Kristin and I have decided to volunteer at Home for Hope orphanage on Wednesdays. After my first visit, I just couldn't go back. I told myself it was because of time, but if I was honest I know it was because it was just too difficult for me to know my son is there and I can't see him. Yet, over the past several weeks, I've felt my heart shift so that I am emotionally ready to engage with the other children who may never be adopted. I had made plans to go today. A few days ago, I received an email from some friends of friends who just received word that they have a son and he is two years old. I asked them if I could visit him on their behalf. Of course, they said yes.
So today, after spending a few minutes playing on the see-saws with a dozen or so little ones, I asked the helper if she knew Isaiah (just learned I am not allowed to post his Rwandan name). As soon as she pointed to him, I recognized him from the pictures. What a child of strength. It was such a joy for me to tell him in Kinyarwandan that I am friends with his forever mom and dad and that they are coming soon to get him. I was able to play with him, help feed him, and just watch and observe this precious boy.
He ate in a room I hadn't been in before. In the room were five handicapped little boys all in one crib. Their legs are crippled and for some they cannot even sit up. My heart broke for these little ones. There was a woman there from Burundi who was volunteering and so I joined her in feeding and holding these precious little ones. Angelo was the one with whom I spent the most time. Judging by his facial features and size, I would guess he may be as old as four years old, but he is still eating out of a bottle and cannot stand, nor can he speak. I asked if I could hold him and the helpers were so sweet to change him, put on nice clothes and then let me hold him. At first he was so animated and I tried to hold him up so he could at least move his legs. Then they gave me a bottle with which to feed him. I rocked him like a baby and just sang these words, "You are loved. You are loved. You are loved." to the tune of an old worship song called "You are Lord." I could feel his body relaxing in my arms. I kept looking into his eyes and telling him, "You are not forgotten. You are loved." I felt like I could stay there forever.
And then my friends were leaving, so I tried to put him back in the crib. He just screamed and cried. I told him I would be back. And I will.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Since I'm such a blog-slacker
I can't really explain it. Maybe it's that I have seen and experienced so much in the past few weeks that it is hard for me to know where to begin. Or maybe it's just the reality of having a very, very busy three year old who always wants to be a part of whatever I am doing, so sitting down to write a thoughtful blog posting just doesn't happen; or maybe it's because the night is so dark, the heat is so hot and I seem to fall asleep much earlier than I did in the States; or maybe it's just that I"m lazy. The bottomline is that I haven't blogged in weeks, but my friends and colleagues have. So if you're interested in general life and work here, and don't want to wait for me to get around to posting, please check out:
http://carolinejoan.blogspot.com/ - Caroline lives with us here in Kigali. I've known her since she was a baby and am super proud of the dance school she's launched called Ballet Rwanda.
http://www.urquharts.wordpress.com/ - Greg and Kristen are one third of our partnership with Karisimbi Business Partners.
http://www.karisimbipartners.blogspot.com/ - Our company's weekly blog.
http://carolinejoan.blogspot.com/ - Caroline lives with us here in Kigali. I've known her since she was a baby and am super proud of the dance school she's launched called Ballet Rwanda.
http://www.urquharts.wordpress.com/ - Greg and Kristen are one third of our partnership with Karisimbi Business Partners.
http://www.karisimbipartners.blogspot.com/ - Our company's weekly blog.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
A Megaphone of 1000 Voices
I serve on the board of Children's Hope Chest and want to share this letter from its CEO, Tom Davis.
**************
Dear Friends,
While I love Christmas more than any other time of year, I’m already thinking about 2010 and I want to share that vision with you. And, I want you to share it with everyone you know.
Our team set the goal of raising $500,000 to reach another 5,000 orphaned children in 2010. We’re raising these funds so that…
> Fewer young girls are forced to trade sex for food
> More orphans will have food to eat, and the protection and love of Christian mentors
> No girl will end up in the commercial sex trade
The enemy preys upon orphans like this day after day after day. I’ve seen our enemy; he goes by names like AIDS, extreme poverty, and sexual trafficking. He robs children of their parents, their dreams, and their dignity. Who will stop this? It must be us!
Today I am on a mission to raise $500,000 and I can’t do it without you. Will you help by visiting http://www.HopeChestPartners.org and sign up as a $25/month partner today?
Your donation will feed orphans in Africa and rescue them from extreme poverty. Your gifts will support lifechanging programs for girls in Russia that help prevent sex trafficking and forced prostitution.
These are CRITICAL gifts that form the foundation of our programs. Without that foundation, we could never have grown to reach 10,000, and sit poised to reach another 5,000 next year. It is those gifts, your gifts, that make the difference.
For the Fatherless,
Tom Davis
**************
Dear Friends,
While I love Christmas more than any other time of year, I’m already thinking about 2010 and I want to share that vision with you. And, I want you to share it with everyone you know.
Our team set the goal of raising $500,000 to reach another 5,000 orphaned children in 2010. We’re raising these funds so that…
> Fewer young girls are forced to trade sex for food
> More orphans will have food to eat, and the protection and love of Christian mentors
> No girl will end up in the commercial sex trade
The enemy preys upon orphans like this day after day after day. I’ve seen our enemy; he goes by names like AIDS, extreme poverty, and sexual trafficking. He robs children of their parents, their dreams, and their dignity. Who will stop this? It must be us!
Today I am on a mission to raise $500,000 and I can’t do it without you. Will you help by visiting http://www.HopeChestPartners.org and sign up as a $25/month partner today?
Your donation will feed orphans in Africa and rescue them from extreme poverty. Your gifts will support lifechanging programs for girls in Russia that help prevent sex trafficking and forced prostitution.
These are CRITICAL gifts that form the foundation of our programs. Without that foundation, we could never have grown to reach 10,000, and sit poised to reach another 5,000 next year. It is those gifts, your gifts, that make the difference.
For the Fatherless,
Tom Davis
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
The Calling of Motherhood
So I am not going to write, but instead allow this essay to speak to the many thoughts I have about motherhood. I thought it was really well-written. And I love the quote by G.K. Chesterton from his book, What is Wrong with the World:
"How can it be a large career to tell other people's children about the Rule of Three, and a small career to tell one's own children about the universe? How can it be broad to be the same thing to everyone, and narrow to be everything to someone? No. A woman's function is laborious, but because it is gigantic, not because it is minute. I will pity Mrs. Jones for the hugeness of her task; I will never pity her for its smallness."
For the full essay: http://www.washingtoninst.org/resources/articles/guest/motherhood-vocation.htm
"How can it be a large career to tell other people's children about the Rule of Three, and a small career to tell one's own children about the universe? How can it be broad to be the same thing to everyone, and narrow to be everything to someone? No. A woman's function is laborious, but because it is gigantic, not because it is minute. I will pity Mrs. Jones for the hugeness of her task; I will never pity her for its smallness."
For the full essay: http://www.washingtoninst.org/resources/articles/guest/motherhood-vocation.htm
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Visiting my son's home
When we adopted Lian and Anna, their home seemed far away, their situation unknowable. Now I live in the same city as our son, his home is less than a ten-minute drive from my house. Yet, he is unknowable for now. Is he born yet? I don't know. Yet, what I do know now makes my heart long for him even more.
On Sunday, Kristin and I went to the Home of Hope orphanage, run by the Sisters of Charity in Kigali. We were not allowed to take pictures and I don't think I would anyway. Almost seems to trivialize the reality these children live in. So we went with some teachers from my daughter's school who volunteer there every Sunday. I have been to many orphanages before as a result of our adoptions and my work with Children's Hope Chest, but this was harder than what I've experienced before.
I need to preface my comments by saying that I know the Sisters there are prayerful, dedicated, hard-working and compassionate people. Yet, there are too few of them and too many children. One hundred and twenty children, ages 0-8 live in this home. Volunteers are not allowed in the baby room, unless you are a doctor, so as to keep the babies healthy. However, I could see them through the windows. Crib after crib lined the room - it was overwhelming to me. There had to be sixty cribs, at least. Outside the baby room were the 1-2 year olds, some of whom slept two to a crib in a very small crib. No furniture except the tables at which they all eat their meals. Outside in the courtyard, about forty 3-6 year olds, along with several special needs older children, were playing and getting ready to eat their dinner (a roll and some milk) and take a bath.
I thought I was prepared. I brought a Rwandan soccer ball as I thought that would be fun to play. Lesson learned, unless I had 40 soccer balls, I should not have brought it. The children stormed at us, wanting to be held, wanting to touch our hair and wanting to see what I had in my bag. They tried to grab it off of my arm. I finally got control and tried to play a game, but it was chaotic. They all began climbing on me and not in a fun way. I literally had to cry for help because the smaller children were getting trampled by the older. I just wanted to cry. This was not what I had imagined. And the caregivers (not the nuns) did not seem to know what to do. Finally, I put my bag in hiding, toys away, and just held a few small children, singing and blessing each one.
The smell of urine was everywhere - on the children, on my clothes, on my skin. It was overwhelming to me, yet I couldn't stop holding them. My son could be one of them in a few years. Lord, please hasten our process.
In the meantime, I will hold the children and support those who are coming alongside these children. I've met so many wonderful people who are providing medical care each week to the children, or working to provide material needs for the children. Specifically, another adoptive mom, Laurel Greer has started a non-profit to come alongside this orphanage. She is doing a "Crocs" shoe drive right now, which will be followed by a developmental toys drive. She sends the supplies from the States with other families who are adopting. To learn more, please visit http://four4-more.blogspot.com
My son, you are loved and longed for.
On Sunday, Kristin and I went to the Home of Hope orphanage, run by the Sisters of Charity in Kigali. We were not allowed to take pictures and I don't think I would anyway. Almost seems to trivialize the reality these children live in. So we went with some teachers from my daughter's school who volunteer there every Sunday. I have been to many orphanages before as a result of our adoptions and my work with Children's Hope Chest, but this was harder than what I've experienced before.
I need to preface my comments by saying that I know the Sisters there are prayerful, dedicated, hard-working and compassionate people. Yet, there are too few of them and too many children. One hundred and twenty children, ages 0-8 live in this home. Volunteers are not allowed in the baby room, unless you are a doctor, so as to keep the babies healthy. However, I could see them through the windows. Crib after crib lined the room - it was overwhelming to me. There had to be sixty cribs, at least. Outside the baby room were the 1-2 year olds, some of whom slept two to a crib in a very small crib. No furniture except the tables at which they all eat their meals. Outside in the courtyard, about forty 3-6 year olds, along with several special needs older children, were playing and getting ready to eat their dinner (a roll and some milk) and take a bath.
I thought I was prepared. I brought a Rwandan soccer ball as I thought that would be fun to play. Lesson learned, unless I had 40 soccer balls, I should not have brought it. The children stormed at us, wanting to be held, wanting to touch our hair and wanting to see what I had in my bag. They tried to grab it off of my arm. I finally got control and tried to play a game, but it was chaotic. They all began climbing on me and not in a fun way. I literally had to cry for help because the smaller children were getting trampled by the older. I just wanted to cry. This was not what I had imagined. And the caregivers (not the nuns) did not seem to know what to do. Finally, I put my bag in hiding, toys away, and just held a few small children, singing and blessing each one.
The smell of urine was everywhere - on the children, on my clothes, on my skin. It was overwhelming to me, yet I couldn't stop holding them. My son could be one of them in a few years. Lord, please hasten our process.
In the meantime, I will hold the children and support those who are coming alongside these children. I've met so many wonderful people who are providing medical care each week to the children, or working to provide material needs for the children. Specifically, another adoptive mom, Laurel Greer has started a non-profit to come alongside this orphanage. She is doing a "Crocs" shoe drive right now, which will be followed by a developmental toys drive. She sends the supplies from the States with other families who are adopting. To learn more, please visit http://four4-more.blogspot.com
My son, you are loved and longed for.
Monday, November 2, 2009
An Umuganda Day
The last Saturday of every month in Rwanda is called Umuganda Day. From 8 am -12 pm, no cars are supposed to be out in the street, no one is to be working, everyone is to be serving their community, rebuilding their neighborhoods, cleaning up their streets. We decided to participate as a family. There is a ton of trash on our street and the potholes do wonders for our cars. So we decided to pick up trash and try and fill the potholes. Here are a few pictures. We ended up with all the neighbor kids working with us. We gave them oranges afterwards for all their hard work and they devoured them. Afterwards we went to a Fall Festival at Lian's school, followed by another fun party at the Magruders. Lian wanted to be Mulan and Anna was a Hawaiian princess, thanks to Jen and Seng Thor who mailed us our first care package with holiday decorations. 
There was a well or cistern of some form full of trash, so I hunkered down ( to the surprise of the children) and started pulling out trash until a cockroach scared me out.
Lian, the hard worker.
Dano and the boys trying to fill the huge ditch at the end of the tarmac.
Anna and her fellow trash picker-uppers.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Just some reflections I had to get on paper....
It has been fifteen years since the genocide. Rwanda has made tremendous strides toward healing, redemption. I am given the privilege of living in this country – from my front veranda, I can see lush mango, papaya and avocado trees, and the green valley. My children play with Danyire, Jiye, Samuel, Francine, Pierre, JoJo, Benita, Jadit, Christian. The rains pour down in the afternoon, bringing life to the red earth. It is a beautiful country.
I went to a meeting the other day at the Free Methodist church in Gikondo. Good people. Incredible hearts for the handicapped, the widow, the HIV-AIDS victim, the youth. We walk past the old church, being remodeled for a new Bible training center. 165 people were killed there. In cold blood. By their neighbors and friends, sanctioned by their Bishop. I am asked to see the future. To help with the future. Yet, the past is right there in front of me and I find myself fighting tears, seeing ghosts. The dead still speak.
Our security guard and gardener returns home from an evening out. He asks me for permission to return home to the North next week so he can pay his school fees and receive his diploma. He asks me in broken, yet understandable English sentences. I have been paying 8,000 francs ($12 USD) a week to study Kinyarwandan and I still can't have a two sentence conversation with Zechariah. He could not speak more than three words of English three weeks ago, but each night he studies a worn out 1970s textbook the gardener across the street lent him. And he can talk to me. I envy him.
Our househelper, Consolee, can barely stay awake by 3:00 pm. There are no Starbucks runs here. I tell her that she can take an hour break – I had assumed she would. One can't assume. I am the boss. I direct the program. If I don't make it clear that she can take a break, than she doesn't. I want to kick myself for not recognizing this earlier. I ask her when she studies for I know she goes to school six days a week after working for us nine hours a day. She says she wakes up at 3 or 4 am to study, before getting her five children up and ready for school. Her mother died when she was 16, so she had to quit school. Now she is determined to finish. I let her go early that day.
I met a woman on the plane. We are becoming friends, having weekly playdates with our daughters, taking Pilates together. She is Rwandan, but has only spent four months in Rwanda until now. Her family fled in 1959, so she grew up in Uganda. Her family returned to Rwanda after the genocide. She studied in the United States. Her family is of the elite. She asks me when I adopt if I will adopt a Hutu or a Tutsi. I don't hesitate to say, “It will not matter to us.”
The genocide is still the point in time by which everything else is defined here. The country wants to move forward. It is moving forward. I walk by people on the street and wonder what their story is. The number of crippled people here is staggering. No one needs to ask why they are maimed. I truly cannot begin to fathom the depths of the evil done by people to people. It has been fifteen years. My life here is good. We are doing good things to help build the economy. We will be forever connected to this country through our son's blood. My heart cries out for healing for this beautiful land. My soul is humbled by the people I meet. My mind seeks to grasp all I can learn so I can understand the stories of these people through their own language. It has only been three weeks. Time, time....
I went to a meeting the other day at the Free Methodist church in Gikondo. Good people. Incredible hearts for the handicapped, the widow, the HIV-AIDS victim, the youth. We walk past the old church, being remodeled for a new Bible training center. 165 people were killed there. In cold blood. By their neighbors and friends, sanctioned by their Bishop. I am asked to see the future. To help with the future. Yet, the past is right there in front of me and I find myself fighting tears, seeing ghosts. The dead still speak.
Our security guard and gardener returns home from an evening out. He asks me for permission to return home to the North next week so he can pay his school fees and receive his diploma. He asks me in broken, yet understandable English sentences. I have been paying 8,000 francs ($12 USD) a week to study Kinyarwandan and I still can't have a two sentence conversation with Zechariah. He could not speak more than three words of English three weeks ago, but each night he studies a worn out 1970s textbook the gardener across the street lent him. And he can talk to me. I envy him.
Our househelper, Consolee, can barely stay awake by 3:00 pm. There are no Starbucks runs here. I tell her that she can take an hour break – I had assumed she would. One can't assume. I am the boss. I direct the program. If I don't make it clear that she can take a break, than she doesn't. I want to kick myself for not recognizing this earlier. I ask her when she studies for I know she goes to school six days a week after working for us nine hours a day. She says she wakes up at 3 or 4 am to study, before getting her five children up and ready for school. Her mother died when she was 16, so she had to quit school. Now she is determined to finish. I let her go early that day.
I met a woman on the plane. We are becoming friends, having weekly playdates with our daughters, taking Pilates together. She is Rwandan, but has only spent four months in Rwanda until now. Her family fled in 1959, so she grew up in Uganda. Her family returned to Rwanda after the genocide. She studied in the United States. Her family is of the elite. She asks me when I adopt if I will adopt a Hutu or a Tutsi. I don't hesitate to say, “It will not matter to us.”
The genocide is still the point in time by which everything else is defined here. The country wants to move forward. It is moving forward. I walk by people on the street and wonder what their story is. The number of crippled people here is staggering. No one needs to ask why they are maimed. I truly cannot begin to fathom the depths of the evil done by people to people. It has been fifteen years. My life here is good. We are doing good things to help build the economy. We will be forever connected to this country through our son's blood. My heart cries out for healing for this beautiful land. My soul is humbled by the people I meet. My mind seeks to grasp all I can learn so I can understand the stories of these people through their own language. It has only been three weeks. Time, time....
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