Baraka

She is one of those women you look at and immediately know you are better for simply having met her. That something about her will change you and the way you look at the world forever.

I've come across only a handful of these women in my life. Most of them in Africa. And each one has left a remarkable imprint on my heart. And new wisdom in my mind.

She has a powerful mind and heart. But the most humble of spirits. Her passion for her country, her people, her work with women and children is overwhelmingly huge. She is the real deal. Brilliant. Strong. Confident. Soft. You look at her and you see light and hope. She is a servant in every sense of the word. She has given her entire life to helping Rwandan women and children heal from the genocide and its aftermath. She lives every moment for that purpose. To help mend her country's deep wounds and bring it hope once again.

She is a game changer. A leader. A world changer.

She is a counselor. And after the genocide, she realized the huge need for counselors in Rwanda. As well as the very low number of them. There were practically no counselors here. The culture tells people to hold their feelings in. To put on a strong face and simply...carry on. Rather than dealing with the very real and deep pain they experience.

But after the genocide, that was no longer a healthy option.

Baraka new this and decided to act. She created a program to train lay counselors. A program that takes ordinary people, one from each town. Perhaps someone who works in a church, a school, or an orphanage. Someone the town thinks has the skills a counselor would need.

She finds these normal Rwandan people and trains them in groups of 20 to become lay counselors. She has trained 4 groups so far.

Thanks to Baraka's huge heart and hard work, there are now 80 individuals scattered throughout Rwanda, all living in their own towns. Now equipped with skills in counseling. Who work with individuals in their community who need to process. To heal. To come back to life once again.

Just thinking about the numbers is remarkable. Say each one of those counselors works with 100 people after being trained. That's 8,000 Rwandans who will receive help in mental and emotional health thanks to Baraka. But the numbers are undoubtedly more. And she continues to train more and more Rwandans. She is now working on her fifth group of 20 people.

She has made a lasting impact on Rwanda. Brought healing to so many. Forgiveness to so many. Health to so many. She has grown Rwanda's next generation of leaders. And made mental health a more valued concern in Rwanda.

Upon talking to Baraka, she asked me where in the US I was from. I told her Texas, and she said that she had been there. To San Antonio, Austin, and Dallas. Just before this conversation, I had been telling her how beautiful I think her country is. That I loved the never-ending mountains. The lush green. The beautiful sky. When I told her I was from Dallas, she said, "Oh...I see now why you think Rwanda is so pretty!" I could not stop laughing for the life of me. She knew. She knew how ugly, flat, barren, and brown my home was. And so she knew that I was being genuine when I said I loved Rwanda's beauty.

As we kept talking, I told Baraka that I was a student soon to graduate from studying psychology, and that I wanted to be a counselor someday.

And Baraka said to me:

"Ahh! That is very good. You know, the need is so great, but there are only so many of us. Like it says in the Bible, the harvest is plenty, but the workers are few."

I breathed in every bit of what she said to me. I had not thought about it that way before. Obviously the need is great. For hope and healing and empowerment. But there are not enough counselors out there to find and help all those in need. And right then...it hit me...

If this is something on my heart, something I feel called to do, rather than wondering why that is or what it might look like, I owe it to the world to do it.

There is a great need. And at least some part of me feels called toward that need. I have to honor that. To follow that. To trust that God has placed counseling on my heart because that is why he created me and how he desires to use me.

If the harvest is plenty, but the workers are few. And if I feel some part of my heart yearning to be one of those workers. I have to. I cannot be lazy. I cannot waste time and energy doubting , questioning, wondering. I must respond. Act. Prepare. And go.

To say that Baraka was inspiring is an understatement.

She is a reminder of the power within us to see a problem and make a change. That we are never too small nor the problem too big. To fight for your dreams. Follow your passions. Work tirelessly for good even in the midst of evil. Of what it looks like to be a servant. To dedicate your life to something bigger than yourself. To invest in your community. Your country. Your world. Of selflessness. Kindness. Humility. Passion. Dedication. Hope. Faith. Genuineness. Strength. Courage.

Baraka is one of those few people in the world who has looked suffering, evil, disaster, and darkness straight in the eye and said, we will not settle for this. We will fight it. Change it. And replace it with hope, light, and strength.

She is a wise woman with a warm heart and humble spirit. Who has taken the passions and skills given to her and used them to change the world. One individual, one heart, at a time.

Baraka is a remarkably strong and powerful woman. A game changer. A leader. A world changer. One who I will never forget.

For we know not what genocide is

This semester, I took a Social and Cultural Psychology of Genocide capstone. And a research lab on Intergroup Conflict and Cooperation. I have been researching, coding, reading about, and discussing genocide all semester. These discussions have mostly occurred at a round table full of historians and psychologists, or students who would one day like to be historians and psychologists. PhD students and undergrad students. Arguing about what combination of situation, context, and events led up to various genocides. Exploring causal social and cultural psychological theories of mass violence, group behavior, evil, and the experience of perpetrators, bystanders, and rescuers. We've examined case studies. Tried to match them with these theories we've read so much about.

Every other word in our discussions has been genocide. We say it so much, but only in our academic language. So distant. So cold. So emotionless. Far removed. Only in reference to historical events or hypothetical situations. Completely desensitized to its reality and deep meaning.

The class has been informative, no doubt. I've learned so much about the history of various genocides, as well as the social psychological theories that attempt to explain how they came about. But the class has more importantly been incredibly frustrating for this reason...

The students in my class do not let themselves see or feel genocide for what it really is. They do not drop their academic language in exchange for real discussions. The class stays guarded. Hard. Removed. Numb to the experience of victims. Of survivors. Blind to the way they continue to feel the effects of their experience. Completely detached from even their existence. Their stories.

We spit out the term genocide as if we have some authority on the topic. As if we have some right to talk about it. Some expertise that qualifies us to define it. Describe it. Explain it. To us, genocide is an academic term. A subject of interest. A research topic.

I did not understand my deep frustrations with this class to be this until today.

Until I came to Rwanda. During the month of the 18 year anniversary of their genocide.

Until I saw purple and white banners displayed across Kigali that said:

Learning from our history to build a brighter future.

With the number 18 and the word genocide in the corner. Everywhere in the city, I saw these banners. And today, I learned that the purple is for mourning. The white for hope.

Here, genocide is not a word. It is not an academic term. And it is not a research topic.

Here, genocide is real, lived experience. It is a part of Rwanda's very real and tragic past. One which they mourn as a country every year.

And it is a part of their hope for a better future. For peace. Prosperity. Community. Forgiveness and reconciliation.

Here, people remember it every day. Because they lived it. Survived it. and many of their family and friends did not.

They have memories. Some that they cherish of those they lost. And some by which they are haunted of the terror they were forced to suffer. Or forced to commit.

They have stories. Real, deep, vivid, emotional stories. Stories that were once reality for them.

On the way to a genocide memorial in Ntarana this afternoon, our taxi driver, Jean Pierre, said to us:

"You are going to see our bad story."

We told him yes. That we wanted to see and to hear Rwanda's bad story. And that we were so sorry about that story.

Our bad story...

Our bad story...

Our bad story...

The words have been repeating over and over again since the moment they left Jean Pierre's mouth. His words were so odd to hear at first, but then so obviously purposefully chosen. That is how he sees it...the genocide.

It is a story. A real, lived, still very much felt and deeply remembered story.

It is a communal story. OUR story. It belongs to all of Rwanda. Those who were alive and those who were born after it happened. Those who were victims and those who were perpetrators. Those who have forgiven and those who have received forgiveness.

It is a bad story. Such a simple adjective. But how else could one describe such a story. One that has a personal and distinct meaning for everyone who survived it. Everyone who lives in Rwanda today. There are unique stories for sure. But it is a shared, bad story.

As we talked with him and as we watched people mourn, remember, and hope...It became evident that there are deep wounds lingering here. Wounds that have been reopened due to the anniversary of the genocide. Wounds that perhaps had experienced healing. But were brought back to the surface, open once again due to the current focus on remembering.

I will never know what the Rwandan people felt or experienced during their genocide. During their bad story. Nor will I know how they feel about it today. I did not live it. I did not survive it. I know nothing about the reality of experiencing it.

But today, I visited a genocide memorial. And I felt a little closer to feeling. And to knowing. Rather than discussing at a distance. Throwing around a term and attempting to define it. Though I will always be very far away from ever really knowing.

The memorial is made up of a former Catholic Church, a few surrounding buildings and a garden.

5,000 people sought refuge at that church 18 years ago this April. And 5,000 people thought there they would be safe. there in God's holy house. They thought they would be protected. They thought they would survive. They thought they would return home once again and resume normal life. But there, in and around that church, 5,000 people were killed.

The former church contains old pews. But that is the only resemblance of a church or anything holy that the eye can see. There is a shelf full of skulls. Piles and piles of skulls. Whose empty eye sockets stared right at me and told me their bad story. Showed me their fate. Looked at me and asked me to feel. To see. And to know their reality. To walk where they once walked. And try to imagine. Even though I will never know. I felt them calling me to no longer be numb. Cold. Reserved. Desensitized. But to open my eyes and my heart to really seeing and feeling the experience of genocide as best as I possibly can.

There were bones. Piles and piles of bones. Old clothing hung from the windows. Pots and pans were stacked on a shelf. As well as deteriorating mattresses and shoes. They had brought all of their belongings. Assuming the church would prove to be a safe shelter. So that after the violence, they could return home. With all of their things.

These clothes, pots and pans, mattresses, shoes, and other belongings were real. Tangible. All having once belonged to Rwandans. Who fled here for safety. Thought they would survive. And were killed.

Another building held a coffin and shelves. Shelves stacked with books. Old, withered, and torn. Books that the children brought with them to study diligently. So that when the violence had ended and they returned home, they would not be behind in their schoolwork. That is a testament to how faithful they were that they would survive. That they would be safe here.

And then there was the Sunday school building. This one was the heaviest of all. There, all the children were killed. Against the brownish-orange brick wall. Which is now stained dark red from their blood. The air in this building was thick. It was as if you could feel their presence. Their innocence. Their helplessness. Trapped where they thought they were safe. Watching each other being killed one by one. It was dark. And yet light shined through the open window onto the darkness. Onto the flowers and notes left from mourning visitors. Onto a big white piece of paper hanging on the wall. With hand written notes from child survivors. Expressing their sorrow and love for those children who died in that small sunday school building 18 years ago.

Written by 100 child survivors who came to visit the memorial. Only three of the messages were in English:

"Your death has left a great gap in our life. For we shall never forget you."

"I'll never forget you. Always in my mind and in my prayers. I love you."

"It is so terrible what happened to you, and I know you all will be missed by many even though this was very tragic I know you are now happy and in a better place."

They remember. They cannot. They will not. Ever. Forget.

We know not what genocide is.

We have no authority on it.

No expertise.

Because we have not lived it.

Survived it.

Felt it.

Breathed it.

Mourned it.

And lived every day after in its memory.

We cannot speak as if we know.

For we know not.

But we can listen.

We can listen to their stories.

We can open our eyes to see.

We can visit memorials.

And we can try to imagine.

We can open up our hearts.

And we can try to feel.

But we will never know.

We can only learn.

As Rwanda currently displays on purple and white banners, we can learn from our history to build a brighter future.

Today, I learned that I do not know what genocide is.

But I vow to listen to anyone willing to share with me their bad story. And to learn as much as possible from simply opening my eyes to see. My ears to hear. And my heart to feel.

Only in Africa

As I sit on my hotel balcony, overlooking the hustle and bustle of a busy Kigali street, I feel...at home.

The sound of Botas and taxis honking their way through traffic. Rwandan voices growing louder and then fainter as they walk down the street below me. It all sounds so familiar. So comforting. This is the Africa I know and love. And have dearly missed.

The view is breathtaking. Tall buildings ahead to my right and left that would block any view from either side of me. But directly in front of me, there is nothing but lush green mountains. At first glance covered with small homes. But seemingly empty at the top. Except for the trees and the carved out fields of crops. It is a very distinct kind of green. One I don't often see in the middle of Worcester. And it seems as if the mountains never end.

Their tops are met softly with the touch of the hazy blue sky. You can tell its been raining. Blues met by the kiss of gray. Covering the mountains like a shield of protection.

Black birds with white bellies underneath fly gracefully through the sky.

The wind is picking up strength and speed. A tall tree just outside my balcony sways along with its rhythm. Toward me and away. Closer and farther. Its branches dance gracefully in their own direction. Feeling the wind. Becoming one with its movement.

And as my cheeks and shoulders are touched by the wind. As my hair sways back and forth doing a dance of its own. As the wind gets stronger and encircles my entire body...

I feel at one with my surroundings. My body cannot remove itself from the addicting chill of the wind. My eyes cannot remove their gaze from the mesmerizing mountains. From the sky which looks softly hand painted by beautiful blue and gray watercolors.

I am cold all over from the chilly breeze. But my body could not be more warm inside.

Only in Africa have I ever felt this connection to nature so strongly. Only in Africa have I felt so at peace. At one with and inseparable form my environment. Only in Africa have I felt so alive. So content. So full. Of joy. Peace. And love.

People always ask me why I love Africa so much. I always say it is full of life. It is vibrant. Home to the most beautiful and alive people I have ever met.

It isn't easy to describe. And I struggle.

But there is a spirit that dwells here. It is vibrant. Loving. Welcoming. Life-giving. Captivating.

You find it here and if you let it, it quickly steals your body and soul.

And you feel whole. Alive. And connected to everything in and around you. You see more. You taste more. You feel more. You hear more. But only if you welcome and embrace this indescribable African spirit.

This is the Africa that I know and love. Which will always occupy my heart.

But today, sitting on my hotel balcony in Kigali, Rwanda, it showed itself to me in new and more beautiful ways. Made its way back into my body. Surrounded me. Filled me. Completed me.

Thank you, Africa, for your unique and indescribable spirit. And for welcoming me to what feels like home with open arms once again.

To Julia, Ashley & Kerry

I am at a crossroad. The end of a beautiful season and the beginning of another.
I am not leaving because this chapter has been bad. Not in the least. It has been full of life. Incredible friendships. Beautiful memories.

I have grown immensely. Developed in so many ways. In faith. In love. In strength. I am not the girl I was when I first stepped foot on Clark University's campus three years ago.

So much has happened since that first day of college. So many experiences. Good and bad. Healthy and hurtful. Challenging. Hard. Beautiful. Thought provoking. Journey-changing. Experiences.

I have built friendships that have forever changed me. That built me into the woman I am today. I fell into the most beautiful support system at Clark. A family. Who knows me. Loves me. Challenges me. And is for me.

They have inspired me to be better. Called me out when I needed it most. Brought me down to earth. settled my soul in hard and stressful times.

Each one of these beautiful people has built me into who I am. They have made a mark on my life and my heart. One that will never disappear. Because I will carry it with me wherever I go.

I only wish I could do for them what they have done for me.

There are so many people who have shaped me, but there are three women who have been my roommates, my family, and my rock this semester and so much longer.

Julia: you have shown me how to live. How to say no to what I have to do and do what my heart wants to do. You have been my other half for the past three years. You can finish my sentences. You know what I mean when even I don't understand myself. You know every inch or my brain and my heart. You've helped me learn how to make my own decisions. And you've taught me everything from how to make homemade Mac & Cheese to how to do laundry on my own for the first time freshman year. You've helped me grow up and become an adult. And I couldn't have done it without your help. You've bee the greatest best friend I could have ever dreamed of. You've always been there and loved me unconditionally. You've picked up the pieces every time I've fallen apart. Guided me back to what I needed every time I was lost. I could not have asked for more from my best friend.

Ashley: You have taught me so much about faith. Something I knew very little about upon meeting you. You have inspired me to see beauty around me. To always look for God in the bad and ugly places. To find my own demons, acknowledge them, and fight them as best I can. You've shown me what it means to be wholly invested in something you love through your dedication to your music. How to search my soul and be vulnerable to what I feel. And to find humor in everything. To laugh uncontrollably and bring lightness to heavy situations. You've showed me how to follow my own heart and ignore what the rest of the world has to say about it. Without you, I wouldn't know how important that is. Without you,  I would not know that the proper and most delicious way to drink English Breakfast Tea is with milk and sugar. What a real Easter egg hunt really looks like. Or what pastina is.

Kerry: You have taught me so much about what it means to be a good friend. How to love people unconditionally. What it looks like to be truly humble. How to really listen and be there for those you care for. When I really needed to talk, you were always there with open ears and an open heart. You have helped me learn to be less judgmental and more accepting. More loving. You are one of the kindest and most genuine human being's I have ever met. You inspire me to find more joy in my life. You teach me how to find time for happiness and rest instead of always being consumed by stress. Your creative spirit is so contagious. And whenever I really needed to laugh, you always brought a huge smile to my face and a lengthy fit of embarrassing giggles. You inspire me to be more light-hearted and full of life every day.

Sharing my last semester in a home with you three beautiful women has been an incredible experience.

I am sorry I wasn't home more. Free to hang out more. Less stressed so I could have listened more deeply and been there for you more fully. I haven't been there for you three as much as you have been there for me. Being busy and over-committed is not an excuse, but it's all I have at this point.

I want you three to know that I cherish all of the times we have spent together. Whether it was doing homework silently in the same room. Watching weird TV shows. Laughing at YouTube videos. Dancing embarrassingly like idiots in our kitchen. Or dancing slightly less embarrassingly in public at a party. Cooking a meal together. Balling our eyes out to chick flicks. Going on a late night drive in Worcester. Lounging on the green. And so much more.

I feel so incredibly blessed to have found such beautiful, strong, supporting women to do life with.

We may fight and get annoyed. Because someone didn't do the dishes. Or left the common room a mess. Or forgot to ask us how our day was.

But we did life well together. We were there for each other. We loved each other to the best of our abilities. And we always supported each other. We did life well together. And that is something that not many college roommates can say after living with friends for this long.

I am so proud of each one of you. For the things you have done, and even more importantly, for the people who you are. I know you are going to do incredible things in this world. And grow into even more amazing women than you already are.

This is obviously not the end of our friendship. But it is the end of a season. A chapter. One that could not have been more perfect.

We hate acknowledging it. But things are changing. I am leaving. And while I promise to come visit you as much as I can, and hope that you do the same, I know we will never have this chapter again. The four of us. Living together. Sharing a home. Doing life together.

And so I want to thank you. For all that you've done and been for me. For the remarkably huge impact you've had on my life. One so big I cannot possibly describe it.

I don't tell you three enough. But I love you dearly. Thank you for being the best friends and family a girl could ask for. For loving me. Believing in me. And supporting me.

You will always be my family. And you will always be with me and a part of me wherever I go.

                    All my love,

                    Jessie

An evening in Doha

4/18/12

Sitting at Costa, the airport coffee shop in Doha, Qatar. Drinking the largest cappuccino I've ever seen. Gorging on a decadent chocolate croissant.

Surrounded by a diversity of people. Dressed in diverse clothing. Speaking diverse languages. Families. Businessmen. Groups. All waiting on their next flight.

Needtobreath coming through a single ear bud in my right ear, as Morgan and I share a pair of headphones.

The news coming through my left ear. There's a special on Afghanistan on the television in the waiting area. I can hear US government officials discussing recent bombings. The future of the Afghan people. Insurgency. Threat. Progress. Independence. And so much more.

This topic seems to have a whole new meaning here. People are watching intently. Hanging onto every word. It is...close to home. Here at the Doha International Airport. Have we Americans forgotten?

I wonder what thoughts are going through their head as they watch.

I wonder what they think of Americans.

Of us. Morgan and I. As we sit here in our sloppy sweatpants. Observing. Writing. Typing on a Mac laptop. Tapping away on an iPhone screen. Taking an instagram photo. Posting it to facebook while giggling.

I wish I could step outside of the airport. Explore the city of Doha. See the people. Soak in the culture. Perhaps visit a Mosque. Watch Muslims pray in another language. Join them on my knees.

On the way back, we will have an overnight in Doha. The airline will put us up in a hotel. I'm excited to soak in as much as possible on that short overnight layover in Doha.

For now, I'll enjoy this restful time sitting at the airport cafe. Writing. Thinking. People watching. Brainstorming my future. Reflecting on my past.

I will enjoy breathing. Pausing. Resting.

Simply being here.

At Doha International Airport.

Lifted out of my darkness, I found the LIGHT

4/17/12

On a crowded flight to Washington, DC. In a window sit inthe exit row. Staring out the window at the dark night sky.

We're flying low altitude tonight. And the city lights below us are both visible and mesmerizing. There are so many tiny lights. Shining through the darkness. As I sip my hot tea out of the small, styrofoam United Airlines cup, I can't help but think...

I am in the light.

I can breathe. For the first time in weeks...months really. I can pause. Sit. Stare at something bigger than myself. And simply soak it in. I can rest.

Sure, there are a million things I should have done before taking off that I did not get around to doing. My pre-trip to-do list has more than a few lingering items. A toke home final exam to complete. Emails for work to send. Phone calls to make. Term papers to write.

But up in the air above the world...I feel a million miles away from it all.

I see all of these twinkling lights below me. Tons of them. Tiny little dots. Shining through the dark night sky.

I have been in darkness. Surrounded by it. Deeply embedded in it. Trapped by it.

My own unique kind of darkness. Categorized by stress. Pressure. Chaos. Expectations. Deadlines. Racing. Rushing. Going. Never stopping. Sleep-deprived. Unhappy. Unsatisfied. Un-full.

That has been my own darkness. A season of darkness. Which to me, for so long, felt unending.

Stuck in the darkness. Thinking about how much I hated it. Focusing on its presence. I saw it everywhere around me. With no end in sight.

On the ground, all I saw was darkness. The light, which was always there. Everywhere. Shinning brightly...was too distant for me to see.

But up here in the sky, staring out of this small window...

I see light. So much light. Shining in the evening sky.

Up here...

I can breath.
I can pause.
I can forget what I have to do.
Let go of what I didn't do.
Because I once again...

See the light.

The light never left me. It was always there. But I was simply too caught up, too stuck, too deep in my own creation of darkness, that I could not find it.

Out this window, there is obviously more darkness than light. The whole sky is pitch black. But up here, you can't help but stare at the tiny city lights. You don't notice the black sky. Your eyes move directly to the little specks of light coming through it.

We are always in the light.

We often get too stuck in our own creation of darkness to see it. But it is there. Always.

We simply need to be lifted out of our darkness long enough to change our perspective.

So that we can see
the beautiful
bright
never-ending
always shining

L     I     G     H     T

When Plans Fall Apart

I have been planning and planning. Pulling details after details together. Working tirelessly on logistics. Putting together schedules and itineraries.

Partly because it is my job. Trip coordinating is one of the main parts of my job description.

And partly because, well, that's just how I'm wired. I plan and organize. And plan. And coordinate. And plan some more. It's how my brain functions. It comes with breathing for me. And it's a bit of an obsession.

So, you can imagine how much I love my job. I enjoy planning trips, tying together loose ends, color coordinating schedules and so on. It is a skill. It is a passion. It is a way of life. And it's my job.

What could be more perfect?

Except, it's not my job. Not completely. And I learned that quite harshly this weekend when my team was strongly advised by the UN not to go into Congo on this trip.

You see, when the UN tells you to delay your trip to Congo, that it is unsafe for you to cross the border...you sort of have to listen.

We were all heartbroken.  Flustered. Confused. Desperate for answers. If we can't go to Congo, where will we go? We already have plane tickets. We already raised all of these funds. We already bought supplies to work with the kids. Organized a training for adults.

We were heartbroken. All of us wanted desperately to return to Congo. Or to go for the very first time. To work with those beautiful children. To be trained in the Empower Program along side Congolese leaders and counselors. To build relationships there.

And this all happened the day before half of our team departed. They were literally leaving tomorrow at the point that we found this out. And we didn't know where we were going or what we were doing.

This drove me absolutely crazy. Completely tipped me over the edge. Every ounce of my body craved a plan to hold onto for dear life. Longed for details. A schedule. Knowledge.

But we didn't have any of that.

The day before, we had plans, logistics, itineraries, and hotel reservations. A beautiful schedule. Organized and crystal clear. Outlining each day of the trip. A prayer calendar, showing where we would be and what we would be doing each day, so that our friends and families could pray for our trip more specifically.

I had put a lot of this together. Spent hours and hours last week doing so. Just the day before our plans changed, I spent ten hours finalizing logistics. I made plans for this trip my number one priority. Put all my effort into it.

And then...the situation changed. Congo was not safe. And we were told we could no longer go.

And all of my beloved plans and details I had worked so hard on and clung so hard to...went down the garbage. They were totally useless.

Now, this is NOT what I should have been focusing on. I should have been consumed with thoughts about the situation in Congo. The safety of our friends and partners there. What it would mean for them if violence broke out. If we had to cancel our trip.

These thoughts were certainly present. But it would be completely dishonest for me to say that they occupied the majority of my mind at the time.

But after talking to my teammates, I realized...

Planning every detail of this trip is not MY job...it's God's.

I may thirst to have my hand on every detail. But while I never will, He always does.

He's the one who moved us to go on this trip. Who showed us the need and called us to go there. Who brought in the funds. Pulled together the right team. He's had His hand in every detail from the very beginning. So how could He not now?

This is all part of His plan.

But why?

Maybe there is a child's heart we need to reach in Rwanda. Who longs for art supplies to draw pretty pictures with. Who just wants to express herself through art, but has no means. Or who desperately needs someone to hold her hand and say, "I believe in you. You have a beautiful future ahead of you."

Maybe there is a group or organization in Rwanda that eXile is meant to partner with. That we will meet and connect with now.

Maybe God is removing us from the situation in Congo, because it is too dangerous. And He wants to bring us out of it and into safety.

Maybe there is just something we need to see in Rwanda. People we need to meet. Places we need to be.

I do know two things:

1) He will use us on this trip. For His glory. In His way. And according to His plan. But something beautiful will be done through us on this trip.

2) God is teaching me that He is in control. That I have to back off a bit on the planning and structuring. That I have to acknowledge:
He is in control.
     I am not.
He is the ultimate planner.
     I am not.
His plans are untouchable.
     Mine are completely dispensable.
He is using me.
     I am being used.
He reigns.
He is big.
He's got this.
He knows.
He planned.
He's working in all of this.

Planning every detail of these trips is not my job. Just like it's not my job to plan every detail of my day and of my life. Even though I try to do it all the time I struggle with this daily.

My job is to listen. To act with wisdom. To move where he guides. To be flexible. To trust that He is in control, rather than trying to be in control.

I will be used.

In His way. In His time. According to His plan. And for His glory.

And it's time that I stop acting like I know when, how, and where that is. Or even any idea of what it could look like. Like I can possibly plan it or even plan for it.

God,

         Thank you for stretching me through this. For breaking me down so that you can grow me and mold me. For removing my sense of security and control through tearing my plans to pieces. For showing me that I have been overstepping my job. For yelling it in my face that I am not in control. For showing me that my plans are so easily destructible if they do not match up with yours.

          Thank you for being Almighty. Always in control. Thank you for your beautiful and perfect plans. And for finding the best way to use me in them. For even using me at all.

          I ask you to remind me over and over to let you be in control. On this trip and in every aspect of my life. To trust your plans and your goodness. Break me of this tendency to pretend I'm in control when only you ever actually are. Show me how to better hear your voice and notice where you are moving. So that I can serve where, when, and how you created me to. Help me to be patient and flexible in waiting for your call. At peace with the fact that I am powerless and my plans meaningless.

          Thank you for the utter privilege of serving you. For including little me in your big and beautiful plan.

                    Forever Yours,

                          Jessie

Closure: all that it isn't, all that it is & all that it can be

Closure...

It doesn't mean what happened was right. Or even the slightest bit okay.

It's not about friendship. It's not the beginning of anything new or more for that past relationship.

It's not easy. It's not fast. And it's not always what you think you want.

It's not holding onto the past. Carrying grudges. Placing blame.

It requires no perfect resolution over what happened. No common story. No shared narrative between you two.

It doesn't invalidate either individual's experience. Doesn't disregard the past pain or hurt.

Closure...

It is shutting a door. Ending a season. Sending whatever pain might be attached to it away with the past.

It's admitting to what you did that you shouldn't have done. What you didn't do that you should have done.

Acknowledging the role you played in the way things went down. Acknowledging your hand in the mess that was made.

Without forcing the other individual to do the same. Without any solid expectations of what that other person might say. Do. Think. Feel.

It's hard. It's awkward. It's weird. Especially if it's in person. After a lot of time has passed.

It's scary. You don't know what will happen. What feelings might resurface. What the other person will say. If they have a hidden agenda.

But true closure...in the deepest sense of the word...

Requires forgiveness.

Letting go of all the pent up anger and resentment.

Acknowledging the anger. The resentment. Maybe even the hate. Or what you once felt so strongly, you thought was hate.

Acknowledging. And validating those legitimate feelings you have.

And then...letting them go.

Choosing forgiveness over unforgiveness.

Choosing ot see that individual as a person. Realizing that they are human They make mistakes. They fail. They mess up. Just like you.

And because of that, they are worthy of forgiveness.

Worthy

               Of

                        Forgiveness

Just like we all are.

Brokenness can be healed.
Woundedness can be fixed.
Anger can be let go.
Hate can be lost.
Resentment can disappear.

But only if blame is let go first.
And only if you're willing to see that person as human.
As equal.
As worthy of forgiveness.

Doing so doesn't mean what happened was okay. It doesn't mean they didn't deeply hurt you. It doesn't mean what they did wasn't damaging in a very big way.

It simply means...
          finding

               closure

Finally, after all this time, putting an end to the cycle of hate, anger, resentment, and unforgiveness.

Removing that negativity. Healing those deep wounds. And trading it all in for:

Forgiveness
Reconciliation
Peace
Healing
And much, much needed...


C   L   O   S   U   R   E

I DON'T GOT THIS

Defeated
Exhausted
Tired of everything
Sick of trying
Of working
Of doing and racing
And not stopping
Overworked
Beyond stressed
Out of control
A little depressed
Not happy with life as it is
No more energy
Out of optimism
Done pretending I've got this
Rock bottom
I don't got this anymore...

I've been over-committed my whole life. My mom says I was the most over-committed toddler she'd ever seen. I've lived my whole life striving for excellence. Working towards success. Perfectionist overachiever about sums me up.

But I've always enjoyed it.

There's always been so much I want to do. And I've always chosen over-committed and stressed out over missing out on something I'd regret not doing.

And I've always been able to handle it. To get it all done, and to manage to actually do it well. I've been stressed out, sure, but never to the point that it completely consumed me. Or moved me to take a chill pill and stop doing everything.

People have always worried. Told me I'm doing to much. Going too fast. Need to slow down. Rest.

And I've always said, "Naw...I got this!"

Even when I felt like a bubble of stress seconds away from exploding.

Well, I am finally there. I'm finally at that point where there is nothing I can do but admit to myself and the world...

I don't got this.
I don't got this anymore.
I DON'T FUCKING GOT THIS ANYMORE!

I'm not okay. I'm not in control. And I'm not happy about it.

I'm having emotional or nervous breakdowns a few times a week. In tears over my stress practically every day. I have taken on way too much. Graduating a year early. Skipping the last two weeks of my undergraduate classes to go to Congo. Working 20 hours a week. Having a full schedule of classes. Doing a research lab. Too many clubs and e-boards.

I don't fucking got this anymore. And I don't know how to fix that. But I do know the first step is saying I'm not okay. And I don't got this.

That's what surrender is all about, though, isn't it? Coming to that point where you know your life is out of control. And that you alone are not strong enough to overcome it. To fix it. Admitting that you are weak. Utterly powerless.

And coming to something bigger and greater than you for help.

Surrendering. Saying I can't do this alone. I need You. I need You to pick me up and pull me out of this deep dark pit. Because I'm too week. Too tired. Too burnt out.

Surrendering to the situation that is. To your inability to conquer it on your own. And to the only one who can rescue you there.

Stress
Exhaustion
Addiction
Failure
Broken Relationships
Woundedness
Sin
Emptiness
Depression

They all require surrender to be overcome. And all of us experience this in one way or another multiple times in our lives. And it feels like we're stuck there. Totally screwed. Because we know we cannot overcome it. Not alone. We've tried. And we've failed. And we've sunk further into whatever the problem is because of it.

But all we have to do is ask for help. Turn to a God who is far bigger than we could ever dream and say, "I need you. I need you to rescue me. Right where I am."

But it's not that easy, is it?

Because when we ask for help, we feel like failures. Inadequate. Incapable. Useless. Embarrassed. Defeated.

We're always afraid of asking for help. It's sometimes intimidating. It can be uncomfortable. It can sting a bit to realize you can't do it on your own.

But we have to get over it.
We have to ask for help.
We have to surrender.
To the situation,
to our lack of control,
and to God for help.

Or we will stay stuck right where we are.

God,

     I come to you today to say I was wrong. I don't got this anymore. I am no longer in control. I haven't been for a long time. I'm at my rock bottom. I'm stuck and I can't get out. Every day I feel more trapped and more powerless. I am over-committed. I took on too much. And I've been lying to you and the world, pretending like everything's fine. It's not. I'm not okay. I'm not happy. I'm not healthy. I know it's just a season. I know we all encounter times like these. I know beautiful blessings are right around the corner. That all of this hard work will be worth it. That I'm almost done.

     But I can't do this anymore without You. Without Your strength.  Your rest. Your peace. Your wisdom. I need You. I surrender. I surrender to You, God. And I'm asking you to show up. To rescue me from this place I've trapped myself in without even realizing it.

I surrender.

        I am Yours.

                I surrender all to You.