See Something More

I got up at 3:45am and warmed up a cup of tea only because I knew some people were doing the same thing half way across the world.  Sleepiness was heavy on my eyes as I dipped the tea bag up and down and watched color seep out into the water. I was tempted to just get back in bed, but the warmth of the mug in my hands crept up my arms and beckoned me to wake up. I took a deep cleansing breath, and I dialed and called Africa.  When Charlotte answered, her picture came through fuzzy and pixelated on my small cell phone screen, but I could see her white smile beaming in contrast to her dark skin. She bounced her four month old baby boy on her lap, who cooed as if he wanted to say hi to me, too. Rebeca must have quickly grabbed the phone from her because the screen turned blurry with motion and then her smile, too, popped out as she cradled her 2 month old - an orphan daughter that she is caring for - in her arms.  In an instant, I totally forgot that it was an ungodly hour of

I delicately unfolded the green and purple dress and pressed out the creases from it being in my suitcase all the way from west Africa. I wouldn’t normally pick green and purple together, but Juliette had picked it for me, and because of that, I loved it.  Africans love to dress in bright colors, which works for me because so do I. Africans also take great pride in dressing themselves well, which doesn’t come so naturally for me. I have had to learn, and my African women friends have been happy to help out.  Africans also don’t normally buy ready-to-wear clothes. It is actually much cheaper and economical to buy several yards of fabric and then take it to a tailor with a pattern in mind. Like this, you can have a beautiful authentic African complete outfit (skirt, top, and head scarf all in the same matching pattern) made for about $20 USD.  For the last couple of years, I thought I was doing pretty good to buy an occasional piece of fabric and have a skirt made, which I

Three cities. Three weeks. And about ten times that many Starbucks visits. Since arriving to the United States three weeks ago, I have actually accomplished all the visiting, reporting, and furlough-related tasks that I set out to do. It's been jam-packed, fast-paced, and honestly quite exhausting yet incredibly good. So here is another big thank you to everyone who came to one of either supporter dinners. Thank you to Searcy's Fellowship Bible Church and Russellville's West Side Church of Christ for their hospitality and generosity. Thank you to everyone who joined me for dinner or coffee and listened to me tell stories. Thank you to those who let me sleep in their beds or drive their cars. Thanks for the sunrise pinnacle climb, bike rides, sleepovers, walks in the park, and prayers. Every moment mattered. Next to being in Africa, talking about it is my next favorite thing. Thank you for listening. For the past three weeks, I've been a reporter. A story teller.

"You should come to my yoga class with me!" she said, and I figured there is a first time for everything, so I agreed. I'm not the yoga type, but if anything, I could laugh at myself or be a source of comic relief. Except I learned that people don't really laugh a lot while doing yoga, so perhaps I just helped the rest of the class feel better about themselves by watching my obvious novice attempts. She warned me that it was a "hot yoga" class, and that I should be ready to sweat a lot. Then she proceeded to read a description that they heat the room to a balmy eighty degrees.  "Eighty degrees?" I exclaimed. "I'll need a sweater!"  I thought about that time I woke up (in Burkina Faso in the rainy season) to a nice cool rain. It was so chilly that I put on pajama pants (those only get worn on the coolest days!) and socks, heated up a cup of coffee, and sat on the porch with chill bumps on my arms. Just out of curiosity, I go

I stared down at my cup of coffee and wondered what is wrong with me. It tasted sweet because I had already put two spoonfuls of sugar before I added the flavored creamer without knowing that it too was sweetened. I was giddy making it - the Kurig machine, the sugar, the flavored creamer - it was all so luxurious compared to the simple Nescafé instant coffee that I had gotten used to over the past year. When I sat down to drink it, it was sweet in my mouth but slightly bitter in my heart. I wanted to enjoy it fully, but I couldn't.  It's a weird thing - coming back to the United States after a year in Africa. This is my third time to do this in the past three years since moving to Burkina Faso, and I search each time for the words to describe it. In a way, it's like going to Disney world. It's magical, it's unreal. It's like everything is manicured and people are wearing costumes and everyone is walking around trying to have a good time. It's a world of i