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She weighs less than four pounds. Her tiny fingers and toes make me gasp in awe and wonder. She’s amazing really, to be born at 31 weeks in such a harsh environment and to make it this far. The purpose of her life right now is to exert as little energy as possible and drink as much milk as her little stomach will allow so that she can grow.  Her mother is also fascinatingly beautiful. She comes from the Fulani tribe, which have distinct facial features and jewelry that make them striking. She does not speak any french and I don’t speak any of her language, so our communication is limited to a lot of gestures and giggles.  This week I showed her how to do kangaroo care by placing her baby on her chest, skin to skin. The next thing I knew, the sweet mother was getting her tiny premie baby out of the incubator all the time without asking me. I also caught her attempting to breastfeed once, which promptly made the baby vomit. I gently corrected her and tried to explain with my han

Walking out of the plane and down onto the tarmac, a blast of hot dusty air hit my entire body, and it warmed me down to my very heart. This is the familiar feeling of being back in Burkina Faso.  My favorite thing about Burkina Faso is definitely the people, but the next best thing is the strawberry season in January and February. The little red berries are small and wild and natural, which makes them the reddest, juiciest, melt-in-your-mouth berries that you’ve ever tasted. You’ll feel like you’ve been fooled into eating fake strawberries your whole life when you pop one of these in your mouth. You buy them by the kilogram off ladies’ heads as they walk down the street, and if you are like me, you can eat a ridiculous amount of them without feeling guilty.  In the United States, I would never buy a carton of strawberries and eat the whole thing at once. But in Burkina Faso, I’ll buy a sack with twice that many in it and sit down to eat them until they are gone. The peopl

Waking up under a light sheet with sun streaming through the window, I breathe in deeply and smell the familiar smell of dryness and dust. The sound of chickens squawking and motorcycles passing by eases a smile onto my sleepy face. A reminder that 7:30am is not the early morning for most Africans; they’ve already been up for hours as I’m just rolling my lazy, jet-lagged body out of bed. But it’s a happy body. “I’m back in Africa,” I say to myself as my feet hit the hot tile floor and pick up that light layer of fine dust. During harmattan season, no matter how many times you sweep or mop, you just can’t keep up with the dust, and the way it sticks to my feet makes it feel like home. Hopping in the pickup truck, I ride over with some dear missionary friends to visit the center where they distribute milk for orphans and malnourished babies. Bumping down the dusty road with the windows down, my head hits the ceiling as we pop out of a deep pothole. Motorcycles weave in and out, in f