Here’s a slideshow of the children at Hope Village and the volunteers who traveled from the USA this summer to work with WVI’s orphan care program. You’ll see photos of the summer events - literacy and tutoring classes, music rehearsals, the photography project, feeding, making nutritious, homemade peanut butter, game days, outings & the purchase of tons of maize for the months ahead.

The  music track is a worship song entitled “Child of God” by Kathryn Scott - from the CD “Hungry”. When I wrote asking her permission to use it, she responded immediately - and generously. ( Thank you,  Kathryn.)

Enjoy the beautiful faces of the children of Malawi. ( or for better quality, view it directly on youtube.)

Technically, it’s called a high performance blender - which is a bit like calling Michelangelo a house painter.

I started using the machine itself a few years back when my dad was diagnosed with cancer. As he suffered through chemotherapy and his appetite waned, we made delicious whole-food juices and hot soups. Next to prayer, it was the best way we could help. According to their website - “Vita Mix processing breaks open the cell walls to release maximum nutrition from whole foods, more than you can get any other way.” Maximum nutrition - that sounds good to someone fighting to regain their health and strength.

This year, the CEO of Vita Mix, John Barnard, donated a custom-made machine for Hope Village Malawi to help the children in our home-based orphan care program. These children come to Hope Village a few times a week. On Saturdays, they eat a hot meal of nsima, chicken or beans, and vegetables.

Mid-week, they eat biscuits, fruit, and peanut butter sandwiches. On the days that the children eat in their villages, food is often scarce. Breakfast is out of the question. Those who are lucky enough to attend school, work on empty bellies. At lunch time, they may have nsima and a small amount of boiled okra for dipping. Usually, dinner is the same. Sometimes the children eat only once a day, other times, not at all. One boy told us that they have gone as long as three days and nights in the village without food. To combat this, WVI recently bought 4 tons of maize, which will be portioned out in weekly amounts for the children to take home. The problem is, there are alot of mouths to feed at home. And as orphans, they are at the bottom of the pecking order.

The other problem is when the children do have something to eat, it is not necessarily nutritious. Some of my Malawian friends swear that nsima is one of the most nutritious foods in the world - and personally, I happen to love it. But the truth is, nsima made from maize flour and water is high in carbohydrates and not much else to grow healthy young bodies and minds. But you make the most out of what you have.

And this is where the Vita Mix machine comes in. To make the most of our midweek meals, we decided to produce homemade peanut butter. At first, the boys were a bit skeptical - groundnuts need to be pounded into flour, putting your whole back and strong arms into it.

How could this little machine do the same thing? But they decided to humor us and give it a try - Malawi style. Which means, everything is done in community, making the work easier - and much more fun.

We started out with a trip to the village market to buy fresh groundnuts. The harvest wasn’t great this year due to disappointing rains, but groundnuts are still easy to find and fairly inexpensive.

Back at Hope Village, some of the kids shell the nuts, and others start the fire. Pan after pan of nuts is roasted, then dumped steaming hot into a flat basket where the paper-thin skins are rubbed off.

Next the boys take turns - under close supervision - using the Vita Mix. They watch with wonder, as the nuts are ground into a thick, creamy butter. They can’t believe it when the peanut butter comes out warm. They really can’t believe it when we tell them that you can make hot soup and frozen ice cream in the same machine.

As they scoop the finished product into clean jars, the boys lick their fingers, the container,and lastly the spoons - declaring it the most delicious peanut butter they have ever tasted. And, of course, wishing that they had nisma to go with it.

They start thinking like the young business men they are - or that they have to be to survive. Let’s see… 4 full jars from one batch of peanuts - how much did it cost for each jar? What else can this little machine do? What else could we make?

They want to start a business. And who knows? They just might.

But for today, we’re just thrilled that children who are hungry - like little Missi - will have a healthy meal, chock full of protein and vitamins and minerals. Thank you Vita Mix Corporation!

NOTE: All pictures, except for the Vita Mix machine, Dorika pounding groundnuts, and Missi with the balloon, were taken by 13-year-old Greshan - a young man in our orphan care program. Greshan participated in the photography project this summer. Like all the children, this was his first time to use a camera. To see more of Greshan’s photos, go to http://www.flickr.com/photos/22877141@N02/sets/72157607293173109/

Greshan, the photographer, roasting corn for his younger brother, Bernard.

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.

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.

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.

After the usual delay through Ethiopia, the WVI team arrived safely this past week. Some of the suitcases and trunks arrived ahead of them, some lagged behind, but at the end of the day all of the supplies made it through. The Hope Kids have been waiting for one very important item - their new WorldView International t-shirts. To them a t-shirt is more than just a piece of clothing. People show their loyalties here by dressing in matching materials, colors, or shirts. Choirs dance through the villages in uniform outfits, shops sell various tribal cloths, political rallies are either seas of pale blue or vibrant yellow, depending on the party. So when the children wear matching shirts, it shows that they are part of something.

When we distribute the shirts at Hope Village they sit on the ground in an orderly fashion, waiting for their name to be called. But after the last child is fitted, the excitement can no longer be contained. The boys play a game of standing leap-frog - jump over each others’ shoulders, standing at full height. (If he had been born in other circumstances, one of our older boys could be a gymnast - it’s unreal how high he can jump.) The little boys play with new soccer balls and the girls play a wild, high-jumping game with their new jump ropes.

Then lunch is served - a delicious meal of chicken, nsima, and cabbage prepared by Loveness Masambuka and her daughter Fally. Little Missi - forever the realist - removes his shirt to avoid a mess. Other kids cover them with chitenzes, or old shirts.

After the meal, the kids take responsibility for the clean-up - as they always do. The girls and the boys take turns - today the boys are in charge of the dishes. Gresham and Vuja slip last year’s shirts over the red ones as they scrub the huge nsima pot with a mixture of crushed brick and soil.

The rest of the afternoon passes with choir rehearsal, craft time, fluteaphone classes, photography lessons, along with visits to the clinic, bandaids and hugs, worship and prayer. When they finally leave at dusk, in group of 3 or 4, the vibrant colors stand out against the grays and browns of the village. We can see them far into the distance in their bright red shirts and big smiles.

It’s such a little thing, a t-shirt. But when you have so little, a new shirt is a precious gift. Especially a beautiful red shirt with the continent of Africa emblazoned on the front.

Especially a shirt that says you’re part of a real family.

If you would like to help care for the children of Hope Village Malawi, contact WorldView International at info@worldviewinternational.org. 100% of every dollar contributed to our orphan program, Chifundo’s Basket, goes directly to the children of Africa.

On a good day it takes 6 hours to drive the road to the village of Anjabetrongo from the nearest city, Toliare. On a bad day, it takes 10 1/2 hours for the 62 km trek. That’s 10 1/2 hours to travel 38 miles - definitely a day to remember.

First, there’s the rental car. No one who owns a decent car wants to risk sending it into this deep, thorny forest. So we’re grateful to find any car, let alone a decent one. As usual, a polite driver comes with the vehicle - in case it breaks down.

Secondly, we pack it up and weigh it down.
On top of the vehicle we have metal roofing sheets, table and chairs for the new clinic, bed frames, large containers of gasoline, spare tires, and one lonely duffle bag - mine. Into the worn interior we cram water, food, backpacks and sacks, pots and pans, and other miscellaneous supplies - including 50 blankets in plastic wrappers. Add 7 adults, 3 children and one guitar in a car that seats 5 and you have the makings of an interesting journey.

Did I mention that the driver chain smokes?

And then there are the roadside security checkpoints. This is where a rifle-toting man waves down your vehicle for no apparent reason. At one stop a policeman pokes his head through the back window, notes that we are badly overcrowded, and informs us that his friend needs a ride to the next town. There is no room but, if we want to keep moving, we have no choice. So we jam another body into the back and we’re on our way.

At the next checkpoint, the price of forward movement is a Bible for the security guard - a bribe we don’t mind paying. But as long as the vasaha ( that’s me - the lily white foreigner who turns pink in the sun) has a valid passport and the front-seat passengers (that’s not me) are wearing seat belts, we can usually proceed.

Well, we could proceed if our tire wasn’t flat.
But it is, so we pull to the side of the road.

It’s not easy to change a flat tire when the car is so loaded down.
Nor is it easy when we get stuck on a log in the middle of the bush in pitch darkness.
But shortly after, villagers wrapped in colorful blankets appear out of nowhere to help us get unstuck.

I am freezing cold (yes, winter nights are cold in Madagascar) - but my duffel bag is strapped next to the gasoline jug on top and there is no way to get it down. Yes, we do have 50 blankets, but they are gifts for our friends in the Mikea Forest. So I shiver, and I shake, and I listen to the men argue about the right way to get unstuck.

The children are amazing - they either sleep or sing - but they never fuss. My Malagasy partners, Jonoro and Hanitra, and the young men traveling with us just keep smiling and singing.

I love my friends.
And I love these people who are so willing to help stranded travelers late at night.

But I hate this car.

An hour later we’re on our way - heading yet deeper into the bush and deeper into the night. I’m still shivering, but the sleeping child on my lap provides some warmth. I’m lost in the beauty of a star-filled sky when suddenly, I’m shaken out of my reverie by a thunk, a clunk and a sharp swerve to a complete stop.

Outside my window sits a wheel.
And not just any wheel.
No, it’s the wheel that has just fallen off the broken axle of the car that I hate.
“Tsmisy ulanana,” the driver says - “no problem, we have a spare axle.”
And with the patience of a saint, he once again slides under the car.
Note to self: never rent a car that needs to carry a spare axle.

When we finally pull into the village of Anjabetrongo long after midnight, I’m still smiling but I’m chilled to the bone. Pulling on every piece of clothing I have with me, I climb inside a sleeping bag, and shiver myself into a fitful sleep. I’m no warmer when I wake at dawn, so I head outside to stand by the fire - still layered in clothes and wrapped in a blanket.

This is when reality hits me and my perspective shifts.
Standing by the fire is a group of children - several of them are nearly naked. They are not immune to the cold - just the opposite. One little boy shakes as if he’s having convulsions. All of their noses are running, their eyes are infected, their lungs are infected. They have no duffle bag filled with warm clothes. They have no sleeping bag, no blanket. I try to imagine how they sleep through the night shivering naked on the cold ground. I want to give away my blanket, but there are too many children. (I nearly caused a riot in this village once with a few inflatable beach balls!) But we have to find a way to help the vulnerable children.

One of the Malagasy pastors strums the guitar that took up so much room in the crowded car. He begins to sing a praise song and heaven touches earth in this desolate, desperate place. The children smile at me and suddenly I’m not cold anymore.

Getting here is never easy - but it’s worth it.

At this moment, there is no place I would rather be.