Village children are resourceful when it comes to toys and games. Old plastic bags, scraps of paper and tape become soccer balls; rocks become jax, long strips of thin plastic tied together become a jumping game, plastic bottles and bent wire become elaborate cars and trucks. Bottle caps, sticks, mud - all useful from recreation. Of course, kids in the west cut up refrigerator boxes and make forts out of dead leaves - but the difference is the little plastic toy aisle at the local Drug Mart or the huge Toys R US around the corner. Few African kids have any other choice.
So when a group of women from Minnesota decide to make dolls for each young child and every girl in the Chifundo’s Basket program, they are giving a gift of joy.

Sue Berglund - an RN who has previously served as a WVI volunteer in Malawi - was the mastermind behind the doll project. One year she arrived in Malawi with dozens of handmade fleece jackets for the school children - and dozens of handcrafted Chichewa coloring books. She also gathered a group of talented women to create a stunning quilt that now hangs in the Hope Village church, stretching from ceiling to floor.

This year, it was dolls. Beautiful, hand-crafted dolls - boy dolls and girl dolls complete with babies on their backs, decked out in brightly colored clothing. Each doll has beads threaded into tufts of hair - beads that have meaning. These black, red, white, gold and green beads represent the colors of the wordless book - a tool that is used around the world to teach the truth of the gospel to children and adults alike. And tucked inside a hidden pocket on each doll’s tummy, is a colorful laminated booklet, written in the local language, that tells the whole story of God’s love for them.

The day comes to distribute the dolls and Naomi - a team member from Minnesota - does the honors. After the raucous clapping, screaming and bouncing subsides - she begins to pass them out, one at a time. The kids’ faces are priceless - a combination of joy and utter disbelief. You can read their thoughts: A doll of my very own? I can take it home? It’s mine?

Of course, the older boys can’t take a doll. ( And “older” here is 13) They tell us that they wouldn’t make it out of the village without getting beaten up if they were seen carrying a doll. Thankfully, we have something for them - a little ninja-looking tool thing that they seem delighted with.

As the kids prepare to leave for home, the younger boys hug their dolls tightly and the girls wrap them onto their backs. The give them names (Edwin names his “Uncle Ken”) and carefully brush the ever-present dust off of the black cloth.
Some of the children who participate in our summer photography project bring back pictures of themselves with their dolls at home - a splash of color in a dreary mud house.

And a gift of love - from Minnesota to Malawi.

I hate to shop. It is a special challenge to shop for my 13 year old daughter who knows exactly what she likes - which seems to be anything I don’t like. Shopping for one adolescent overwhelms me.

But recently I went shopping here in Malawi -for 41 kids. Thankfully, I wasn’t alone - Loveness, Wapu, Hana, and Ken shared the joy.

Early one morning we invaded the Pep shop - which is sort of a mini-Woolworth’s - armed with a list of estimated shoe sizes, and some very suspicious measurements for boys clothing. For hours we counted, and re-counted kids on the list. We spread shoes all over the floor, organized by size. (The sizes are European, which is more than a little confusing.) We made our best guess and then moved on to underwear and socks - as Wapu and Ken tried to find pants and shirts to fit 22 boys.

This shop doesn’t have all the sizes that we need, but helpful employees offer to run to another shop to plunder their stock. We decide to buy backpacks for all 41 kids, sorting them by size, color and design. At the end of our shopping trip, a huge, overflowing box is stuffed into the van and a grateful store manager gives us a blanket and two plastic food storage sets as thank you gifts.

That evening, we clutter the floor as we sort through the piles. The longer I stare at the 41 pairs of shoes, shoes, the larger they become in my eyes. I soon convince myself that nothing will fit, that every shoe is too big, every pair of pants too small. But nothing can be done right now, so we begin to stuff items in the new bags. I’m glad that we bought and distributed the dresses for the girls a couple of weeks back - that makes our job tonight a bit simpler.

But at the end of the night, bulging backpacks lean against the front door, ready for the next day.

That’s the shopping part - now for the joy.

We arrive at Hope Village with two huge boxes and when we show them what we brought, they explode - yelling, whistling, clapping, stomping their feet. None of them have ever owned a backpack before.

The boys dash to one of the schoolrooms to try on their new clothes, while the girls excitedly try on their new shoes. Unbelievably, everything fits. every shoe, every pair of pants.

Though “guesstimate-shopping” for 41 kids is not easy - these kids are easy to shop for. If it almost fits, they are grateful. If it is warm, they are grateful. If it has no holes or stains they are grateful. And today they are much more than grateful. Unable to contain their joy, they dance joyfully around the room in a large circle.

Wapu, Hana and I agree - this is one of the sweetest moment of our lives. And if you have ever given to Chifundo’s Basket (WVI’s orphan program fund) you are part of this moment. This is how your money is spent - on food, clothing, shoes, blankets, soap, medical care, school supplies, education - and moments of joy for children like Chisomo and Baba.

Hana has been sick for some days now. As I write this early in the morning, she sleeps fitfully next to me after yet another difficult night. While I have strong faith in God, I admit I’ve experienced some moments of terror. I’m human, after all - and when my kids suffer, I suffer.

When Ken left us on Saturday afternoon, Hana wasn’t herself. I thought she was just homesick, missing her Dad. But in the middle of the night she wakes up screaming for me. She can’t move her arms or legs, her tongue is white and swollen and her jaw clamped tight. I need no thermometer to know that her fever is way too high - her face burns to the touch & she is delirious. She is convinced that a man is under her bed and begs me to protect her.

As I pray, I rub her limbs and her jaw; I talk soothingly to her and finally haul her to a sitting position. She is able to take water and ibuprofen. What do you do in the middle of a Saturday night in Malawi when your child is ill? There is no 911, no ambulance minutes away. We’ve heard nothing but horror stories about the central hospital - from the administrators, themselves - and the only private clinic we’ve ever used is closed until Monday. There is no 24 hour drug store, and if there was, I wouldn’t know what to buy.

It is hard to control my mind - which tropical nightmare of an infection could this be? We took her for a malaria test last week because she had chills and headache - but that came out negative. She has not been herself - confused, afraid. What could this be?

Weak and bright-eyed, she begins to sing - “the joy of the Lord is my strength, the joy of the Lord is my strength.” And I sing with her, choking back tears. I coax her into bed with me and she falls asleep for an hour or so before waking in terror. She is delusional -she’s hearing voices.

It is Sunday morning and - except for prayer - I have no idea what else to do. I have the private number of a Malawian doctor that we have worked with in the past, but he isn’t available. So I pray, and force water, tylenol and ibuprofen down her all day to keep the fever at bay. Some people believe prayer alone is enough. I believe that everything belongs to God - science as well as the supernatural - and it is at His command. So I pray that He will use whatever means He chooses to heal my daughter. Joseph and Loveness come to pray for her in the evening and she makes it through the night.

On Monday I take her to the clinic only to find that there are no doctors there today. Another long day of confusion, disorientation, fever - and another night of deliriums. She wakes at 3:00 am and begins to sing - anything she can think of. She sings songs from One Story ( an original stage show that she was part of), she sings worship songs, she makes up songs to scripture. She opens her Bible and comforts herself with Psalms as I merely agree with her - grateful that she already knows where to run when she’s in trouble. We pray until dawn breaks and she falls back into another fitful sleep. listening to her father’s music on her ipod.

I cannot sleep.

First thing Tuesday morning, we arrive at the ABC clinic and I’m grateful to see my favorite doctor - the man who treated Wapu when his malaria was so dangerous, and Chikoso with his staph infection. A nurse friend calls Hana’s name and soon we are in the exam room. His manner puts us at ease as we talk about Hana - about how she took her SATs this year as a 7th grader. He is a Duke graduate and tells us that they have summer programs for gifted children - we should check it out.

He asks questions - fever, delusions, disorientation, confusion, dizziness, headache, stomach pain - and then e sends her for blood work and other tests. It takes three nurses to get blood from her little veins -but they are kind and compassionate and finally, successful. The doctor tells us the good news first - it is not malaria. Though we cover her with bug spray, clothe her in long sleeves and pants at dusk, and wrap her in a mosquito net at night - she is covered in bites anyway. But she also faithfully takes her malarone and it is doing its job.

But she is dehydrated and has an infection. He prescribes a strong antibiotic and tells her to drink, drink, drink. He explains that the African sun is dangerous for us in the winter, because we don’t realize how strong it is. There is no humidity here and the sun sucks the moisture right out of every living thing. But, unlike me, Hana is a big water drinker - I’ve never had to coax her - so dehydration never crossed my mind.

She’s only been on the antibiotic for 24 hours, so there is little change yet. I know she will recover soon, though. I’m grateful for God’s loving care and comfort - and for providing doctors from Duke and medicines from the west.

But as I have lain awake in the dead of these many nights, my heart has grieved with the millions of village mothers who love their children as much as I love mine. Who awake to find their children burning with fever, dehydrated from diarrhea, screaming in terror.

Ten years ago I sat in an airport lounge with the head physician from the central hospital in Blantyre. It was my first trip to Malawi and I was heading home full of faith and love and broken-heartedness over the suffering I had seen. This man was heading home for a much-needed rest. When I asked him about the state of health care in Malawi, he shook his head and sighed. He told me that 600 children come into his hospital every day and they put them in two categories: this one has a chance to survive, this one doesn’t.

The government is working hard to educate the public on issues like hygiene and clean water and mosquito nets.They have distributed thousands of free mosquito nets only to find them being used on gardens to protect them from pests - instead of the children. What’s the sense of have a malaria-free child only to have her die of starvation because your garden failed? The government is also working hard to eliminate child labor and child abuse, to give children a better life. It’s doing what it can, but the problems run deep in the traditional beliefs and practices of the various tribes.

The doctors here work hard, too. - at last count there were only 103 doctors for a country of 12 million. So I don’t know how much difference a decade has made for the children deep in the villages - where perhaps the nearest local clinic is 10 km away on foot. Much of the time, they don’t even attempt to go to the clinic - the illness is blamed on witchcraft and potions or herbs are purchased from the local witchdoctor. The children wear witchcraft charms on their bodies in a fruitless effort to protect them from these unseen evils.
But survival is difficult. Children just die in their grieving mothers’ arms.

These past days and nights I have been able to imagine the terrors of these mothers and the suffering of their children. I thank God for every medical professional who has ever given their life and time here in Malawi. I thank God for every donation of supplies, medicines, equipment. I thank God that our clinic at Hope Village is on the verge of full registration with the health ministry and will soon become fully functional - another place where village mothers can bring their sick children.

Most of all I am grateful that God is not distant - He is a God who sees, and cares, and loves. And through every life experience - if we pay attention - He teaches us to see and care and love.

Ok, the title is more than a bit misleading. I held a flashlight now and then. I smiled and patted the kids’ legs, encouraging them with words like - Osadandaula! Osaopa! Kulimba mtima! Osalira! Ukuchita bwino! (Don’t worry, don’t be afraid, have courage, don’t cry, you’re doing a good job!) - while I cringed and flinched and clenched my jaws until my own teeth ached.

I’ve already made it clear that I’m a dental coward. I don’t even show up at my own root canals let alone someone else’s. But when my dentist-who-is-strangely-enough-my-friend came to Malawi recently, I spent several days watching him work.

Dan Camm is the most gentle dentist on the planet - but a needle is a needle is a needle. For me, any visit with Dan in the US is preceded by high doses of nitrous oxide administered by his understanding and compassionate staff. (Translated, this means they know I’m nuts, but they forgive me for it.) I’ve never even seen the instruments he uses - except that one time when I opened my eyes in a daze to see Dan standing over me with a huge clawed hammer. I had once, mistakenly - and quite publicly - remarked that he banged on my teeth with a little hammer. So on my next visit, Dan decided to clear up the confusion by showing me what a hammer really looks like. Other than that, I’ve never seen the needles, the drills, the pokey metal scraper things.

I hear a soothing voice say ,”you’re going to feel a little pinch.” Even in my addled state I know it’s much more than a little pinch, but hey - who cares? Just breathe…

Now my innocence is gone. I’ve seen it all - the size of the needle, the drills and the pokey metal scraper things. It’s going to take more than nitrous to get me in that chair again. A tranquilizing dart, maybe - the kind they use on the elephants at Mvuu Camp when they want to move them to another park.

But - enough about that. Dan and Donna Camm both came to bless these kids and everyone they came in contact with - and that’s just what they did. On a Saturday morning, Dan examines all 40 kids, while Donna - who has also worked in a dental office - takes notes on each child. Only a few of them have ever had their teeth checked.

They watch with nervous interest, counting aloud with Dan as he numbers each tooth. One of the girls has a large piece of metal jammed between her teeth. But the great majority of them have perfect teeth - white, strong and straight. They swear it’s the sugar cane - they claim that the tough fiber cleans and strengthens them.

Eight of the kids need more work than can be done at Hope Village. Thankfully, Francis - the dental therapist at ABC clinic - offers the use of his office to Dan. When Francis treated little Ireen back in June, I forwarded his list of much-needed equipment and supplies to Dan - who was able to bring everything requested and more. So Francis and his assistant, Annie, are more than willing to help us out.

Over the course of several days, Dan drills and fills, cleans and extracts (one older boy has eight extra teeth that have to come out) - until all the kids are done. He also fills a cavity for Francis, performs a root canal on one of the clinic nurses, and treats a man in our neighborhood who just shows up at the gate. Every patient is so grateful for his care - but I know that both Dan and Donna count it a privilege to be here.

During a two week period, they treat wounds, make sandwiches, teach literacy, play games and pass out hugs. Donna purchases dish towels, pot scrubbers and liquid dish soap - a simple act that brings such joy to the kids. Now they all want to do the dishes.

She also blesses a group of village women, giving needed supplies - but more importantly, giving herself. And like the other team members that came in June and July - the Camms left their mark in this place and returned home with full hearts and a new perspective on life.

But now Dan is gone and Bernard decides to have a loose tooth - and it hurts. He wants it out. I can’t find the hammer, so I wiggle and jiggle - and then call for my husband. I assure Bernard that Uncle Ken is the best tooth-puller in the world. I maintain that he pulled all of our kids’ teeth, even though Ken remembers it differently. No matter, I’m not pulling the child’s tooth. Like a good assistant, I stand at the ready - fresh gauze, orajel, and water cup in hand. A couple of good yanks dislodges the tooth, which we toss into a small ziplock bag for Bernard to take home.

A few minutes later, however, Bernard is outside trying to throw the bagged tooth onto the clinic roof. Wapu ( who also has perfect teeth and won’t let me forget it) explains the African version of the tooth fairy story: a child throws the extracted baby tooth onto the roof so the crows can find it - only then will the new tooth grow in. So this is a serious issue and Bernard looks worried. Several older boys join the effort, but the bag keeps fluttering back to the ground. I suggest they forget the bag and just toss the tooth. It is my final act as a dental assistant. And I mean final.

It’s been a while since my last post. We’ve had internet problems and/or electricity problems for the last week. But tonight the lights finally came back on - thanks to the electric company workers that spent all day working on the lines. The server came back up - thanks to the guys at Malawi Net. And the huge rat in the kitchen has gone to rodent heaven - thanks to the three amigos and their weapons of choice.

So we’re sitting here, enjoying the lights, watching a traditional dance program on TV Malawi (our sole station) - when Ken yells from the kitchen, “uh…Wapu?” Wapu runs into the kitchen and yells “Omali!” The next thing we hear is scuffle,scuffle, bang, thump, bang, scuffle -curiosity gets the best of me. Tentatively, I crack the kitchen door - all the cupboard doors are open and the guys are rustling bags in the storage room. The rat is no more; they’re checking to see if he brought friends. How big was it?, I ask. Thiiiiissssss BIG! The guys spread their hands wide - a little too wide.

I’ve seen alot of rodents lately - upclose and personal. In a word, mousekebabs - or “mbewa”, as they’re called here. These are mice that are gutted, boiled in salt water, then impaled on sticks - teeth, tail and hair included - and sold on the roadside for your convenience.

Not everyone likes mbewa, of course. The predominantly-muslim Yao tribe won’t touch them. But most of the village kids love mbewa - they hunt mice in the bush and consider it a good day when they’ve tucked a few away in their pocket. Now, I’m a vegetarian. If I wasn’t, the sight of mbewa would be enough to convert me. But then I’m a privileged westerner, with all the choices that go along with that. I can choose what to eat or what not to eat.

In the villages, hunger is real. If you live on one meal a day of nsima and greens - you eat for survival. When our kids come to Hope Village, they enjoy a heaping plate of chicken, beef or beans along with their nsima and vegetables. On other days, they are grateful for any food they can find.  It’s all a matter of perspective. The mega-rat that invaded our kitchen might be seen as a life-saving blessing in someone else’s house. I try to remember that when the mbewa-sellers come knocking.

But now it’s late and I’m heading to bed. Right after I close the kitchen door.

Though the kids have spotted airplanes high in the sky, they have never been to an airport. So when my husband recently arrived in Malawi, along with Dan and Donna Camm, we used it as an occasion for a special field trip. The kids have a choice between wearing their WVI t-shirts or their concert outfits - and they opt to dress up. So one day at Hope Village, we criss-cross rope from the school building, to the van, to the front gate. As we wash the clothes - a skirt, blouse, and headwrap for the girls and shirt and pants for the boys - I take care to keep them organized according to the name on the hanger. But as in most things here, everyone chips in to help - and soon Missi’s small pants hang next to Kondwelani’s shirt and I have no idea what belongs to who.

Piles of black shoes tumble out of tagged bags, and the kids take great care in cleaning them. It’s fun hearing the conversations as they work- stories abound.

“I hear if you hold your hand up to a plane as it’s taking off, you’ll stick to it. Planes are magnetic. It’ll pull you high into the sky.”

“I hear if you get too close, you’ll just get electrocuted.”

The stories worry the young ones, but everyone is willing to take the risk - they’re excited about the outing. At the end of the day, we have an incident to deal with, so we ask the older guys to gather the clothes from the line, neatly so as to avoid wrinkles, and put them in the van. We’ll take them home and touch them up, we think. Little did we know that by the time the clothes would make it to our house, every piece would be badly wrinkled, leaving us 200 pieces of clothing to iron.

Fortunately, some of the older guys come over to help. By the time they leave at 5pm, we still have 7 hours work ahead of us.

Yet by early morning all the clothes are basically wrinkle-free and we head to Hope Village to help the kids get ready. One by one they enter the gate - barefoot and many of them in rags. And one by one they change before our eyes. I sit on the clinic steps and place band-aids on every single heel, under the shoe - to make sure we have no blisters today. Thirty minutes later they cllmb on the bus, ready for anything. Loveness rides on the bus with Hana and me, and Joseph and Wapu take the van with several of the boys. On our bus, the kids sing all the way to the airport - about a 30 minute drive.

When we arrive at the airport, we meet all kinds of new challenges - public toilets, the stairs to the observation deck. The kids have never seen steep stairs and walk tentatively and carefully up and down them - slightly awkward in their stiff leather shoes. Once we reach the top, some of the braver ones edge their way to the railing. Others sit or stand safely behind a row of plastic chairs, watching the sky for the first sign of a plane in a slightly worried way.

We soon find out that it’s illegal to take pictures at the airport, so we can’t show you everything that happened. But the kids were so amazingly well-behaved - no fighting, no running around, People around them were amazed and kept asking about them. They wanted to hear them sing - but this wasn’t allowed either inside the airport. We’d have to move the party outside for that. But for now, a round of Fantas and Cokes and packages of biscuits make the wait more enjoyable.

The flight is an hour late, but in the meantime, the kids watch a Kenyan flight land. The little ones are relieved to find out that they don’t really stick to the plane like magnets. When our flight does land, Missi freaks out when it taxies down the run way and out of sight. Unaware that is will circle back. Missi cries “Uncle Ken just got here and he’s leaving again!?!” But finally they see him get off the plane with their soon-to-be friends, Dan and Donna, and started waving frantically. Even from a distance I can see the shock and delight on Ken’s face - he had no idea we were bringing all the kids to the airport.

As the passengers moved into passport control and customs, the kids navigate the stairs and position themselves in front of the exit door. As they wait patiently, people come to inquire: - “Is this Watoto? (an orphan choir from Uganda that tours the world”) No, I say - but they are an excellent choir. I keep pointing to Joseph and Loveness Masambuka - telling people that they are the Malawian directors. A woman waits an hour and half, video camera in hand, to hear the kids sing, but we are still waiting for Ken a(nd the guards watch us carefully to make sure we don’t burst into song.) His luggage actually arrived days before he did. And now he has to wait for someone to find the key to the lost luggage room. When a man does find the keys then he has to wait for the guy who has the authority to open the lost luggage room. They finally let him leave without his luggage and he plows into a sea of happy kids.

We move to the parking lot for a mini-concert of welcome - then we climb back on the bus and head back to Hope Village for chicken dinners. I’m thinking it would be a great idea for them to change before they eat, but they wear their beautiful outfits until the last possible minute. They are now stuffed back in bags, and will need to be washed, hung, and ironed before our tour to Monkey Bay in August. But it is worth every minute of work.

As the day comes to an end, we all sit on the grass together to worship and pray. The kids will have lots of stories to tell around the villages fires tonight. And Missi, who for weeks has been nursing an old burn wound to show Uncle Ken, will sleep well tonight - with a belly full of chicken and rice and the knowledge that the world is a little less dangerous than he had imagined.

July 16th is our wedding anniversary and this is not the first time we’ve celebrated it here in Africa. But today we make a special memory that we’ll never forget.

It starts as a normal day - early morning devotions and then the team heads off to the Hope Village school. I stay behind to blog -at least, that’s what I say. In truth, I call Wapu and him to sneak back & run me into town. I need to buy an anniversary gift for Ken. Let’s see - what are you supposed to buy for your 31st anniversary?

Wapu makes some excuse, shows up with Hana in tow and soon drops us at a favorite shop - “Things of Africa”. Claiming that he has an errand to run for his mother, Wapu promises to pick us up in 15 minutes. That will work, I think. A few minutes to choose a gift and still make it to Hope Village in time to collect the team after school ends.

An hour later, he finally returns.

Now, this in itself isn’t odd. Nor is the next thirty minutes of winding through unfamiliar streets. I’m distracted, reading a newspaper article about the political mess here in Malawi. When I look up, we’re in the villages. Osadandaula. Don’t worry - we’re taking a “back-way” to Hope Village, Wapu says. This must be a “back-back way” - we’re out in the bush..

But soon the landscape begins to look familiar. We spot a bright red shirt up ahead and recognize little Bernard running ahead of the van. Wapu invites him to jump in and now we’re on the back road to Hope Village. This in itself isn’t odd either - we often pick up kids . But today is Wednesday and this isn’t the orphan program afternoon- so I’m a bit confused.

We enter the Hope Village gate and everything is dead quiet. Loveness greets us and I apologize profusely to her and the team for our lateness. I have no qualms whatsoever about shifting the blame to her son and his penchant for shortcuts. Dan and Donna Camm - recently arrived team members from the USA - are planted in the clinic with my husband, Ken. I also apologize profusely to them and hope they’re not upset since we are now an hour and half late. No problem, they assure me.

We climb into the van and wait for Wapu and Hana, chatting about this and that, when Loveness comes and says - there’s something we need to talk about before you go. Nothing odd about this either. We follow her into the pre-school room which is completely empty - except for Bernard who, for some strange reason, is seated at a table alone. I don’t have time to think about this, or the fact that the tables are arranged in the standard meal formation. Because suddenly and without warning, a pile of sleeping mats against the back wall explodes and giggling kids tumble out from their hiding place. Happy anniversary! - they scream. This is the anniversary party of our dreams.

Apparently, this was a last minute plan - a night-before-freak-out between Hana and Wapu. After engaging Loveness’ help the next morning, Wapu and Hana drove through the villages, calling the kids, telling them the plan.

Apparently, while I waited patiently at “Things of Africa”, Wapu purchased bags of freshly-baked scones and sat in the van reading the newspaper. Back at Hope Village, Dan and Donna’s job was to keep Ken busy in the clinic. As tea boiled on an open fire in the kitchen, Loveness arranged the tables and snuck the kids in the gate a few at a time. The back-back-back route through the bush to Hope Village was just a ploy to give the kids time to arrive.

And arrive they have - miraculously. They were all busy in their villages when the news spread to come for a party. Mpelekanji was selling vegetables on the road and others were doing chores at home. But they dropped what they were doing - and they all came. Celebrating with milky tea and huge, delicious scones, we told the kids it was an Irish day - cold weather, gray sky, tea and scones.

Hana presents gifts to us: rings made of hippo tooth - to remind us to be faithful to our vows; a carved figurine - to remind us of Africa; and a village picture made of matchsticks - from the kids. They all rush to sign the back of the picture, leaving their mark in one way or another - spidery signatures and grimy fingerprints. They spill into the yard and begin the jump-rope games - boys and girls alike. We marvel at their strength and they marvel at Ken, who surprises them - and himself - with his jumping prowess.

We end the afternoon early so they can return to their chores - so as not to upset their guardians. But before they go they sing for us - both the older and younger choirs. And then they pray - hands extended toward us, eyes clenched tight, voices raised to heaven.

I peek. I confess - I always do. I love to watch them pray.

I know they can’t begin to comprehend a marriage that lasts this long. None of them have a father. Most of them have lost both of their parents to disease or indifference - the father leaves, the mother remarries, moves away, and can’t take the children into to new marriage. (The kids have asked us if parents in our country have bad fights and then abandon their children.) They are basically raising themselves when they are not inside our gate. But here they see something different in Joseph and Loveness, Petros and Grace, Wapu, Fally, Tamanda - and the host of volunteers that come to love them, like Dan and Donna Camm.

As I watch their sincere faces, I pray for a different future - real love, in til-death-do-us-part marriages. I know that everything is against them - it will take a miracle. But we serve a supernatural God. Ken and I are living proof of that.

When I think about our thirty-one-year journey - the ups and the downs, the mistakes and sin, the joys and the deep disappointments, the children lost and children rescued - I wouldn’t change a minute of it. It has made us who we are. And all of it has led us here - to this beautiful place, this beautiful African family, these beautiful kids - together with one mind and heart.

As the prayer ends, the children rush us for hugs and kisses, some circulating through the line twice. Like I said - this is the anniversary party of our dreams. Thanks to Hana, Wapu, Loveness, Grace, Dan and Donna - and all the children, young men and young women of Hope Village. We will always remember this wonderful day!

Life feels more fragile here. Maybe it isn’t, but it feels that way.

While watering the bushes at Hope Village, one of the older boys accidentally knocked a baby bird to the ground with a spray of water. Instantly the little kids grabbed for it. Within seconds, a pack of children were chasing this tiny little thing around the yard as I looked on - horrified at what I saw as a lack of respect for life. Wapu quickly provided the perfect refuge for it to dry out in safety - a rusty bucket placed out of reach, in the sun. The kids quickly forgot about it and went back to their legos and jump-ropes. I watched them, thinking about their behavior.

As orphans, the world they live in can be harsh. They complain often of beatings received for minor infractions at home. One of our girls limped into Hope Village last week. A drunk man threw a brick at her foot for no apparent reason. A 6-year-old boy was crushed when, as he put it, “a mean man” stole his red “worldview africa” bracelet and tossed it up on the roof of a house.

The kids also boast of beatings given or planned. If they’re too small to beat anyone up, they kick the nearest dog. (I think all the African dogs flinch when a human gets close to them.) Before a field trip last year to Senga Bay, little Missi remarked that he would find the biggest monkey and beat it with a big stick. During a day on the new land, the boys delighted to show me the mice they had caught and killed - and stuffed in their pockets.They regularly hunt mice and rats in the bush, smashing their skulls before impaling them on sticks. Then they boil them and roast them over a fire.

So what makes a baby bird different?

The kids are equally tough on each other. We spend a good amount of our time figuring out who started what and who did what to whom. When so much pain is pent up, the slightest brush brings out the anger and the tears. Yesterday, two of our 14 year old boys came to us with a problem - two girls in the program were mocking them in the village for attending literacy classes at Hope Village. The girls said they were fools to come since they could only do first grade work. The villagers lapped up this information and the cruelty and widespread mockery began. It got so bad the night before that they had to seclude themselves. This news was hard to hear, because we know the boys are ashamed that they can’t read. We’ve watched the tears fall from sheer frustration when no one else is around to see. But the fact that they even came to us is a miracle. Two years ago they just would have handled it with their fists. But instead we had an honest conversation and at the end, the two girls asked forgiveness and the boys actually forgave them. And still showed up for literacy class - still struggling to recognize letters, but rejoicing each time they get one right.

The truth is they all laugh at each other. The boy who can barely read the word “cat” laughs at the boy who doesn’t know the letter “C”. But we’re trying to help them see themselves and each other differently. To treat each other with respect and gentleness - a hard thing to do when you’ve known so little of this in your own life. And we’re trying to help them see their own world differently - the incredible beauty of Africa, the stunning sunsets, the rugged mountains, the vibrant flowers and spreading trees.

And even tiny birds in need of a helping hand.

The schools close today to observe Malawi’s 44th Independence Day. The way the kids tell it, it’s the day they got their land back from the thieves who stole it. (That would be the British.) Anyway - the kids are free, so we plan a full day of activities at Hope Village. Naomi, a volunteer from Minnesota, and Hana stay up late the night before cooking stovetop popcorn - otherwise known as” chimanga popos” - for 50 people. In the early morning, we gather paper plates, napkins, biscuits and candy, along with materials for crafts and games - and head to Hope Village, Where we soon discover that we’ve forgotten the keys. This is a huge bunch of keys - for the clinic, the medicine storeroom, the guest room, the kitchen, the school office, the school rooms, the chapel. You’d think they’d be hard to miss.

Anyway,as Wapu winds his way back through the village and returns home to find them, the boys haul the tables out - and I jimmie the school office window until it pops open. Jailos and Hana crawl through the window and begin to hand out supplies - puzzles, books, blocks and legos, construction paper, rulers, crayons and markers. The youngest children dive for the legos, but everyone else wants to draw pictures. They don’t have access to paper, crayons, or colored pencils at home - it’s a luxury. Many of them draw Malawi flags, others draw mud houses or action figures. One boy draws a Bible and as we praise him, we overlook the spelling error - “Hory Bible”. Rs and Ls are easily confused here.

When the sun is high in the sky, we move the tables inside the cool walls of the church. We pass out bags of popcorn, biscuits and cups of Sobo - a drink concentrate that the kids love. After a short break, the kids go back to their activities - some of the boys work on their baskets, others do puzzles. Donna spends her time playing the ABC game with the older boys and tending a variety of boo-boos in the clinic, while Naomi, Hana, Wapu and Omali play with the kids. I open the bag of plastic letters and dump them on a table - an act that immediately draws a crowd of girls. As I call out the letter - “show me an E” - they dive in head first, scrambling and scratching, grabbing from each other. It’s more of a rugby scrum and I just hope noone gets hurt before lunch arrives.
To avoid cooking on a holiday, we decide to introduce the kids to pizza. We know that it’s a bit of a risk - since they live on nsima, nsima, nsima. (which is sort of like stiff corn grits). But they all seem willing to venture into the unknown. So we strike a deal with a local restaurant for 14 large pizzas - and they guarantee us a discount. No problem! Just call a half-hour ahead and 30 minutes later the discounted pizzas will be waiting for pick-up.

We follow instructions. Wapu calls it in and then takes off to get the pizza at the right time. We knew this would leave us with 40 children and no translator, but we weren’t worried. We’ve learned the important phrases: “Osamenyana!” - don’t fight. “Osalira!” - don’t cry. “Mukhale okoma mtima” - be kind. When all else fails, I just yell ” IWE!” - which translated, simply means “you”. But I’ve noticed that with the right tone of voice, this word stops everyone in their tracks.

And of course, the pizzas aren’t ready for pick-up and they aren’t discounted, but they finally arrive along with cases of cold Fanta and Coke. The kids are seated at the tables, wiggling in anticipation. Some look a little dubious. Edwin says he wants to vomit and Missi opts for biscuits - but everyone else loves the the pizza and asks for seconds.

Next, we head outside for some group games - and it turns into a riot of joy. We introduced two new things today - pizza and water balloons. It’s a toss up as to which they loved most - but the water balloons are a huge hit. we try forming 4 circles and passing the balloon to each other - but this is too tame. Instead they opt for throwing the balloons high in the air and crowding the center to see who it will drench. At the end of the day, most of us are soaked through.

When we exhaust our supply of water balloons we move to three-legged races.
With cries of “anyamata!!!!” (boys) and “atsikana!!!!” (girls) - the contest turns into a gender war. We tie their legs with gauze bandage, but the older kids opt for jump-ropes. A cry of “ready, set , go!” - along with a piercing whistle, sends them flying in all directions, often tumbling in a heap.

We raise the stakes and move on to one- on-one sack races. (Because of the harvest, we could only find one empty maize sack -so we used a seat cushion cover.) I don’t think I’ve ever seen kids jump this high and this fast. At the end of the day, we call it a draw between the boys and girls - and everyone is content.

As dusk draws near, we sit together on the grass, as each child and young person expresses their gratitude to God. Edwin says he’s grateful that Uncle Ken is coming and he’s grateful for pizza. Missi says he’s grateful that he’s alive and for biscuits. One by one, they thank God for big things, like protection from the witches, and for little joys - like Fanta. They thank God that they have sleeping mats and new blankets - one boy thanks God that we’re going to Lake Malawi next month. The kids have never seen Lake Malawi. They thank God for each of us by name and for people who give so they can live. They all thank God for Hope Village - which is truly a place of hope to them.

And today it has been a place of incredible joy.

Baba walked into the clinic the other day wearing a pair of glasses he snuck out of a supply bag. Everything was a blur, but he thought he looked intelligent. But Baba doesn’t need anything to make him look intelligent- he just is. We can see it in the way he plays and interacts with the other kids. And every day, in the Hope village pre-school, Baba has all the answers - whether you call on him or not.

All of the children in the Hope Kids program are so clever. Some of them are witty conversationalists, some are natural leaders, and others are talented musicians. Through our summer photography project, we’ve identified a couple of kids with artistic gifts. And many are just good with their hands - if they see it, they can make it.

But, as I’ve written before, many of our older kids are not educated, which seriously limits their future options. ( Currently the Hope Village School only goes up to grade 3). Their life circumstances have caused them to grow up too fast, but we’ve watched tough guys giggle like little kids when given the opportunity to learn in creative ways.

Twelve of the kids ranging in age from 9-15 currently come to Hope Village twice weekly to learn their ABCs -along with phonics. While most of them can “sing” their ABCs, we soon realized that most couldn’t identify them. So with the help of refrigerator magnets sent in from the States, we’ve turned it into a game that everyone can succeed at - eventually. Yesterday, Kondwelani identified every letter we gave to him. One of the other boys struggled badly, but still thought the game lots of fun. On his 12th try he finally picked up the right letter - and everyone clapped for him.

They are also learning to write their letters - a painstaking process, but one that is rewarded with hugs and colorful stickers. It would be hard to imagine a 15 year old in the west beaming with pride over his very own sharpened pencil and a simple orange star stuck into a new copy book.

But it’s easy to take things for granted in the west - like a good education, with textbooks for each child, committed & well-trained teachers, athletics, music and art class, clean toilets - as well as safe passage to and from a beautiful school building on comfortable buses. Or something as simple as a pair of shoes or a shirt without holes to wear to school. One boy told us he couldn’t go to school because he was too ashamed of his unwashed clothes - he had no soap.

The kids who attend the Hope Village English tutoring class (which meets at the same time as the literacy class) show up no matter what. Not always on time, mind you - remember they tell time by the length of their shadows and a cloudy day throws everything off. But they love the class, they love the fact that they have real books to read, and flash cards, and teachers that really care about them. We are challenging all of the kids to dream big: why not plan to attend secondary school? The fees are not a problem - we can support them through Chifundo’s Basket. And if they can go that far, then why not college? This is more than any of them can begin to imagine - especially the girls and the older boys who dropped out of school years ago.

Of course, there are many that will not go any further with a formal education. They will learn a good trade - something that will enable them to make a living. And, God willing, they will know how to read and write so that, someday, they can help their own children with school work.

With God, anything is possible.