's persevered and made her way as a house girl. We'll be sharing more of Betty's story soon, but you should know that Jen and I were truly inspired by this young 22-year old woman – the pureness of her heart and the depth of her hope.

Seeing Through

I've been home from Rwanda for seven days. You could say that I'm back to normal. Unloading the dishwasher. Hunkering down on my boy and his homework. Letting the water run. Returning client calls and collecting stacks of paper on the kitchen table. Digging out receipts. Cluttering up my desktop. Running to clear my mind. Straightening my hair. Collecting emails. Stuffing the grocery cart with frozen pizza and paper towels. Forgetting the Cascade. But I'm not. Not really. Not on the inside. Not where it really counts. And when I study images such as this one of Bella's brown eyes, I can see that I have just begun to really process all that I saw.