I've been at college for five weeks now and it's still kind of surreal. The other night I was walking back to my dorm, and it hit me how normal being here had become. It reminded me of the blog I wrote back in Swaziland about how strange and disconcerting it was that I was able to normalize being in Africa. In my anthropology class we learned that in terms of evolutionary advantage, primates' behavioral flexibility and resulting ability to adapt to just about anything is the key to our "domination" of the planet. Obviously I don't think that we're primates, but I do think that the ability to change, the ability to adapt to new circumstances, our overwhelming tendency to normalize things is our way of coping with change. Otherwise we wouldn't be able to survive in a world where nearly nothing is consistent. I'm not necessarily surprised that I've adapted, instead I'm surprised that when I was in Africa and had adapted to seeing starving children everywhere I was alarmed and slightly horrified at my own callousness, but when I'm in college and grow accustomed to seeing the brokenness here I feel no cause for anxiety. The reality is that depravity is depravity no matter what it looks like. Just as no sin is greater or less than any other sin, the need for God is universal in magnitude regardless of circumstances. I want to be just as broken for the people on campus as I am for the people of Swaziland. It's all too easy to retreat into my own little universe here and live in an isolated bubble.

But don't think that since I've been home I've been in constant inner turmoil. I know you may get that idea from reading my blogs, because in retrospect they're all a tad depressing post-Swaz. I just never think to write about all the wonderful things happening in my life. That's probably because I'm a verbal processor, and I always find more of a need to process the hard things than the good things. And also, who says the hard things, the ones that really challenge us, and yes, sometimes produce a few somewhat unpleasant emotions, aren't good? To the contrary, I find that they're often the most good. Anyways, I'll tell a story that isn't so depressing just to brighten the mood a little.

Since I've been at UF, I've been hunting for a really solid group of Jesus loving people who I could be real with, and who I could be challenged by, and learn from, and pursue what it means to really follow Christ with. I've been searching for community. So I started looking into some campus ministries. I liked them all, but I just didn't really feel like I connected anywhere, like I was where God wanted me to be. So last Tuesday I went to yet another small group to try it out, and it was good. People were real and vulnerable and I felt like I could see myself there. But for some reason, I felt like crying the whole time. Afterwards I went outside to be with God and just think. I was crying, and praying, and I felt so hopeless. Like I would never find people I truly connected with and I would never feel happy here. God was so clear to me though. He showed me how I had been trying to find community on my own, and I was putting all of my hope in people and circumstances, so it was no wonder that I felt hopeless. In the midst of this, I got this image in my head of someone walking over to me and asking if I was all right, and then giving me a hug. I didn't give this thought much attention, other than thinking that it would be kind of nice if that happened. After about thirty minutes of being pitiful I wiped off my face and started to stand up, and this girl came out of nowhere and started walking up the stairs I was sitting on. She looked at me, and asked, "Are you okay?" and I responded the way any normal person who isn't okay does, "Yeah I'm fine." But she persisted, "No really, are you okay? Do you want to talk about it?" In that moment I remembered the thought I had had ten minutes before and it clicked, God had sent me exactly what I wanted and needed. So I caved, and just started vaguely expressing how I was feeling, how I had set my hopes on all these things that kept disappointing me. She paused for a second and then said, "I don't want to be all religious or anything, but...." And I just laughed and held up my bible, and we both understood what was going on. So we talked for a few minutes, and she invited me to come to a bible study/small group with her the next night (Which, incidentally, I loved and have continued to go to. Isn't it funny that when I stopped looking for community myself, God took over and led me exactly where I wanted to go in the first place?). She gave me a hug and we walked back to our dorm together. I was so comforted by her presence and her kindness.

Once I got back into my room I realized that I had just been on the receiving end of Christ's love and care for me in a tangible sense through someone who was acting as his hands and feet here on earth.

And it's a beautiful thing, to be taken care of and loved by the Body.

This is from my journal.

God, do I really want more? Or do I just think that I want more? Why do I even want a relationship with you? Why don't I just live a "good" life by all the basic rules?

Because it's miserable. I'm miserable like this. I distract myself from the fact that my life feels kind of empty but if I sit still long enough I see that I am not fulfilled or satisfied. I'm back on the fence. No, I'm on a different fence altogether. Not the fence of following either Christ or the World, but the fence of being simply a "Christian" or being wholeheartedly sold out to whatever God has in store for me. And the fence sucks. Especially because I've already made the decision. I know what I've chose, I've just returned to the fence because I don't know where else to go. And I can't pretend like in Swaz I was closer to God. It was just easier to choose him there. I can no longer idolize my time spent there. And even if things between God and I had been substantially better there, it wouldn't matter to me now because God is never interested in going backwards, it's always forwards, always building on what has already been.

But again, do I really want more of him? By default, if nothing else, I must. Because the alternatives are both equally impossible. I can neither stay where I am or walk away. Forwards, more, is my only real option. I can no more stay here than I can voluntarily eat only butter for the rest of my life. I am programmed to detest this kind of stagnant, chronically miserable state. And to leave... where else would I go? Now that I have felt the complete joy that comes with a life with God I don't think I could ever be happy doing anything but following him. And the selfish creature that I am, my life, ultimately revolves around my own happiness. So then I must have more, because what I have now isn't enough. But how do I get more? And I think this is the real battle. My Flesh vs. my Spirit. My Spirit is desperate for more, but my flesh insists that the cost is too great. My flesh only wants to give the minimum and expects the maximum in return. 

But God isn't a god of minimums. He's a God of extremes. So he'll accept nothing less than all that I have. Not because he wants it all for himself, or because he expects me to offer something in return for his grace, but because he knows how miserable the fence is and the only way to get off the fence is to give up everything that draws you to the other side. The Flesh is strong, and the heart is deceptive, and it will use anything it can to bring you back to the other side of the fence. And God is a god who loves me totally and completely and wants only what is best for me- which is Himself.

I've become so wrapped up in the world that my Flesh, fed on desires, has begun to rival my Spirit once again. But greater is He who is in me than he who is in the world.

I've been home for nearly two months. And those two months exist in my memory as a blur of stress and guilt and busyness. Not that there wasn't a ton of happiness and fun and thanksgiving, it's just been overwhelming. I didn't run into the problems that most people face. Everyone has been eager to hear about Swaziland. Everyone wants to spend time with me it seems. I haven't felt like an alien, or been angry at the injustice that that oozes out of our American pores. I have been blessed. Simply blessed. The transition wasn't rough.   My friends have been incredibly supportive. My family has been great. But in the two weeks that I was home (I'm in Memphis now for the summer) I felt like I had to try and see everyone that I hadn't seen in the past eight months in those 14 short days. Inevitably, people's feelings were hurt because I just didn't have enough time and inevitably I felt guilty and stressed about it. I wasn't getting a lot of alone time, but I thought I would just sacrifice that one "indulgence" until I got to Memphis where I could finally rest. But then I got to Memphis. I work Monday through Friday 8-5 (I'm so professional, I know), run every day (well... most days) after work, eat dinner, and then it's basically time to go to sleep. On the weekends I have to try and fit as many of my family members into my schedule as possible. Then it's Monday again.

And it's no one's fault but mine. I could have slowed down, people would have understood. I just felt so guilty if I didn't spend my time with the people who love me. I knew this would happen, too. Our leaders at AIM talked to us at debrief about the typical responses to re-entry. I knew that I wasn't one to be angry at the inequality and lack of understanding. There was also no way I was going to isolate and alienate myself. No, instead I'm the girl who goes, goes, goes without taking a second to breathe and then eventually hits a brick wall. I think that brick wall is about three inches from my nose right now. Things with God have been strange. I hate the routine. It makes me almost sick to my stomach to think about taking 30 minutes of quiet time in the morning to "spend time with God". It's too tame. It's too bland. It's like plain porridge. I miss the exotic omelet I had in Swaz. I miss the spontaneous nature of our relationship there. Why can't I find that here? When I have unscheduled time all I want to do is read, and read something mindlessly entertaining. Or just sleep. If I sit still for more than twenty minutes I'll pass out. And I have all the right words to say to God programmed into my brain from going to church for years. I can tell him that I'm exhausted, that I can't do this without him, that I need him to refresh and restore me. But there's not heart behind any of that. It's too stale, and I'm too tired.

And where does the past year fit into my life now? I have absolutely no idea. I don't know what to do with it. Part of me hates talking about it. Because it's turned into some kind of accessory. "Yeah, I took a year off after high school and went on a mission trip to Swaziland for 8 months." "Wow! How was it?" "It was really good, I loved it." "So what did you do there exactly?" "Well we partnered with a pastor there and just did whatever he needed us to do." "Cool." I can't tell you how many times I've had that exact conversation. But it's a lie. What I really did in Swaziland was paint dirty little fingernails, wash a ton of dishes, sing SiSwati worship songs every Tuesday, let my hair be painfully braided, played games with half dressed little Africans, watched a little too much soccer, witnessed the deepest pain exhibit itself in the numb exteriors of gogos, watched these exteriors broken in a wave of suppressed tears, been to funerals that lasted all night long, felt overwhelmed by the need that threatens to suffocate you from all sides, wanted to come home, wanted to stay forever, learned exactly how impossible real love is, was changed forever. And all this gets is a few short sentences every now and then. Yet, I don't know how else to treat it. I miss it every single day. At first I didn't. On the way home from Houston I cried the entire plane ride from Atlanta to Pensacola. Sobbed would be a better description. It became real to me that everything was over, and I couldn't hold in the sadness that caused. My heart was flooded with memories and feelings of Swaziland and the tears rolled down my face. After that though, there was almost no looking back. For about three weeks I felt so guilty about how little I thought of the people and places I had just spent a significant part of my life. But then slowly, it caught up with me. I started google-ing Swaziland pictures and reading about it on Wikipedia. I would stare at the little dot labeled "Nsoko" on the map and wonder how so much could be contained in so few pixels on my computer screen. I would stalk the blogs of people who are there right now, hoping just to gain a little bit of information about one of my friends.  I can't wait to go back.

We're in Manzini at the bus rank, which is just this massive parking lot full of khumbis (buses). There are people everywhere trying to find a ride or selling things. As you walk in you're assaulted by drivers competing for your attention trying to find out where you're going so you'll ride with them. Once you find a khumbi going where you want to go you have to wait for it to fill up before you leave, and this is what we're doing. Katie and I are sitting next to each other and Jess, Bryan, and Jon are sitting right behind us. I'm engrossed by my book when this guy walks on. He's probably in his mid-twenties and he's wearing these sunglasses that look like they've been designed by J.Lo or something. He obviously thinks he's cool. I'm not sure if I smelled particularly nice or if I accidentally smiled at him as he walked on or something, but he takes an immediate liking to me. "Hello! How are you? I love you!" This is his greeting. It's not uncommon in Swaziland, and I've learned to just ignore it. So I giggled but kept reading. I was born with a pretty decent creeper repellant so usually they go after Katie and Jess and leave me blissfully alone. He was persistent though. "I love you. You are beautiful. I want to marry you!" Now I don't think I have publicly announced this, but I am already engaged to Dumo, a local three year old. He's even pledged to pay 75 cows for me. The tradition here in Swazi is to pay lobola (bride price) for your wife with cows. The usual price is 17 cows, but Dumo really loves me. So obviously I could not accept this man's offer. I told him about Dumo, and he said he would pay 100 cows. That is just a ludicrous amount of money so I returned to my book. But he persevered, even through Jon and Bryan's repeated assurances that I was not going to marry him. So Bryan came up with a new diversionary tactic, and I must say, I think it's been the most effective yet. He turns to the man and says, with eyes misted over in adoration, "I love you! Will you marry me?" This caught him off guard. "No! I can't marry you!" he responded. "But you can't marry her either." Creeper then turned to me and said "The Almighty God is witness to the deep love I have for you." I'm not sure I've gotten a proposal quite as elegant yet, but still, there's no way. Dumo and I are in serious love. Bryan, meanwhile, continues professing his deep, irresistible love to the Creeper. Every time he would start to say something to me, Bryan would retaliate by either repeating what the Creeper said in a grosser, mushier stomach curdling way, or advertising his services as a life partner. "L- is for the way you look at me.." Bryan sang in his best Las Vegas side-show voice. "I will cook for you, and clean for you, and give you a big belly!" He even attempted to stroke his face, but was spurned by a sharp reply of "Man, I am not gay!" "But I LOVE you!" This continued for a good hour. Everyone, including the other Swazis on the bus, was laughing hysterically, me still trying to hide behind my book. Eventually he got off the khumbi, but not without instructing my team to "take care of this one."

While the whole experience was nevertheless a tad disturbing, it was by far the most entertaining proposal I have, and probably will ever have.

It was hot. Like every other day. The kids from the primary school down the dirt road were having a quasi-track meet on the soccer field so there were kids literally everywhere you looked. The boys had lost the keys to their room so to talk to them I had to stand outside at the window. I was trying to make plans with Jon for going to Matata to use the ATM and Noxie, a fifteen year old girl who hangs out at the center, kept trying to get my attention. Somewhat annoyed I told her I'd be there in just a second. Jon and I had decided to leave in ten minutes so I needed to go change clothes and grab by backpack. I figured I'd see what Noxie needed on my way to do this. She grabbed my arm as I turned the corner of the house and said, "This boy. He is crying. He says he has a head ache." He couldn't be more than seven years old. Swazis are infamous for over exaggerating illnesses (probably due to the fact that often what seems to them like an ordinary cold can be deadly because of the high prevalence of HIV/AIDS) and I figured this was one of those cases, no big deal. I had some children's ibuprofen in the room, so I grabbed it and pulled him inside into the shade. The second my skin made contact with his though, I knew something was seriously wrong. I've never felt another human being that hot before. He had that unmistakable look of a sick child. His eyes were watery and he couldn't speak much louder than a whisper. I gave him the ibuprofen and then some cold water to cool him down, but after the first couple sips he vomited up everything I had just given him. I was taking him to the clinic.

The clinic is less than a hundred yards from the center where we live. The nurse there is named Wisdom and he's from Zimbabwe. Since it's not a government subsidized public clinic it's much more expensive than the other clinics in the area. But it's considerably closer, so many people pay the higher prices to avoid paying for the transportation elsewhere. When I say expensive though, I mean comparatively. It's R100 for an adult and R50 for a child. That's about $13.50 and $6.75, respectively. But when you only earn a couple hundred rand a month, that's quite expensive. It's not an option for many of the people who live around here. We've paid for a fair few people to go to the clinic since we've been here, and that's what I was doing with this child.

His name, it turns out, is Lungelo. He is actually nine, and he's in the second grade. When Wisdom took his temperature we were both alarmed to find out that it was 40.7 degrees Celsius, or 105 Fahrenheit. He kept insisting that he was fine though, and that he wasn't sick because he was afraid he'd have to get a shot. He was right. He couldn't eat, and he couldn't take and oral medication on an empty stomach, so an injection was the only solution. I held his shaking body as Wisdom tried to give it to him. But he kept moving and the needle kept clogging, so in the end he got stuck four times and most of the fluid ended up on my skirt rather than in him. I took him back to the center and left him sleeping on a mattress. I told Kate that he needed to go back at 2:00 to have his temperature checked, and left with German for Matata.

When I got home and asked Kate what had happened with him so told me that he randomly got up and walked home without telling anyone where he was going. He didn't want to go back to the clinic for fear of another shot. His house is pretty far away so I just had to hope that he would be better.

A week or so later I was woken up rather earlier than I wanted to be because Lungelo and his mom were outside. He had not in fact gotten better. His fever persisted and he had no appetite. He suffered head aches and sweats. He has malaria. The place where he lives is by the river, and three of his family members have been diagnosed with malaria in the last two weeks. Our good friend Majabane lives right by him and had malaria last week. This time I paid for them to go to the other clinic nearby because they have more of the resources needed to treat him. That kind of smile on a worried mother's face is impossible to forget. Her baby was going to be okay.

Mapile, one of our translators and best friends, and I have gone to visit Lungelo and his family twice since then. It's about thirty minutes from our house to his and I enjoy the walk with Mapile as much as I enjoy the destination. The first time we went we found Lungelo and his younger brother Mphinda making toy cars with two of their friends Marvin (strange, I know) and Pupu (pronounced, unfortunately, exactly like it looks). His mom was out collecting firewood and his dad was "drinking", as he told us. While we waited for his mom Mapile educated me in the art of making toy cars. We see kids all the time with these things, but I never knew they actually made them themselves. The frame is made out of thick wire, the tires out of the bottoms of aluminum cans stuck together, thin wire and electrical tape hold everything together, and a piece of sugar cane is used to steer it. They collect all of the materials from trash pits and it can take quite a while to get everything they need. Lungelo was doing much better. He was running around and laughing like a normal 9 year old again. Except he had a massive cut above his eye and his whole eyebrow was swollen. Apparently another kid had whacked him in the face with a wheelbarrow. Despite this somewhat alarming injury though, he was fine. We waited for a few hours with no sign of his mother returning, so we left but told Lungelo to tell her we'd been there and would come back another time.

Last Wednesday we went again. Once again we found Mphinda and Lungelo all alone at the homestead. Their mother had gotten a job and they didn't know where their father was. I asked about the toy cars and he said he'd given them to a friend. Weeks of searching for materials and days of work, wasted in an act of generosity. Jesus would have liked it. We stayed for an hour or so, playing with them and the neighbor girls, and then Mapile insisted that they come with us to the care point so that they could eat before dinner when their mom came home. As we walked over there Lungelo and Mphinda chased each other back and forth, wrestling when they caught the other one. Such little boys. Lungelo's eyebrow was completely healed, and he had no other medical issues to boast of. We left them at the care point to eat, two happy, healthy boys.

But as we walked away it struck me how sad it was that though they had a lot to be thankful for simply in their good health, they were still barefoot and clothed in pants and shirts with gaping holes in them. Their house couldn't be anywhere near warm at night. Their father and mother never seemed to be at home. And yet they are some of the lucky ones because they have two parents still alive living with them on the homestead and they aren't sick.

 The standards are a tad skewed.  

On Death.

While waiting for public under the concrete shelter at the bus stop I imagine it falling apart, crushing me underneath. Riding in the back of a truck I can't help but think about flying out of the bed as a result of hitting a cow. Lighting our gas stove is particularly dangerous- I could easily slip and fall into the flames. Deadly flesh eating diseases aren't all that rare either, and when I got a staph infection last month that was my first diagnosis. I'm also half convinced that I have a brain tumor (there are multiple symptoms, but I try not to think about them too much so I don't freak out). Almost every time I get in a car my mind wanders to brutal and mutilating car accidents that would leave me beheaded or with some other gruesome injury. Over Easter weekend I was home alone for a few hours and was legitimately afraid of being mauled by PG's dog Max (this one might have been kind of legitimate though, he's pretty mangy). You get the picture. I have an unusually morbid curiosity. It's not like I live my life in some cautiously depressed state of mind, I just appreciate the mundane and ordinary opportunities death could use to take my life. I never knew this was strange until I started voicing these death filled scenarios in my head (mostly because when you're with people 24/7 you run out of things to talk about and just start saying everything that you think) and my teammates told me I was a freak. It's just normal to me though.

I told all of this to my friend Amelia and she had some really insightful things to say.

It is not morbid to think about death. Death is essential to life. Death unifies people. Death can be beautiful. And that feeling of you or those whom you love and are close to are going to die soon, well I have a theory about it...at least on behalf of God-fearin' people.

 Jesus is all about death. What does He always say? "If anyone wants to come with me he must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow Me." (Matthew) "You must die and be born again in order to see the Kingdom of Heaven." (John) "In the same way, any of you who do not give up everything he has cannot be my disciple." (Luke) This could go on and on but they are all various things to the effect of "To follow me. Come and die." And so inherently if you KNOW Jesus you're sort of going to be all about death too. Life of Christ-following means forfeiting comfort and security for God's glory; because you're down with Jesus, you're down with death & so of course you're always going to be thinking about it.

By large, your life IS death.

I think she's right. We're so uncomfortable with death because it's scary and frankly weird, but death is as much a part of life as birth is. Especially a life following Christ. We're constantly dying and being born. Daily we're supposed to crucify the flesh. So why am I so perplexed by earthly death? I remember this one time when I was like six or so, really young. I was lying in bed and realized for the first time that I was going to die. I started crying and couldn't stop. I found my mom and she tried to comfort me but the thought that one day I would no longer exist on the planet was so terrifying and incredibly sad to me that I was inconsolable.

The other night we were sitting in our room after dinner and Majabane came in. "Ish, somebody died," was all he said. My first instinct was to laugh because he was obviously joking, but then I remembered that I was in Swaziland and he was being serious. A man had been hit by a car crossing the highway by our house. I didn't know him, but I absolutely adore his children Dadada, Sphey, and Tembelihle and his mother Lily. We all rushed out of the room and towards to highway and the sounds of wailing women and crying children. I didn't even make it all the way to the road. I saw Dadada staring toward all the cars with tears streaming down his face and his mother walking in circles consumed by grief with 8 month old Tembelihle in her arms. I couldn't leave them. That night is blurry in my mind. All I have are a few distinct memories. Dadada on my lap, shaking with silent tears. The widow and I laying on the ground together, her sobbing "Make, mama, ngulugulu," over and over again (Mother, Mama, God) for what seemed like hours. Watching grown men cry, lit up by the flashing blue police lights. Singing the only song I could think of in SiSwati, despite my terrible singing voice. "Uphageme, uphageme, uphageme". You pick me up, you pick me up, you pick me up.

I expected to feel God almost tangibly in the face of such extreme and real grief. I expected him to make himself inexcusably evident. But that wasn't the case. It wasn't that I questioned his presence absolutely, I just questioned why in the midst of such reality I was struggling to see him. Shouldn't he be the only one I can think of when I'm in the midst of death? Instead I was preoccupied by the normal things one is preoccupied by. The mosquitoes that were biting my ankles. My leg falling asleep underneath me. The shooting stars streaking across the sky every once in a while. My lungs continued to breathe in and out. My heart kept pumping. The world was still turning even though this woman's whole universe had been shattered.

 In the moment this was disconcerting. What is the point of life if when you die things continue to happen as usual? But as I've thought and processed through this, I've come to see that the beauty found in death lies precisely in the normality of it. It is a part of life. There are people taking their last breaths as you read this. Mother and fathers and children die every day. And yet, though it is normal in the sense that it is natural and happens to everyone, it is not normal in that it leaves us changed. Death, though it doesn't take us fully until the end of our lives, leaves inexplicable and unpredictable marks on those it touches along the way. I will not be the same after that night. Indeed, I have not been the same since Jesus called me to come and die.

Bryan: I found some Jiff peanut butter that the ambassador team left in our room!

Jess/Me: Oh my goodness! Where is it?!

Katie: Are yall going to eat it all like you did last time?

Bryan: Yeah, you can't have it.

Jess/Me: Why not?!

Jon: Because it's a waste of peanut butter.

Me: Um, why?

Jess: It's not like we don't eat it.

Jon: Yeah but then we can't use it for sandwiches.

Jess: Well you can use the other peanut butter for sandwiches.

Jon: Then you can eat the other peanut butter.

Me: But it's not the same and you know it. Come on. Just let us have a little bit.

Jess: Yeah it's like dessert.

Jon: No. You can't eat the peanut butter. I'm not going to have to buy more peanut butter just so that you can eat American peanut butter straight. You get home in a month and you can eat all the peanut butter you want then.

Me: But that's a whole month a way. You just want to deny us the pleasure of peanut butter.

Jon: No. It's just wasteful. You don't need it.

Me: Well then you can't put sugar on top of your cereal any more Jon Melo. It's wasteful and you don't need it.

Jon: Then you can't either. And it's not the same anyway.

Me: I don't put sugar on my cereal thank you. And it's exactly the same thing. You just like the way it tastes, you don't need it.

Jess: Well what about ice cream? We buy ice cream just because we like it.

[This continues for about ten minutes]

Me: Did we really just argue about peanut butter?

Jon: I don't really care about the peanut butter. Yall can eat it.

Welcome to community and an unhealthy addiction to American peanut butter.

To close out our time in here in Nsoko, we want to have a big event, an anti HIV/AIDS campaign tentatively on May 1st. The theme will be "Protect me from HIV, Ngilikusasa" (or I am the future). It will be an event mainly for children, similar to old elementary school style field days, with Swazi flair. There will be races and games for the kids. A puppet show and drama will prepared in advance to teach the kids about the ways they can avoid HIV/AIDS and how to protect themselves. We are hoping to have four different care points coming together to take part in the event, about 400 kids in all. We are also hoping to buy a cow for the community and have a feast that night.

Unfortunately this all requires money. All of us on the team are asking our sponsors, friends and families for a little bit more to be able to host this event. We need to raise about $500 (that's US dollars) to pull this off. The money will go to transporting the kids to and from the center, food, and other supplies. I know some of you told me that you didn't have money to give to me before I left but that if needs came up along the way to let you know...well I'm letting you know.

This leaves each me individually to raise about $100. Because this needs to happen fast (the event is less than a month away!) we are choosing not to fundraise through AIM and therefore nothing that you give will be tax deductible, sorry! If you want to help, please either give my parents money (at church or if you see them sometime) or mail a check (made out to either me or my parents) to my home address -

230 Antlers Trail  

Leander, TX 78641

Even $5 will help tremendously. If you are in Texas Wesley, contact Sarah Jenkins. She has agreed to collect money for me there and will then mail a check to my parents on April 23^rd.

Thank you all so much for all of your support!

Katie Graves

I am eleven. My grandmother and I are in Paris. We've just been to a museum or something. We're walking down the sidewalk and I see this man. He's Indian. He's sitting on a straw mat wearing all white, including his turban. His legs are withered. They sit uselessly underneath him as he begs for money. He's dirty and missing a few teeth. He calls out to the people in Indian accented French as they pass by. I've never seen anyone like him before in my whole life. I stare as we walk by. That night I cry myself to sleep thinking about him.

I am nineteen. Jessica and I are in Manzini. We've just been to the mall for lunch. We're walking out and I see this boy. He's Swazi. He's crawling down the stairs. His right foot is twisted in the wrong direction and his other one isn't fully formed. His spine is curved so he can't even walk upright. He wears shoes on his hands and one on his left knee. His clothes are torn and he avoids looking at the people who have to walk around him as he struggles down the stairs. I've seen too many people like him before. I look away as we walk by. By that night I've forgotten all about him.

Oh God, take this heart of stone and replace it with one of flesh.