Random thoughts.

The other day I was walking through Red Light, one of the biggest open air markets in Monrovia, by myself. Surrounded by a sea of Liberian faces, hearing murmurs of "white woman" as I stepped around puddles of sewage, greeted by the giant smiles of small children, their eyes lighting up at the slightest attempt at eye contact. The smell of smoked fish and burning garbage assaulting my nose. Hot sun, concert of car horns, crossing the road frogger-style, and found myself wondering...when did this become normal? It seemed normal. I wasn't phased by any aspect of the chaos except the fact that sometime over the last 15 months of my life my norm shifted from Target and Starbucks to Red Light and bagged water.

December 10th last year is the day Gifty went home to America. After 2 months of fighting for her life in sub-par Liberian hospitals, wrestling with both the Liberian and American governments and wondering if she would survive it all, she went home. Over the last year she has more than doubled her weight, learned to walk and to talk and continued to steal the heart of everyone who meets her. I was celebrating all day, it was a happy day. Until I received an e-mail from Heidi telling me Gifty was in the hospital again. Respiratory infection again. Oxygen again. Wondering again- When will that liver come? When will the waiting end? Praying still...

Yesterday I found myself spending the afternoon at the hospital with another small girl. You know part of her story, she is the girl who, like me, finally learned to walk this year. But there is more- Korpu is about 4 years old and weighs 14.7 lbs. She lives in one of the worst orphanage homes I have seen. Whenever I stop by she is covered in dirt and barely clothed. She eats, but hasn't gained weight. She isn't potty trained and can't talk.

We stopped by last week and Rebecca (my ORR bosslady who was in town for a few weeks from Texas) was very concerned about Korpu. She asked me to have her evaluated by a doctor. I have to be honest here. I didn't see the big deal and felt a bit put out by the idea of wasting another day waiting for hours at the local clinic. Korpu was the same as she always had been, slow to develop, but trying. Even still, I scheduled her an appointment. As soon as we walked into the doctor's office his nurse was concerned "She is too small!" Then a lady in the waiting room chimed in, "Was she born premature?" And another man in the corner asked, "What's wrong with her?" We had some labs drawn and finally saw the doctor, an American who has been in Liberia for many years. He was also extremely concerned, and started listing off possible causes for her condition, everything from sickle cell anemia to chronic malnutrition.

As I sat there on the table holding this fragile girl, burning up with fever from the malaria she was also battling, something in me broke. Somehow I had allowed myself to settle for the unacceptable. Nothing about Korpu's situation was as it should be. Everyone else could see it. How had I allowed myself to think it was alright on any level? We often use the excuse "this is Africa," but children deteriorating on my watch is not ok. God has called me here to advocate for these children. I will not sit back and watch anymore. Lord please keep my heart soft, my Spirit sensitive and my mind wise to do what is best for the children you have placed in my life.