I hate adoption.

We hear all about the adoptive parents side– how challenging it is, how difficult it is to raise traumatized children, but we never hear from the adoptive siblings point of view.  All my life I have heard of what incredible parents I have (and I do), but never once has someone told me what an “incredible job” I have done or what my thoughts were on having adopted siblings.  Mainly, because I was just a kid when it all begin.  I understand that, and that’s okay.  But I’d like to share my honest opinion on adoption.

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When I was seven my parents started down the road of adoption, I was elated, so overwhelmed with excitement at the fact that I was going to have a new sister or brother.  I remember meeting them for the first time, and they felt like family.  We got along and we were happy.  Until the baby boy started screaming in the car and the little girl was cussing me out at bedtime.  I lost part of my parents the day my two new siblings got in the car and made the long journey home with us.  I lost a part of myself that I’ll never have back again- and although that’s hard, I am thankful for it.

Over a 12 year period my parents adopted 10 children– every single one of them unexpected and so worth it.

But over the years I have struggled. Struggles that girls with only biological siblings will never know and friends will never truly understand.  I have been lied to, lied about, stolen from, spit on, cussed out, hit, bit, and accused.  I have heard “Well, Kristianna gets whatever she wants…” “Kristianna is perfect…” and each time it crumbles my heart a little more.  I have heard that I’ll never understand the backgrounds these children have had to suffer through and to give them grace because I have always had what I needed.  In some ways that’s true, and in some ways my heart can’t bear the pain.

It’s hard being an adoptive sister.   The harder you pretend all is well, the further you get from the truth. Because all is not well. Adoption isn’t a fun way to gain siblings, it involves restoration and rebuilding a life that has been torn to the ground and trampled upon. All is not okay and it never will be.  Adoption is a fight. I’ve had days when I am so weary I don’t want to get out of bed. I have had days when I cussed out God and told Him to rewind it all and give me my life back.  I have had days when I ignored my sister because of how much her words cut into my very soul “we all hate you.”. Sure, she has faced her fair share of suffering, but day after endless day I face my own heartaches because of their pasts.

I will be completely honest, I hate people who abuse and abandon children. I hate women who desire drugs and men over their own children.  I hate men who cannot own up to the fact that they have children to be raised. I hate laws that make children orphans.  I hate poverty that rips families apart.  And I hate adoption.  Because adoption means there is pain and suffering behind the adopted, it means years and years of recovery. It means losing a part of who you are and who your parents are because of it.  We will never be carefree again, because carefree doesn’t exist when there is a child who has threatened to kill foster siblings in the past.

I think God hates adoption too.

Because adoption means brokenness.

Adoption means that the Garden of Eden has been destroyed and Adam and Eve have been engulfed in sin. Adoption means that the world He created in those few glorious days, the world that knew no sin, is forever lost.  It means the human made in His own image ruined their purpose. It means failure and emptiness.  Adoption is shattered pieces that will never fit properly together again, yet, at the same time, adoption is what holds those pieces together.   Adoption means perfection will never exist again, because there will always be scars and pasts that we cannot change. It means God sacrificing to bring light into a dark and hopeless world.

Hallelujah, redemption lives.

Jesus hung upon that cross in humility to suffer for the world of imperfection because He knew adoption was the only option.  His blood would not be our own, His flesh would have no biological relation to ours.  But He would rescue and redeem. His blood would be poured out for lost children He was choosing to call His very own. When all the heavens would see us as unworthy, there was One who became small enough to redeem.  He bent low, and didn’t demand us to change our ways, but told us we were wanted. We were worth all the suffering, all the nights of tears and nightmares.  He reached into the darkness to bring us into the light.  He didn’t care where we had been or what we had endured, He only whispered “you are not alone anymore”. 

Adoption is not beautiful.

Adoption is messy and terrifying.

Adoption is bridging the gap between darkness and light.

Adoption means children who walk through hell and endure what no child should.

Adoption means broken pasts and hearts full of scars.

But adoption is worth it.

Because adoption is redemption.

And I watch as their distress and heartaches pour over into my life and I cling to grace.  Because grace is the only thing saving us all. I cling to the One who has chosen me as a child when my own heart was only sin.  He calls me “child”, and I call them brother and sister. Adoption doesn’t always make sense- that He would love us as His children, or that we should love them as our own.  But love doesn’t ask questions. It’s not easy, but it’s good.

She walks around with a shirt that says “Family rocks”, she’s the one who was literally kicked to the curb.  The one who is terrified that family is not forever, that we are only temporary. That maybe she is not worthy of a family.  It’s a real fear, and it’s not only one she is carrying but so many children who are facing life with nobody to say you are not alone anymore.  One hundred and forty-three million– it’s a statistic that will make no sense to those who have never held an orphan in their arms. But they are walking around with their hearts beating, but they feel they have nothing worth beating for.  They will grow into adults always questioning why they weren’t worthy of a family.

We are called to adopt because adoption is reflecting the Father’s love and grace upon us. As Christian’s, Christ requires only that we believe and follow Him, but as Christ followers, we should long to be like our Father. You have the ability to show a child that we’re all unworthy, but there’s a Father’s love that gives us a new identity and there’s redemption that creates a new beginning. It won’t be easy, but it’ll worth all the hard days, and the times when you feel like you are drowning.  It will be worth the rages and the stealing and the heartbreaks and headaches. It will be worth the sorrow and the pain and the long days of recovery. Because once upon a time, we were that beautiful mess of wounds and tears and emptiness.

I hate adoption because adoption means my siblings have walked through hell and back again. But I love redemption because it’s making broken things into glorious ones.  It’s taking pieces that are shattered and piece by piece redesigning them into the masterpiece they were meant to be. We are all being changed and made new in this love we cannot understand, this grace that is drowning us all.

Hallelujah, brokenness cannot survive when redemption lives. 



Things have really, really changed since I have come home.

When I returned to Uganda in August I had a vision for the ministries of Yesu Asobola that was so incredibly big.  I was able to work among some of the richest souls in the world.  God showed me how much He loves those children, how much He can do through so little. But, as many of you know I left my position of director of Yesu Asobola Ministries after I felt that the leadership was headed in a direction that I did not feel comfortable venturing. I love those 400 children more than anything and I still wish to support the families that I cherish so much- but I cannot continue directing a ministry that my heart feels so uncertain about. It hurt so incredibly much to make that final decision.

My heart breaks continuously over the precious little lives I got to know in Uganda, but they are His children. I didn’t go to save them but to serve Him. My life has been so centered on Uganda the last couple years and finding myself having to figure out this American life is more challenging than I could ever have imagined. I do not know what’s next for me, I have lost control over the life I saw for myself.  I have gone from a world of constantly serving others, to living life in America without getting lost in the busyness, madness and chaos of it all.

To those of you who have supported me through my crazy Ugandan life I cannot thank you enough.  Romans 10:15 says: “And how can anyone preach unless they are sent? As it is written: “How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!”  I have always loved this verse but recently when reading it I realized how we overlook the first part of the verse: “And how can anyone preach unless they are sent?” I was able to answer God’s calling to Uganda because many of you sent me, you were just as much involved in my journey to Africa as I was.  God brought me some of the richest days of my life, and I couldn’t have been there if it wasn’t through His provision through family and friends.  Those of you who sponsor a child through Yesu Asobola Ministries, since I am no longer involved it is completely up to you whether you continue to sponsor your child or not, however, I cannot guarantee what your sponsorship is going towards providing.  And those of you who have sponsored a child in the past, your child is enrolled in school for one year and will receive lunch 5 days a week– how awesome is that?!

The last 3 months have kinda been a waiting game, just being still and seeing where He would lead me– whether it be back to Africa to serve full-time or here.  He has ((finally)) given me the next steps though. In the fall I plan to register full-time in college, which is kind of weird for me, because it’s definitely not what I would have chosen to do.   He also is leading me on a trip to South Africa for 3 weeks this summer- another thing I definitely would never have expected…  I know that Jesus will provide for my every need- I surrender it all to Him.  He has never failed.

 Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen. -Ephesians 3:20-21 



Coming Home.

I leave tomorrow on a 36 hour journey to go back “home” yet at the same time I’m leaving “home”.  It’s bittersweet always, and it never gets easier. I am always torn between these two worlds that are so opposite of each other.  It never ceases to amaze me that I can hop on an airplane and find myself in such a different place.

I love people watching in airports, and there is a lot of people to be watchin’.  They click around in their high heeled shoes, suits and carry briefcases.  Screaming babies and sleep deprived mothers and dad’s who are completely oblivious.  But it’s all lacking.  Vacations, work, adventurer- they are all minding their own business without the friendly, welcoming smile you find in Uganda. Oh, and there are so. many. white. people.  It sounds funny, but it always slaps me in the face “welcome to the grand ole U.S. of A.”, I feel like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas any more.”. Except it’s Africa, and it’s not only just a “feeling”,  I’m definitely not in Africa any more.

Upon arriving in the states I usually go to Starbucks almost immediately, but then I start the calculating- $7 for a drink and a pastry? You gotta be kidding me… I could do so much with that money in Uganda-$7=18,000 Ugandan shillings... but I always give in and find a corner and connect to the WIFI. The Starbucks is good, but my thoughts are a thousand miles away.

Clean restrooms, drinking fountains, nice floors, no chance of the power going out, roads without potholes and driving without dodging goats, cows or chickens.  Fast food on every corner and running water in every home.  The sweet dishwasher and washing machine… the washing machine always get me… I get used to the fact that I have to wash my own “baby clothes”  while we pay our friend to wash everything else.  The fact that eggs and milk are found in the fridge at the grocery store- unlike here where they are kept on the shelves. No more walking past men who yell “mzungu, i love you! you are beautiful!”.  I can’t just hop on a motorcycle taxi and go where ever I choose for a quarter- yes, a quarter. There is no need to boil water before drinking or spray for mosquitoes. No more ants eating anything and everything we leave on the counter. Oh, and no more soda made with real cane sugar… It’s a whole new ballgame.  A whole different culture.

It’s hard readjusting, harder than you might expect actually.  Jet lag has nothing on me- but the cultural change is always hard to wrap my head around.  It too much, too fast, too busy and not enough all at once.   I have a meltdown every time I arrive home in the states, it’s normal, nothing some good chocolate can’t cure.  It’s all good in the end.

But something I have learned in coming and going so often is that no body truly understands where you are coming from. 30 hours of traveling… man that’s cruel!  They ask how I am, and I answer with a “fine” “good” or “great” and that’s the end of that.  But if I were to really tell you how I am, it would take a lot longer than that.  Missionary life is hard.  It’s more than the adventure and the African heat, food and animals.  It’ poverty and the woman knocking on my gate for money and the man with the crutches who makes his home on the side of the road.  It’s the abandoned child and the boy with malaria and the girl who has ring-worm covering her head. It’s watching a mother bury her last born, her baby, and listening to the sorrow filled cries.  It’s the rumors going around that work for the devil and am going to steal children from the village parents.  It’s the sadness and the goodness and the joy and the heartbreaks.  It’s the finding life with a purpose, and if you really wanted to know how I am and how life in Africa is, it’s gonna take quite a bit of time.  But honestly, I don’t think many understand the emotions of a missionary.  Unless you’ve walked a mile in my dirty flip-flops, you won’t know.  But friends, that’s okay.  It’s okay that I have to be dependent on Jesus.   Oh, it’s hard not to pour my burdens and challenges upon friends, but it’s something I’m learning.  Many people will never fully understand Africa, or my heart for this new home of mine.

But Love knows. It knows where we’ve been, it knows what we are fighting for, it knows our pain and our struggles and hears our heart breaking.  When nobody else can understand, when nobody else can look through and see what you have seen, when nobody can take the burden from our souls- Love does.

As I’m headed home I remember that He is always here.  He doesn’t leave me at the airport- say good-bye, wish me well and send me on my way. He will not leave me, He will go before me.  He knows every burden, every cry of my heart, every emotion I have felt.  He won’t leave me at the security check in, because He is so much bigger than that.  His love is enough.

USA, here I come.

Africa is emotionally exhausting.


The waiting on African time for things to fall into place,  the experiencing a world beyond what you are comfortable with, travelling dusty roads on dirt bikes or overcrowded buses.  Seeing a dead man on the side of the road laying in a puddle of blood, watching old women beg and young children carry babies on their backs instead of playing with friends.  The African sun is too bright or the rain is too hard, and we need the village to have a good crop this year.

We were feeding 400 children last Saturday, we had a line of older boys waiting for food, I saw a tiny 18 month old baby boy standing behind me as I dished out beans.  He was naked, very obviously malnourished and was extremely dirty.  I asked where he came from- they shook their heads and said they didn’t know who he was but he had come from the “bush”.  I whispered “make him a plate please.”  they looked at me, “no, feed the big boys first and then him.”  I glanced at him again, his eyes were hungry and his face covered in snot.  I reached past and made him a plate.  The older boys would be fed, but this one, right now, needed it more.  I wasn’t going to continue plating food until I saw that he had it. How could ignore this beautiful child?  How could I say ‘I’ll give these boys food, but unless there is some in the pot, this little one who is malnourished cannot eat’.   I won’t.  

I’ve gotten used to African poverty in some ways, some of the hard doesn’t surprise me any more.  I used to be wide-eyed when I would drive down the roads taking in the scenes and the sense of hopelessness, but now, it’s all so normal.  But I will not let my heart go numb to the cold reality.

One of the hardest challenges is going home and adjusting to the emotions that African has brought me to feel. It opened my eyes to the fact that  people don’t care much .  Sure there’s a handful that do, there’s that small amount that are generous and their hearts truly are broken for the orphans and they want to fight poverty, but the majority just doesn’t care. They prefer their lattes extra sweet, and their pizzas extra cheesy, and their beds extra soft and pillows extra fluffy.  They don’t care about Africa and they don’t even know where Uganda is.

My heart breaks every time I am at home in America.  People fly through life and miss the purpose, they think bigger and better is the way to have a good life.  While 1.5 million people die from starvation each year, Americans pull the covers a little further up and they get cozy in their over-sized beds and they sleep soundly to the noise of pleasure. They assure themselves that poverty is out of their control, heck, poverty is just a way of life.

But it’s not.  If we can spend $10 on Starbucks than we have the ability to change the world.  $10 would provide 22 pounds of beans and 10 pounds of posho to a starving family.  $10 could treat malaria 4 or 5 times. $10 could bring medication to a dying child.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to make you feel guilty.  I just want you to be awake to the reality of poverty and face the fact that you have the power to fight poverty.  They don’t need much, and they don’t need a lot, they don’t need someone with thousands of dollars, they just need someone willing to take their hand and lift them out of the terrifying pit of poverty.  You can spend you life trying to become the bigger and better that you want to be, or you can surrender all that you have and face the fact that life isn’t always about you.  The world is a big, beautiful, ugly, scary, exhausting and hopeful place.

I have come to the realization that sometimes the poorest are the richest in the Kingdom of God.  Sometimes they have more than we can ever imagine.  They kneel further before the cross instead of standing on in their own abilities.

Life in Africa is emotionally exhausting. But when I feel the weight of poverty, it means I’m awake, I’m alive and I am ready to fight back.  I hear the rumors of child sacrifice season approaching and I watch as the children leave early.  I hear the village rumors that we were sent from the devil to steal their children.  But I hear Him above everything “take courage.”

When it storms, the skies look hopeless, they are dark and filled with rain, thunder, and lightning.

But there is always hope beyond the storms.

The sun is always above it all, just waiting to peek through the darkness.

Just as the Son comes to renew and restore in the hellish places of poverty.

There is always hope, we just have to wait in peace.

Take courage.

It’s all true.

CRW_6284 I am privileged to be part of something bigger than myself.  I am overjoyed to live life among those who’s only father is Him.  I see hope in the eyes of poverty stricken families. For years I heard the stories of Africa. Starving. Barefeet.  Miles for water.  Malaria. Dirty faces. Orphaned. Abandoned.  But now with my own ears I have listened to a father admit his son only receives one meal a day. I have felt the dirty hands between my own. I have heard the begging. I have watched the mothers and daughters carrying jerry cans back from the bore holes. I have taken a little boy to the clinic only to be diagnosed with malaria. Everything you hear about Africa, the pain, the poverty, the heart wrenching stories… it’s all true.


But something else you usually don’t hear about Africa is also true- there is hope.  there is joy. there is peace. there is love. there is a village filled with future leaders. It’s all true. We currently have 109 elementary aged children and 15 high school aged children who need sponsors by December when the new school year starts.   Just $30 will send them to school and provide them with food and health care. Friends, you have the opportunity to care for the least of these. If you can go out for dinner or spend money on entertainment each month you have the ability to care for His children.  Whether you sponsor with Yesu Asobola or with another organization- you have the ability to change the world through a child.



Obia, Yesu, Obia.

“I have seen the many faces of fear and of pain. I have watched the tears fall plenty from heartache and strength. So if life’s journey has you weary and afraid, there’s rest in the shadow of His wings.” -Jeremy Camp

Today my heart is heavy.


I read the news last night of the shooting in Kenya. 10-15 gunmen attacked a mall, all Muslims ordered to leave, while everyone else were shot at.  59 dead. Over 200 injured. 30 possible hostages.  The numbers are still rising and the story is yet to be over. I think of the families member who got calls, who saw the news, who cried a million tears and felt as though their worlds were shattered. The children who survived are forever scarred by an innocent trip to a mall with their parents.



Then today I read the news of Pakistan. A suicide bombing at a Christian church.  78 killed. Over 120 injured.   Those killed are resting at the feet of Jesus, forever whole, forever at peace in His presence. Those who survived will either chose to be stronger in Him, or will fall away and blame Him.

The world doesn’t make sense sometimes.

But at the same time, it makes perfect sense.

Jesus is going to come soon.

And when He comes every knee will bow and every tongue confess that He is Lord.

Including the gunmen and the bombers.

So, we wait.

As we wait for His return, I pray for His perfect peace for the Christians as they face persecution. I pray for the injured and traumatized that they may find healing in Him. I pray for comfort from the families who have lost loved ones and will continue to lose loved ones.  I pray for His boldness for those who will preach His good news to those who are yet to know of the Savior who became small enough to save.

Let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us,  fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart. -Hebrews 12:1-3

Like the children in Onyerai village sing: Obia, Yesu, obia.

Come, Jesus, come.

God never promises easy.

Discussions with carpenters, long boda rides, house hunting, moving into a new home, talking with the land board, talking with the government about our plans… it’s what my last couple weeks have been filled with.

Life as a missionary isn’t all it sounds like.

People imagine middle-of-nowhere-Africa, hungry children with begging eyes and outstretched hands, the missionary comes in to feed and clothe and give them Jesus.

That’s not what it is.  It’s tedious, it’s hard, and it makes me wonder if I’ll ever change anything for the beautiful Onyerai village.

My feet are hurting and dirty.

I’ve walked my fair share this week.

I’ve argued prices with boda men.

The sharp grass threatens to cut my legs as we ride into the village.

The clinic takes 3-4 hours on average.

Another child has asked for a mattress and I’m left with deciding whether it’s fair for this child to get one when many more don’t have one.

A grandmother’s needs medicine that isn’t sold in Soroti, and she’s out of food again.

We buy medicine for an infected foot.

The village children are hungry- and I have no means of providing for all of them.

My heart is broken once again.

I’m tired. Tired of making decisions and tired physically.

I’m not complaining though- I love Uganda, I love the village, I love these children.

I’m breathing.  Still breathing, and that’s good.

God never promises easy.

He promises to never leave us.

And He won’t.

He will not fail me.

He will not fail the hungry child.

He will not fail the grandmother.

He will not fail the sick child.

He will not fail Onyerai village.


For if our God is for us, who can stand against us?


Where do I begin & where do I stop?

How much I give, and where I start is the hardest part of living in Uganda. It’s something I struggle with- am I giving enough?  Am I giving to who I should be giving to? Am I caring for those who really need it?


I took a little boy to the clinic the other day.

While we were walking inside, an old man with a broken wrist yelled after me “help me also!”. Because I hear this so often I shook my head and we went into the clinic.  As we sat waiting I was surrounded by people who were able to get treatment, but like the little boy we had brought and the man asking for help there were people dying because they couldn’t afford treatment.  The walls of the clinics and hospitals only held the wealthiest of those living in poverty, and honestly, those wealthiest were still struggling day to day to survive.  But if Susan and I hadn’t taken the time to bring this particular little boy in, he easily would have died. Cerebral malaria.  What if we had ignored him?  What if we have ignored a big issue and we have no idea? It’s a cold reality to face.

While taking applications we ask each child if they have any health concerns, usually they say “malaria.” Susan took an application the other day for a 15 year old boy and it made it’s way to my hands.  What I read  broke my heart.  “I have a lot of stomach aches due to hunger.”  I know all of those children suffer from being hungry, but to see it written on paper made it more real to me. Never once have I had hunger pains, not in the same sense these children do.  They have one meal a day.  One meal.  American’s believe they are entitled to 3 meals a day with snacks in between.  I choose what meals I want to eat, even here in Uganda, but they eat whatever is available.  No 15 year old boy should have severe pains due to hunger while we Americans get obese.  It’s not fair.  But it happens, day after day after day.

Where do I begin and where do I stop?

I wish I could bring healing to every body and restoration to every soul.

But I know I can’t.

But Jesus said if you saw anyone in need you were to give openly to them.

“Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. 35 For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36 I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

37 “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? 38 When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? 39 When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

40 “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

But how do I manage that when every. single. day. I meet the hungry faces over and over and over again? 

Why are there so many?

Why are there so little Christians doing something about it?

Jesus poured Himself out upon this earth so we would breathe in His goodness.

I breathe in all that He is.

All that He wants me to be.

I do it for Him.

So I begin with a boy with a toothache.  I deliver mattresses to a family.  I take sponsorship applications for 200 children. I take a boy who says he is ready to die to the clinic.

Where He begins, that’s where I start.

Where He is, I don’t need to stop, because I am always going to find another hungry stomach or starving soul.

I just need to breathe Him in.

My New Normal.

My new normal is hard.

I’m not going to lie.

It would be so easy to back my bags and head home to comfort, where homesickness doesn’t make my heart ache.  Where I don’t have to decide what is best for this orphan or this family or this sick child.  It would be easy to pretend like I never came and go about life like any other person my age.  Enroll in college, get a job, find the american dream.

But that’s not who I am.

That’s not who God created me to be.

In fact, that’s not how God created you to be either.

When you have seen the pain and the poverty and the hurt and the wickedness, to turn you back and walk away is to ignore Christ.

I will not ignore Christ.


I take a boda across the pot hole roads and pray for my safety along the way.

I arrive at a village of hope.

A village awaiting a future for their many children.

I arrive at a grass roofed church and am greeted by so beautiful people.

We hear their stories.

Many are the same.

They break me.


One tells us in embarrassment that his son only receives one meal a day because the crop is bad.

One who we’re told not to shake hands with because the skin diseases are bad in this poverty stricken area.

One who walks barefooted for drinking water that infects their body and they urinate blood.

One who has ring worm on their heads and malnourished bellies.

One who can’t write so they sign their name with a fingerprint.

One who digs a hole at such a young age and says he is ready to die, because the pain is too much.

And I know.

I can’t go back to what I used to think I knew about the world.

Because I really didn’t know a thing.



Why am I even moving?

I don’t even know where to start.

All I know is it’s hard.

I’m leaving the states and comfort and my family and I wish it were different.

I’ve asked myself a billion different times why I am even doing this.

I couldn’t even tell you why.

Because right now, it’s hard.

It’s crazy hard.

I can tell you this though…

I found a place on earth where life matters. Where you awaken each day with purpose and drive.  Where the storms may come, and the heart aches may meet you at your gate day after day, but you learn to seek the joy.

And joy is there.

It’s buried under the faces of the children who are walking through days of grief and days of feeling unloved.

It’s buried under the faces of the mother’s who prostitute in order to feed their children.

It’s buried under the faces of the men who drink their homemade alcohol.

It’s buried under there.

But guess what?

When a treasure is buried deep, what would you do to get to it?

you dig.

It’s not easy.

You get your hands dirty and your forehead sweaty and your heart pounding, but you don’t give up.

It may be hard.

But you know you are going to find it.

That’s why I keep getting on a plane and wiping tears away and kissing my siblings goodbye once again.

Because there is treasure waiting to be found, friends.

There’s 400 children waiting to unbury their joy and find their purpose.

And friends.

He chose me.

And I chose Him.

And that’s my Treasure.