Friday

Some days defy description. Ok, in Liberia a lot of days defy description. 

Friday was like that. One crazy thing after another, all day long. But it started out with an e-mail that outweighs all of the craziness of Liberia. Something that makes even less sense to me-- my dear, sweet, beautiful friend Michelle died. It was not entirely unexpected, she had fought Lou Gehrigs disease for the last three years. When I saw her in September she was locked inside the prison of her body, hardly able to move or communicate. But this is not the Michelle that I knew and loved. Michelle loved life, she was full of it. Her laugh burst joy into the universe. So to hear, and have to believe, that she is no longer on this earth is really unfathomable to me. But it is true. And to think that I have to go on living somehow seems dishonoring. So, when my day started with the news of Michelle, I wasn't really sure how to proceed. I am thousands of miles away. How do I pay my respects? How do I hug her kids and our friends to tell them I am sorry? I didn't get to say good bye. I didn't get to hug her one more time. How do I finish the sandwich I was eating when I heard the news or go about anything "normal?" It almost seems disrespectful. 

I knew that Michelle was going to die. Just like I know that she is now celebrating. I didn't know it was going to hurt this bad. I didn't know how badly I would feel the need to be connected to the people that connected us. I don't understand why I have been away the last two years, when it seems like she could have used me the most. But I do know that Michelle wouldn't have had it any other way. She was one of the most supportive people of my Liberian orphan adventure. Over and over she would tell me I was exactly where I was supposed to be. She was proud of me. Just as I am proud of her. And I guess I can now say to Michelle, even if I don't fully understand it, "You are exactly where you are supposed to be, you are free."

I love you Michelle.  

Shoes

Today started out rough.

Something was stolen. This happened a few months ago also, and was one of the most painful things that I think I have ever experienced. It hurt. I felt so vulnerable, exposed, betrayed. And today it happened again. All those hurtful, vulnerable, frustrating feelings came rushing right back. It sucks.

What does that have to do with shoes? Nothing really, except that we got to help some pretty amazing kiddos get some new shoes today. They were so excited! Can you imagine a room full of kids jumping up and down-excited about getting a new pair of shoes? You would have thought they were just told they were going to Disney Land (although they probably have no idea what Disney Land is.) The place erupted into screams of joy and laughter because they were told they were going to get a new pair of shoes (and they weren't even really new-- just new to them).

Last week our friend Momo's son had his school shoes stolen. He was at school and his shoes were stolen. Sad, I know. In Liberia you are sent home if you don't have the right shoes, or a stain on your uniform. You can't possibly learn anything if you are not dressed appropriately. We were able to get Soko a new pair shoes so he wouldn't miss any school, but really?

So this morning we were having a meeting with our staff, discussing the missing items. Everyone is shocked and embarrassed and has no idea about it. It reminded me of the Family Circus cartoon I used to read where the mom is standing there holding a broken vase or spilled milk or something and all the kids are gathered around her saying "Not me!" I mean, there are only so many of us around the house. Unless the stuff somehow ended up in that place where socks go, somebody has to be involved. But, I'll probably never know who for sure.

As we are gathered around the table, Elena and I trying not to dissolve into tears again, explaining to our staff, that I love and trust (but are stealing from me) how we are going to have to change some things around here-- beef up security, add some locks and take away privileges. Momo, of all people, dear, goofy Momo sits there sure as anything and says, "We have to pray God this is the end. He will take care." From Ma Mary I would expect this, but not from Momo. Leave it to God to use the most unlikely one to push us in the right direction. So we all bowed our heads and prayed together for the "rogue inside the house" and for the rest of us to remember to trust God, in all things.

And then I got to go witness some kid's day's being brightened by a new pair of shoes. And somewhere in the midst of all the new shoe excitement, I forgot about my own situation and rejoiced.

Back in the L-I-B

I arrived back in Monrovia Friday night to find that our generator was, as we say in Liberia, "spoiled." For those of you who do not rely on generator power, not having one means-- no electricity (obviously), no water (can't run the water pump), no charging of phones or computer batteries, no internet... you get the idea. Five days later, after two trips to the repair shop and one generator repair tech home visit we seem to be up and running again. Phew! 

Today Elena (my sole ORR side-kick for now) and I went to visit the kids at two different orphanages. We were greeted by shrieks of laughter, hugs and, "you got fat-o!" (After two years I am still reminding myself that is not an insult). It was great to be back with the kids. And a good reminder why I am here-- not to wrestle with generator repair and the other craziness that floats to the top of the priority list-- but to love on these precious ones.