Wadah

My Boy

The first time I met Wadah, I thought he was blind. He failed to respond at all to his surroundings. The way he moved about and lack of response to stimuli clearly communicated he suffered severe disabilities. It was upon learning his name and attempting to interact with him that I was informed he could hear but did not respond to his name. Next, I heard his story.

Wadah was found abandoned in the middle of the road. No one knows how old he was when he was found, but MODUC, the orphanage where he lives, estimates he was one and half. He was between a tea shop and a garage and his hands and knees were completely calloused from exclusively crawling around on rough surfaces. It’s hard to know the extent of Wadah’s disabilities, but as a friend pointed it, it’s likely they were confirmed the day he was abandoned.

Last week, I was able to visit MODUC again. This time, Wadah was in a small building, holding onto the shirt of a slightly larger boy. This boy had been close by Wadah on our last trip, and it became clear he had a vested interest in his small friend’s well being. Wadah watched us give the other boy a deworming pill and held out his had to receive one as well. He took it and chewed it as the boy before him did. Although his senses and processing are clearly limited, we were able to see on this trip that he is better able to observe and participate in his surroundings than we initially thought.

I believe there’s great power in physical contact. My first inclination upon learning he had some sensory perception was to snatch him up and love on him, but I hesitated. Moments later, we were called into another building for a meeting with Mother Bae, who runs the orphanage. As we waited for Mother Bae, I saw the larger boy and a few other children who had been with us in the first building come in through a back door. I looked through the side window and saw the stream of youngsters continuing. Bringing up the rear was Wadah. The orphanage estimates that he’s about five now, but he’s the size of a three-year-old. He walks slowly and tentatively. On the left side, he is flat-footed, but he walks on his right toes as if he was wearing a single high-heel. His spine curves to the side from his hips to his neck to straighten out his top half and maintain his balance. There were steps down from the first building and steps up into the one where we stood. He dropped down on all-fours to negotiate them.

As I saw Wadah coming, I waited by the back door for him to arrive. There are two common hand greetings in Liberia. One is an elaborate hand shake that ends with the participants snapping off of each others’ fingers. The second is a fist bump followed by two to three taps on the chest with your fist. In my experience, the second is more common amongst children. As Wadah rounded the corner, I squatted on my heels to get a little closer to his height and held my fist out. He looked up at me, gave me a pound, tapped his chest twice, and went on his way to another room where all the children had gathered. I was elated that I got to interact with him, but disappointed that it seemed our time together was over.

I sat down with the adults as the meeting started. A couple moments later, Wadah was leading a few of the children back into the room. They quickly surpassed his slow, tentative steps, so he dropped down on his hands and knees to crawl, moving more speedily and making up ground. He stopped about ten feet short of where we were meeting. I stood up and walked over to him and held my hands out to him, inviting him to come into my arms. He held his open arms up to me in reply. I swept him up, hugged him, carried him over to the meeting and sat him on my knee. He sat quietly and comfortably, finding spaces for his hands in mine. He eventually settled with his small hands holding one finger on each of my much larger hands. I hope he felt as joyful as I did as while we sat there together.

Quite literally, God only knows what Wadah has been through in his short life. In all likelihood, he was born with disabilities that were drastically exacerbated by malnutrition and neglect. He has and will face many challenges in his life. Thankfully, Wadah has a tremendous amount of heart. One of the most attractive things in the world to me is when broken people (and puppies) do all they can to overcome their circumstances. Grit, gumption, will, being a badass, whatever you want to call it, Wadah has it.

What breaks my heart is that Wadah will not get the help he needs to experience the fullest possible recovery from the birth lottery he largely lost. I’ve found myself hemming and hawing about the concept of adopting from a place like Liberia on this trip. Adoption saves children in some respects, but it can steal them from a country that needs them in another respect. Liberia has a whole generation of amputees and heroin addicts, child soldiers from civil wars that laid waste to their country. I believe orphanages and schools here need to be strengthened so the children of the next generation can help rebuild this country.

However, Wadah and many of his peers need involved care. After in effect watching a man die in a critical care unit last week, I can speak first hand to the fact that medical resources are limited here. If I could take Wadah home this week when I head home to SF, I would. I’ve found myself daydreaming a couple of times that I could come back for him one day.

I’ve spent a lot of time in other countries feeling that I was helping to solve others’ problems. I met homeless families in Mexico and assisted in building them homes. I did the same for folks on an Apache reservation. In eight countries, I’ve helped bring savings and loan programs to folks who did not have formal financial services available to them. I’m thankful for these opportunities and I’m proud of much of the work that I did.

Thinking about Wadah makes me wonder what more we can do. It also makes me feel trapped. There is so much more than Wadah’s life at stake. I’ve spent nearly a month in a country that was formerly a shining star of Africa, but now lacks basic infrastructure. I’m just not sure where to start, but I will say that if you or someone you know is interested in adopting Wadah, I can do my best to help.

Two Weeks

Yesterday marked two weeks that I've been in Liberia helping my friends at Partner Liberia. The trip began with a reunion of friends. Scott and Mike both hold full time jobs back in the states, but spend 15-20 hours a week on their work here, along with spending a couple months here a year collectively. Since, I've met many more intriguing, caring individuals.

Sam lived and worked in Denver for 30 years and came back to Liberia because retirement in the US was "too slow." The man is a wealth of proverbs and fries some of the best fish I've ever had. I also met Wadah. Wadah was left for dead in the street when he was roughly one and a half. He was taken in by an orphanage with which we partner. At three, he is just now learning to walk, although he can't speak and may never be able to. Josu is nearly as much a pistol as any little girl I've ever met. At 4.5, she pretty much runs the orphanage where she lives. A few nights ago, I ran the bar at an expat restaurant and spent the evening convincing everyone to order one of the three drinks I can actually make (Yes, bourbon straight up was one of them).

Josu owns my glasses, like she owns pretty much everything.

I have one move with kids. That's to hoist them in the air. It worked with Joseph.

Sam dishes out wisdom and delicious, golden fish.

Beautiful, miraculous Wadah.

These glimpses into the past two weeks are barely an introduction to the fullness of this trip. I've aspired to write bios of the folks I've gotten to know and post photo journals of the places we've seen and adventures we've had. The truth is, I feel strangely detached.

I've got a few ideas about the drivers behind this detachment, and I need to spend some more time exploring those causes. In the meantime, I'd love to share a few things that have struck me long with two realizations I've had on this trip.

First, helping orphans is awesome. I've spent years doing nonprofit work. This is a climate where effectiveness of different types of development and aid are consistently called into question. I've held exceedingly critical opinions of aid and development work. James 1:27 says: Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this: to visit orphans and widows in their affliction. As far as I am concerned, there is no argument against providing vitamins, water, food, immunizations and micronutrients to orphans. Spending time with these little ones gives me a deep joy and sets my heart on fire.

I'm reminded again that I won an insane birth lottery. A couple of years ago, I was in the worst financial position of my life. I had to sell my car and watch my expenses closely. I never feared going without food or medicine that I needed. I got laid off a few weeks ago and I get to patiently go through a job search and will likely have a job soon after my return home, at a significant salary increase, in support of my desire to make a long-term life in San Francisco. Yesterday, I sat by in a hospital as a man's fate was determined by a lack of medical resources. He died hours later. Just 100 feet from where I sleep, a Liberian man sleeps in the the same complex on a deck chair.

Part of my desire to spend a month in Liberia was to hit a reset button of sorts. I've had a lot going on lately. I figured I'd come here, I'd live a different life and get some perspective. For a month, I'd be Liberian. The truth is, there is no "being Liberian" for me. I'm an American. I eat out at expat restaurants and bars. My accommodations have electricity twelve hours a day, along with running water, which I'm willing to bet 95% of the Liberian population doesn't have. This is definitely a case of being in but not of a world. It's a strangely insulating experience. While this country is beautiful, there's a great deal of injustice and suffering as well. For me, they feel at arms length.

Now for the two, rather random realizations that have come upon me in this swell of experiences and emotions.

I love San Francisco. So, so much. It is a magical place. I can identify some of the qualities I love about The City. It's a whimsical place where people put disco balls in the bay windows of their Victorians. It's surrounded by more natural beauty and adventure than one could discover in a lifetime. Beyond that, it just possesses a je ne sais quoi. Something unidentifiable and captivating. In a place of transience, it's my deep hope and prayer that the people I love stay and that we continue to build a life and a community. I want to be in this city forever.

I really can't wait to be a dad. I've met two or three children in orphanages whom I would absolutely take home tomorrow if I could. I have tremendous confidence that I am going to be a great dad when the time comes for me. This is an amazing time in my life, as I can feel the love inside of me getting bigger. I can't wait to share this love with little ones. I hope there comes a day when I have one or two of my own and one or two from a place like Liberia.

Jackie enjoys the swing set provided by Partner Liberia.

It All Starts With You

Quick Update: I am on the first leg of a 40 hour voyage to go help a couple of my best friends in the world serve some folks in Liberia right now. I really can’t describe how thankful I am. I just got laid off on Monday, which I thought could never, would never happen to me. Everything is in flux. There is more change than I can handle. In the midst of all this, I have the chance to go to a beautiful country and serve with two amazing dudes. Here I am, jobless and facing other severe life challenges, and I cannot stop spontaneously smiling. Swoon. I. Can’t. Even.

Thank you to everyone who helped support me and make this trip happen. If you’d like to support Partner Liberia (and me, while I work with Partner Liberia and look for more permanent work), please go to www.partnerliberia.org and give. Thank you!

Most times, a post named like this one is a Tony Robbins-esque motivational piece. It will tell you all you’re capable of and how nothing can get you where you want to be apart from hard work and determination. This is certainly not one of those posts. This is a post about relinquishing your powers, abilities and determination and allowing yourself to be washed over by the beautifully terrifying flood of grace.

A couple of years ago, I decided I had no need for God. I can’t say that I stopped being a believer. At my furthest, I called myself a deist. I was confident that there was a Creator. Someone who not only set this world into motion, but who kept it all bound together. This god was a living embodiment of love and a common thread flowing through all of humanity. He was the mold from whom we were built, leaving his imprint on all of us. Despite those qualities, I ceased to believe in his sovereignty and his concern for us. I thought of him as disconnected and disinterested. He was someone who set this cosmic plate spinning and subsequently set off to tend to other things.

I still believed Jesus existed as well. I believed he was an amazing person who set the standard for how we were meant to live. I wanted to to be like him. The thing is, without believing that I had God’s help, it was on me to be like Jesus, to be the man I was meant to be.

The result was a tremendous amount of disappointment and frustration. I tried to love others despite myself. This is what that sentence means to me:

I had very low opinion of myself. My self worth and confidence were in shambles. Massive cognitive and emotional dissonance existed between who I was and who I perceived myself to be. I found myself to be, in short, a stupid asshole. This type of perception led to two separate results. First, perception became reality. Most people probably didn’t notice, because I still fought to be good to others, but I was growing decreasing tolerant and caring inside. I could find a way to be bothered about nearly everything. I became short tempered and constantly anxious. Criticism was my language of choice. Next, I projected my view of myself onto others. I thought myself selfish, intolerant and irrational, so I assumed everyone else was the same. I approached every situation with this contextualization.

The example that most easily comes to mind is the terror I was when driving. The insulation of being in a car freed me to feel okay about treating people terribly. If someone cut me off, there was no way it was an accident, there was absolutely malicious intent. They got the finger. If I was at a four way stop and a driver proceeded ahead of me out of turn, I tailgated them as long as we were headed in the same direction, to make perfectly clear that they were in my way and inconveniencing me. In some situations, I managed to behave better, but I had to fight my initial instincts. My first thought was always that others were trying to do me harm and I would fight against that instinct and try to treat them well. It took so much effort to be good to others. The cycle exhausted and defeated me. It drove me to the end of myself.

About two months ago, I realized I just couldn’t live in this world as I desired without help. I found myself screaming into an abyss. I desperately wanted to love myself and my fellow adventurers on this beautiful, spinning ball of chaos. I wanted to help restore Shalom. I invited God back in. I chose to believe that He is a good, loving father and that he made me beautifully. I chose to let his grace, steeped in folly, drown and kill the striving, unhappy man I was. As Aslan did to Eustace, He’s peeling back the layers of a tough, hardened monster. He is leaving me with the truth that there is nothing I can ever do that is so great that He will love me more, there is nothing I can do that is so reprehensible that He will love me less. I now get to live in the freedom of being His beloved son.

Being the son of the author of the universe is a freeing experience. Accepting His unconditional grace is transformative. Now, rather engaging in the Sisyphusian task of digging up and displaying love for others, I get to let His flow through me. It’s far easier and more effective than I ever could have hoped. Turns out, Jesus’ yoke actually is easy and his burden actually is light. There is nothing you can do to earn and display this transfiguring grace. All you can do is accept it. And that starts with you.

San Francisco

Step outside

The fog

Refracts and magnifies

The sonlight

These are the most beautiful days.

Saved?

The fired burned damned fiercely. Up until that moment, it had been a standard night at camp. We all sat and stood on cue in the fellowship hall. We laughed riotously as our counselors sprayed whipped cream in various orifices while echoing the refrain “smooth and creamy.” We sang “Pharaoh, Pharaoh” with much delight and “Our God is an awesome God” with all the reverence that preteens can muster.

Now, the air was different. We sat outside while the fire whipped our faces and we told stories bearing a greater gravity than the collective experience of our lives. We spoke of heaven and hell. We considered the decrepit state of our young lives and how we were certainly bound for hell barring redemption through Christ.

At once, I felt a weight greater than any I had ever felt. I was caught up in a moment rife with emotion and drama. I rose to meet it. I searched my mind for the the most significant and terrible moments of my life. I did my best to view myself in the worst light possible. I also tried desperately to view life as fleeting and under constant threat.

I settled on a memory of a story that my father once told me. When I was two years old, he had taken me home and left me with my mother one day. As he left our apartment, his car was broadsided right where my car seat sat. Nevermind the fact that there was no scenario in which I could have been in the car, all I could think about is that I could have been in it. I thought to myself and shared with others around the circle that I could have been dead and bound for hell that day

This perilous vision of life paired with the enormous amount of sin I felt I had committed put me in a terrified place. Eternity felt horrific. I had no idea what I was signing up for by becoming “born again,” but I knew that no matter what it was, what it wasn’t was burning in hell for all of eternity.

I grabbed my camp counselor and tearfully told him of my near-death experience, my hopelessly terrible behavior as a human, and my need to be saved immediately. Jimmy prayed the prayer with me, asking God to live in my heart.

The next morning, everything felt different. I was happier, absolved. Still, something felt thin and flimsy about this new state of being. I went to breakfast where I was met with hugs and high fives. Our camp director let me know that my parents had already been informed that I had become a believer and they were proud. It struck me as odd that an event and relationship that felt very personal was being broadcast for me.

The high of becoming a believer probably lasted about as long as I remained at camp. I arrived home with the pressure of feeling that now I had to be different. My new life had to be a testimony to my parents and younger brothers. I needed to be changed, I needed to be “born again.” Apart from following the ten commandments, I had no blueprint for what this looked like. Additionally, I didn’t have an immediate motivation to behave differently, I had really asked God into my life to avoid the terrifying thought of hell.

A couple of years later, I would sit on the shore of a lake of that very same camp, watching my parents and one of my brothers get baptized while I refused to do the same. It wasn’t a moment of rebellion or bitterness. It was a rare clarity in the heart and mind of a teenager. I had spent enough time with the questionable commitment I made to be unsure as to whether I really meant it. I felt joy as I watched my family take a step I was yet unsure of.

I’m still not sure of what happened the intense evening I asked God to save me from hell. It’s possible I became a believer and it’s possible that was the moment I was indwelt by the Holy Spirit. I do know that it began years of a divided heart. Adolescence and young adulthood were a struggle of feeling I should follow a doctrine I didn’t really understand or necessarily want.

I’m still thankful to the people who brought me to that place. I’m thankful to Jimmy, who prayed with me. I’m thankful to our amazing camp director, Chet, who exuded the love of Christ to a bunch of clueless kids. I’m thankful to Josh, my Young Life leader who always stuck with me and held up a mirror showing me the best version of myself.

These men spent years fertilizing the soil of my soul for the day that I would finally meet Jesus face to face. After meeting Him, I have come away with a many truths, a few of which I would like to share:

First, following Him is about Him and now, it’s not about me and the future. Jesus says the kingdom is at hand. As his followers, we are called to spread little bits of shalom in every step we take after him. For all intents and purposes, a future heaven and hell have become irrelevant in my life.

Second, it is critical that we know what we are signing up for when we decided to follow Christ. Following Christ is about self-forgetfulness, not about ensuring our eternal well-being. What he calls us to is simultaneously much easier and much harder than following God’s law.

Third, we are incredibly broken and not only are we allowed to be, but we are expected to be. Jesus made me to be exactly who I am and he loves me exactly as he made me. I still feel that using massive amounts of profanity is the best way to express myself at times. I still let two drinks become six. I constantly think of myself more than others. This does not mean I should sin more so that grace can increase, but I believe that there is space for me to be a flawed me, that’s actually why I need Jesus in the first place.

I certainly need to work to align my heart closer and closer with God’s. However, increasing that alignment has absolutely no bearing on Jesus’ love for me. If I went on a tear of drug use, womanizing and hateful behavior, Jesus would love me no less. If I spent all my days in quiet reverence of Him, seeking unity, He would love me no more. So much internal conflict in my life over the years has been caused by the deep crevasse between who I am and who I think He expects me to be. All He expects me to be is me. The depth of His love for me is unfathomable and greater than any other love in the world. The same is true of His love for you.