All my bones shall say, "O Lord, who is like you? You deliver the weak from those too strong for them, the weak and needy from those who despoil them."

- Psalm 35:10

Though the Lord may give you the bread of adversity and the water of affliction, yet your Teacher will not hide himself any more, but your eyes shall see your Teacher. And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, "This is the way, walk in it," when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left."

- Isaiah 30:20,21

My teacher, my love, let it be...

Response to a beautiful comment...

Anonymous said...Bess Anne - YOu don't know me, I read your blog that was sent to me by a friend and I was touched by your life. The last time I read it, you were on your last day away from home. I wondered then how you would adjust to life once you got back home. Some might say once you got back to reality. I would say that the problem is reality is where you were. Mother Teresa had a hard time visiting the United States and other places of wealth. Once you've been touched by the compassion of Christ in helping the poor it's hard to go back to where you were before. I'm not sure you're meant to go back. God puts us in places because we need to change. We pray to be more like him. I think you have come closer to his goal. Because of this, you will never be the same and may never be able to settle for the more quieter life. God has put in you a spirit of service. I think you will only find peace when you are truly serving in his name again. I'm not writing you this to discourage you, but to encourage you. Mother Teresa knew where her true calling was and tried not to get distracted from it. And when she was, the yearning in her reminded her. I think you are feeling that yearning. There is a place where you are needed to serve. There are many, many places here in the states that need people to serve. I think that God has prepared your heart for that place. Trust God to lead you to it. I'm sure Mother Teresa had the same questions as you. But you can't let the questions hinder your service. You have to trust God that he is answering those prayers thru people like you. I thank God that he called you and I thank you for answering that call.

This was a wonderful comment, and I am continually amazed by the amount of "strangers" that write me with kind thoughts and encouragement. I agree with this comment on a number of levels. I absolutely know that under the questions, concerns, and conflicts that I feel in this season is a "calling", if you will, to love. My heart beats for the poor, the orphan, and the outcast. This is very, very true.
Once, while in India my dear friend Michaela's mother came for a visit from Canada. This woman was a breath of fresh air. Death was not a stranger for us in the government maternity hospital, in fact, we saw it almost daily. However, there seemed to be a weight that came with maternal death that didn't seem as heavy with the death of a baby. I was in Admissions one day when a girl my age was rushed in, transfered from another hospital with a breathing tube, and unconscious. I raced for my blood pressure cuff and took her blood pressure. I could not read it. I asked the doctor for a second opinion and she could not find it either. We began to search for a pulse, we found one, but it was faint. Slowly it went from faint beats to nothing. I stood there watching as a pregnant woman my own age passed on without a thing I could do. The baby was gone as well. Her father came in, a small man, barefoot, wearing old white fabric draped around his waist, an old, stretched out stained t-shirt, and material wrapped around his head, crowned with gray hair. At the sight of his daughter he began to weep. Turning towards her, then away, then towards her again, he began to sing out hysterical Hindu prayers. He touched her feet, then turned away. I removed her breathing tube, wiped her face, pulled up her sari, and closed her eyes. Soon after, it was time for lunch... I went into the doctor's room and took off my coat, put my stethoscope and BP cuff away, and stood there silent as my tutor spoke with us about what had just happened. Michaela's mom happened to be in the doctor's room, just passing through on her tour of the hospital. She looked at my stoic, silent face and said, "Are you a burden bearer?" "I don't know," I responded. "You are," the she hugged me, and held me for a long moment. I left for lunch that day with a slightly greater understanding of myself. I was a "burden bearer".
I understand that this blog is a tremendously vulnerable statement that I am choosing to make. To be honest some days I wish I could have come back to the states and written about how I'd been volunteering at the local soup kitchen, or that I was going back to Africa to teach women about Mother and Child Health Care. I wish that I could continue to share stories about delivering babies on distant shores, or about rescuing orphans, bathing them, feeding them, loving them... However for me, these are not just stories. This is reality, real people, real blood, real pain, and real poverty. Over the last few months I have wondered why I have not even been able to think about "serving" in the way I've always done it--with my hands, getting dirty, having nothing, giving everything... I have wondered why I have questioned the One I have loved and trusted the most. I have questioned the state of the world, and the hope that I cling to. I have questioned the sincerity of the American church, and the motives in which we function out of. I have wanted the questions and the sadness and the weariness to fade out. I have wanted to be the positive "missionary" I feel that I have to be, the role I've been given to play. However, the more I ask, the more I understand that this place I am in is beautiful. I would be much more worried if I had seen all of these things and come home with out questions. You see because these things, poverty, injustice, death, destruction, corruption, hatred, sickness, disease... are things that can not, and should not be recovered from easily. I worry for those who continue on as if it was just a stubbed toe that they had seen, and not a macerated still born.
I am quite thankful for my "middle-class-Caucasian-Californian-American" roots. However the brutality of "reality", as you call it, can be quite over whelming in comparison. There are so many things that I simply don't understand. To be honest, I feel as though I'm carrying questions about drugs, overdoses, homelessness, mental illness, and family injustice with me from when I lived with the inner city ministry in San Diego. I can still see the faces of children, or people that died while I was there, or those run by addiction, or those with broken homes so broken your stomach turns with the injustice of it all. I still carry questions about theology stirred by my time in Connecticut. I still carry questions with me about orphans of prostitutes, and the sickness of the sex-slave industry from my first two trips to India. I still wonder about the animal sacrifices I have seen, or the children bathing in muddy, bloody water, believing it was holy in Nepal. I still wonder about the "Christian evangelists" that spend have of a seminar talking about money. I still have questions about violence, the oppression of women world wide, female genital mutilation, abuse... I still have questions about the genocide and war all over Africa. I have questions about rape and pillage, and molestation... For me, these were not just situations that are common place in the inner city, or in the third world, or in a consumer driven society they are an opposition to the hope that I have, or had for the world.
I am in a place where I have to reconcile the "reality" of the world to my hope that I have for it. We were never intended to see, or experience such atrocities, and for me, they are not easily wiped away. I would like to think that I envy those who can see such things and move on. But then again, I want to feel. I need to feel, I need to ask God "why?" I need to be angry, I need to be stirred, I need to be broken. I need to wrestle with darkness and conquer it. If I do not, I fear that it will consume me, and my "calling", or my "ministry" will be utterly lost and abandoned.
This season is alright. I am not leaving the faith, I'm not leaving the "mission field", I am not leaving the church. But I am questioning all of it. Absolutely. I need to. I need to step back, breath, speak, know that it's okay to feel broken for every situation of injustice I've witnessed. I am beginning to understand what it means to be a burden barer, to carry the weight of injustice, to wrestle with God for answers, to truly feel the "wrongness" that is penetrating our world. I truly believe that only then will I be able to understand the gift and the weight of this thing called "HOPE". For so long those words have been romantic. I feel as though at the end of this they will truly be real.
A dear friend of mine, and a staff on the Birth Attendant School always spoke of the "groaning of the world". Romans 8 was one of her favorite chapters in the bible, and as a group of midwives we read it often.
"For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now. And not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience. Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words." vs 22-26
This blog is my groaning. I am some how, for some reason joining with creation in her birthing pains, in her panting, in her desire to be delivered from the injustice of her nations. I know, and I believe that this season, and this labour will not give birth to wind, but to "HOPE". I am giving myself, and hopefully other burden bearers like myself, the freedom, and the time to groan. Even when there are no words, or no actions, when all I can do is be in my home town, working part time as a nanny, I am joining with creation in a labour far more important than the type I've done for so long. For a burden barer, for a midwife, this is by far the most exciting and courageous task I've taken on yet. To just be. To groan, to ask, to question, to cry, to grow...
He was a burden bearer as well. And I love that He often went away, to groan under the weight of the burden, and await deliverance.
I suppose in many ways He is still awaiting. As am I.

So, thank you stranger for your kind encouragement, it lead me to many thoughts and contemplations, none I'm sure of which you had intended, but important none the less. I am reading Mother Teressa's personal writings now, actually.
And I wonder...

Solitude.
Today I went to church. This has been a hard thing for me to do since I've come home. I have found it hard to "enter in" if you will. I almost feel as if the walls of the church are suffocating me, or hindering me, or holding me back from whatever it is that I am seeking. I have found that I am usually out of town Sundays anyway, but when I am here, I have been going to the beach, reading, walking, thinking... have my own, very secluded, very personal form of church. But last week I went, stayed through worship, and was really blessed by the music. This week I woke up and didn't want to go, but decided to go anyway. When I arrived, I sat in the back, by myself, and listened to the words of the songs we were singing. Music is such a powerful thing. It's strange how it can speak to me on so many levels that a person or book simply cannot. A girl was playing the violin this morning as well. Violins and pianos seem to unlock all sorts of things in my heart. Their sound is so beautiful. To be honest I have no idea who the older man was that spoke this morning. It was a small service, not many people were there, just how I like it. For the most part he took the whole time to tell a story. He began by asking how many of us at any point have felt like giving up--- financially, emotionally, spiritually, in relationships, in families, in friendships... My stomach began to go into knots as I knew I was about to be rocked by this man. He began to tell a story about his adopted son who had seizures. He was quite the story teller and I had to laugh every now and again at his dramatic emphasis on things. But none the less I was captivated. It was at one point in the story when the boys seizures had gotten to an all time high, his favorite bird had gotten out of it's cage, and this man was about to loose it, that I lost it as well. He said he had gone up to his room, as the whole neighborhood searched for this lost bird and prayed... "God, I hope you're enjoying this, seeing this boy deteriorate. I hope your enjoying this, watching our family be torn to pieces. I hope you're enjoying this, because it's tearing me apart..." I began to weep, as I realized how I have wanted to pray this so often throughout the last few months. "Why are there babies dying everyday? Why are there women expecting life giving birth to death? Why are women raped, why are women beaten, why do people starve, why do people get sick, why do children get sold into sex slavery, why is there hate among religions, why are some Christians so gnarly, why do they say such ridiculous things and ruin it for everyone else, why are our churches building multi-million dollar youth centers with tv's and x-box's, why is there war, why are we so selfish, why do we loose friends, why do we loose love, why are people tortured...." so on and so forth. This man said that God told him in that 'still, small voice', "Trust me." He didn't say, "How dare you speak to me that way, I am God." But He said, "Trust me." This man asked God to bring back the bird. The next morning there he was in the tree outside the boy's window. The boy extended his finger, and the bird hopped right on... "TRUST ME." Through prayer the boy ended up getting completely healed from the "medically unstoppable" seizures. I wept because this whole time I've questioned God, I feel as though he has never left me. During my why's, and how's, when's, who's and what if's; my demands, my rantings, my skepticism and cynicism he has simply been saying, "Trust me". Perhaps this means tomorrow I will wake with a little bird outside my window, or perhaps tomorrow I will wake and the world will be cured of war, cancer, HIV-AIDS, slavery, hate, and pain, or perhaps it means I will wake up tomorrow with a deeper understanding of how beautiful a new heaven and a new earth will truly be. Or perhaps I will wake with the same heart ache, and the same questions... In all cases, I will pray that I continue to hear that "still small voice" of the one I know I've always loved, the one I know who has never left me, and the one I know who will be there in the end.

After church I took a drive up on the Mesa, then down to the "Monarch butterfly trees". The Monarchs were not there, but I took one of the trails down to the dunes. Like the sound of the violin, the smell and the beauty of Eucalyptus trees does something in me that I simply cannot explain. It was really nice to find Solitude in old memories, and in new adventures.
When I got home Karen and I decide we would start a book club... Here is the ditty I wrote for the invitations...


Karen and I were talking today about life. We were talking about how it’s hard to find a time and a place to chill, talk intentionally about things that really matter to us. While I was in Egypt my friend Teegan would read us "Tales of the Kingdom" one night a week. In the midst of complicated thoughts and unanswerable questions, these books were a bell of truth. These books tell the story of two orphans who escape "Enchanted City" and discover a place called "Great Park" where a beggar is the king, and nothing is as it seems. It’s a place where orphans and outcasts have a home, and where the Evil Enchanter can do no harm. These stories are beautifully written for children, but have spoken to me on some of the deepest levels of my heart... Come and join us every Thursday at 7:30 for tea, treats, and stories... We will kick it off this Thursday October 18th in Karen Wahl’s cozy backyard. She’s even going to make a carrot cake with a Castle on it. I would love to share with all of you the peace and hope these books have brought to me, and hopefully stir conversations about life, hope, love, peace, and the concept of a beggar king...
If you are a lady in the area, please feel free to stop by. We would love to have you.

This little bridge spoke to me on so many levels...

RAIN. It rained yesterday, all day long. Everyday for the last 12 months I wake up, and hope it's raining. It rained twice in Egypt, a handful of times in India, twice in Colorado, once on the way to Santa Barbara, Once on the way home from Pool in Vegas, and now once (officially) here. It was a true storm, and seemingly the one I've been waiting for. It's funny how they seem to come just right when I need them. When I moved to Perth July '06, I moved straight into their winter. This suited me just fine, as I was pent up doing homework most of the time. With a warm "cuppa" a cozy shall, and my books about everything woman, I would settle down for hours under the rain pattered tin roof, soaking in the process of life. Some days it was my saving grace. When I was over whelmed by the reality of the school, about delivering babies... the rain would begin to fall and I would be reminded that life was going to be just fine. It rained often there. Then we left for Egypt, hot, dusty Egypt. It rained the week of my birthday. I took it as a special gift. Everything seemed to clean up a bit, even in Garbage City. It rained again the night before we left . After a day of running around, hindered by the wanted rain Michaela, Shannon and I cozied into our little flat, drank tea, ate cookies and watched "Jaws". The next morning, I was ready to fly to India. By the time we'd been in India three months, it began to be so overwhelmingly hot, I prayed for rain everyday. I remember once it began to rain as we were coming home from a slum at the outer edge of the city. As we drove home in an auto rickshaw, I couldn't take my eyes off the India I had grown to love and hate. In the rain, she looked so beautiful. It rained one of my last days at the hospital as well. I remember it had been a busy day, delivering babies, inserting IVs, giving medicine, life, death, running around... we'd stayed over time by hours. I was tired, I was hot, and then it began to rain. There are few windows in the hospital, most are just holes, where windows once were, covered by broken panes, or pieces of cardboard. As the rain poured down on the ancient hospital grounds I looked out in to the court yard, and fell in love all over again with the hospital I had grown to love and hate. She looked so beautiful in the rain.

Now I am home in California, where we are in the middle of a drought. But yesterday, I woke up to rain, sweet, beautiful, wonderful rain. I have found it hard to sleep this last week, as my mind has been going a mile a minute thinking things that should be laid to rest. So, tired, worn, and anxious I woke to rain. Over the last week I have received a few random text messages and emails from friends with verses about resting in the presence of God. Yesterday, I found rest. I woke up and drove my dad to Grover Beach to pick up the car at the shop. It was way back almost to Oceano. I was flooded with memories from going to school on the Mesa, and driving home everyday through those amazing trees. They looked even more beautiful in the rain. I drove all the way to Santa Margarita to visit my Grandma. The drive, even through a windshield wiped by shotty windshield wipers, was beautiful. Coming over the Cuesta Grade the fog, clouds, and rain were so heavy that I could hardly see the car in front of me. I drove slowly and carefully as I giggled to myself with pure joy. I drove through the teeny tiny town of Santa Margarita, a town I spent pieces of my childhood in, and sighed. The trees, and the grass looked so bright, the asphalt so clean, the houses so warm. My grandma and I had a nice visit. At 87, it's hard to see her frail. She informed me she had had another small stroke. The reality of her age hits me a little more every time I see her. It felt nice to walk out into the mercy of the rain. I drove the two minutes across the rail road tracks to my brothers house to watch my darling Julie Bess, but not before I stopped and got a chai at the local coffee shop. Words cannot tell how much I love that little wee one. It felt like a little piece of heaven to be looking at her learning to crawl, drinking my chai, watching the rain fall on the two huge red woods in my brother's front yard in my tiny little town of Santa Margarita.
Needless to say, I've been thankful for the rain. It was a bringer of light, healing, peace, and joy.

"I will lie down and sleep in peace,
for you alone, O LORD,
make me dwell in safety."
Psalm 4:8

I was cleaning out my inbox tonight and I found this little ditty I wrote in India for a friend who is writing a book on the Holy Spirit... It was good for me to re-read and re-discover.

Defining the Holy Spirit…

How can one define something indefinable, or describe something indescribable?
It's what reminds me that I am who I am, and that this is only the beginning.

I love rainy days. The heavy clouds that cover the vast blue sky somehow make the world just that much smaller. Once just unfathomable, endless space, the sky becomes tangible. The clouds are defined by line and colour, they are near. The rain falls on the rich, the poor, the big, and the small. We all, for one sacred moment in time, can feel the same thing… rain. Cool, wet drops saturate our once dry clothing. It matters not whether we wear cotton or cashmere for they both become wet under the presence of rain. People young and old scurry here and there under rooftops and shop awnings, while others fiddle with umbrellas. Some embrace the one condition they cannot control and dance.

It makes the untouchable, touchable; those forgotten, remembered. It makes tragedy bearable and laughter sweet. It guides the blind, and writes the stories of the saints.
Music notes become songs and words become ideas.
Color and shape become pictures and skin and bones become life.

It defines the indefinable. It is the indefinable.
It is the hands and feet of God.

It's the result of a sacrifice, coming with the tearing of the veil; it escorts us into the Holy of Holies, the sacred place, the place of intimacy and the place of life.
Day in and day out I feel I am lead by this mystery. In circumstances large and small, I feel its promptings, its guiding hands. God's guiding hands.

It breaks the heavy yoke, releases the captives, gives grace and strength to the weary and down hearted. It is kind words, gentle embraces, and the peace in the stillness of night. It is what makes the vastness of the ocean breathtaking and unbearable. It is the first breath of new life, fresh from the womb. It is the comforter that guides the weary old traveler from this life into another far greater.

It defines the indefinable. It is the indefinable.
It is the hands and feet of God.

On Sunday morning I woke nice and early and boarded a train down to San Diego to visit the Heck family. They so generously bought me a train ticket down there, and I was thrilled to accept their kindness. After graduating high school in January 2003 I moved down to San Diego to live and serve with an Inner City ministry called The City of Refuge. I like to consider it my “roots”. It was the place where so much of my faith in God, hope for a better future, and love for the poor was born. It was there that I really fell in love with this family. Some days I long for the sweet innocence of my youth in that time. It was as if nothing could shake me. I knew what I knew, and I loved with all I had. Or so I remember it. I was excited to re-visit these roots I remember so fondly, and see the people that helped me to discover the woman I wanted to grow to be. I have since changed, grown, hardened, softened, seen, heard, loved, and disliked… In fact most days I don’t feel at all like the girl I once was-- loving grown men soaked in urine, reeking of alcohol, or going to Jack in the Box with transvestites that “meow” instead of talk, or loving kids with hard hearts and brutal attitudes. I miss my unconditional hope and love. These years and travels have seemed to give birth to a bit of cynicism, and for that, I feel a sense of regret. However, I know that time and life have served me well. I know I will one day realize that the questions I have about “life” will be the very questions that strengthen my foundation. The sorrow I have for the world will one day be my passion to see it changed. The brokenness and hopelessness I now feel for mankind will one day be my strength to continue loving, sharing, and hoping. These giants I feel I have been wrestling with for the past year will turn into my closest friends, and I hope that I will one day thank them for there efforts in forming the person I become 70 some odd years down the road. I hope to understand a great deal more about love, selflessness, hope, and peace. But for now, most days I am confused about the state of the world, the state of religion, and where I fit in the midst of both; thus giving me reason to bathe in the sweet memories of my youth.

When I arrived Sunday afternoon after seven and a half hours on the train, Willie, Kurtis, Cori and I went downtown to hand out burritos they had made earlier that day to the homeless. It was fascinating to see some of the same faces I had known four years ago. When I lived there in 2003 we would go downtown every Thursday night and hand out clothes, food and water. I became close friends with these people who claim the street as their home over months and months of discussing the many demons that seem to plague this population. Some of them mothers, fathers, many of them veterans from the Vietnam War, struggling from addiction, mental illness, trauma, failure to cope… the list continues. I was surprised to see the same old people in the same old spots, living the same old lives. And then again, where else would they have gone? I thought about my last four years, where I’ve been, what I’ve done; home, Connecticut, India, home, India, Philly, home, Australia, Egypt, India, home… all the while, there they’ve been. I felt a sense of dull perspective. One couple we approached had never accepted the burritos before. That week they did. Willie said they were often distant, but as we left the woman wrinkled and aged by the hardships of life whispered to me, “Pray for us…” I said I would. When I told Willie he said--- “Why didn’t you pray for them?” I remembered that that is what we did every Thursday night; we give out food, we pray for those who ask… To be honest I didn’t even think about it. All I said in response was, “I guess I’m not used to praying in public.” For the 200^th time since I’ve returned I realized how jaded I have become. We continued handing out burritos, socks and water. With every bottle of water I handed out I felt joy inside me rising. Giving truly is healing, and loving seems to answer a whole slew of questions. Or perhaps they just don’t seem to matter as much.

Monday Kim, Cori and I visited an adult day care home. The second I began talking with one of the elderly women there with Alzheimer’s I became overwhelmed with memories from my days at Sydney Creek, and just how much I had enjoyed working there. I realized how while working there I had developed a knowledge of a whole new language, and a love for using it. It was a really nice day. That night Willie, Cori and I went to a male rehab home called “In His Steps”, where Willie teaches a bible study every week. The men were very kind, and my heart broke for them.

Tuesday night we had a bible study at their house. Kim made spaghetti and I shared for a bit about my travels. I still get overwhelmed sharing with groups, expected to sum up a year, which seemed like 4 in ten minutes. I did however, and it turned out all right. Wednesday night Willie, Cori and I went down to City of Refuge. The Hecks have since moved away from that community, and started a ministry of their own in Ramona. It was incredible to see that the kids I once loved so dearly have turned into young adults. For days I had been asking Willie about two boys I have thought about over the last four years. He said they’d stopped coming around years ago, one involved in drug dealing the other in gangs. My heart broke with the news as I had once hoped that these kids would be different. I asked if there was any chance they would be there, Willie said it would be a miracle if they were; one of the boys he and Kurtis had been driving around looking for, for months. None the less, almost as soon as I arrived who would come walking down the street but the two very boys I wanted most to see. I had to hold back tears. They had both become young men, one tall and built, the other with facial hair… I could hardly believe it. One of the first things one of them said to me was, “You didn’t take me to prom...” All of a sudden I was flooded with old memories, and I remembered how we had decided I’d go with him to his first prom. I told him he should have called me. They seemed the same, yet harder. They both said they were doing better; one had become a bike messenger, the other a boxer. It was really nice to see them. I found out about other kids like them, who I had loved so much back then. Some married, some with babies, some dabbling with gangs, some in foster homes, some good, some bad…

It was Wednesday night--- Kids Club night. I went with all of the new kids up to the warehouse. The warehouse that used to be plain concrete walls, stuffed with donated furniture, clothes, mice, trash, was now a kid’s haven rigged with sofas, chairs, tables, even a bar. The walls had been decorated with beautiful spray painted art. I could not believe what it had become. I walked around in a daze remembering what bits and pieces I had done. “I painted that wall and this part of the floor, and that stair…”

It was nice to see everyone, and yet difficult at the same time. I felt like I was a stranger in my own home. This was home, and yet, I was different. I suppose it has grown and changed over the years as well. I felt so foreign. I left that night happy, lost in a world of memories and thoughts.

Thursday morning before I left for the train station, I was to talk about my travels in Cori’s third grade class. When her teacher found out I was coming to town she asked Kim if I’d be willing to share with a room full of 8 year olds. I was stunned at first… “How on earth am I supposed to talk about A. delivering babies, and B. third world nations to a group of home schooled country children. So I talked about Australia, homework, kangaroos… Egypt, pyramids, camels, garbage city, Sudanese refugees, big bellies… India, the hospital, delivering babies, cleaning babies, loving people… The presentation was interrupted every few minutes with questions and comments such as… “I was two pounds when I was born.” “Did any babies have anything wrong with them?” “Did any babies die?” “My mommy had a baby in her tummy that died.” “I’m going horse back riding today.” “Did you get to ride a camel?” “I went to Mexico to work at an orphanage, it was hard, and there were so many Mexicans.” “I don’t want to be an orphan.” “How do you deliver a baby?” And it continued… I tried to answer the questions quickly, and creatively, praying with each one that passed that the next one wouldn’t be, “Where do babies come from?” All in all the experience was amazing, and I left that third grade class beaming.

On my train ride home I finished Infidel by Ayaan Hirsi Ali. If you have not read it, read it. It’s incredible. I told a friend that I read hundreds of pages as if they were only a chapter. It is a memoir of a Somali woman who grew up in Somalia, Kenya, and Saudi Arabia. She talks about life growing up, the struggles of religion, civil war, family, and what she has become since then. As I read her stories of North Africa, I felt as if I were back on the littered streets of Cairo, Egypt. Please read it. It will captivate you, and challenge you to think.

I am now back home, at my favorite coffee shop, drinking my favorite tea. I’m still thinking, still learning, still growing, still healing. Life is pretty amazing.