"She is a... Black American"

Recently, some sweet friends have encouraged me to write. I abandoned my last “blog” almost as quickly as I had commenced it, noticing my tendency to blog in sorrow rather than in praise. That, coupled with a disbelief that people would even care to read what I have to say. I am not the most eloquent or the most fascinating. With every social media avenue at our fingertips, there is not much mystery left to the imagination. We make a habit of condensing our lives into 140 characters for our little world to follow. There is so much more to be said. Something inside of me whispered, “Write about what brings you joy.” So here goes. Every period, comma, semi-colon will, more than likely, not be in place. But that’s okay. After all, this really isn’t my story to begin with… This fall marks three years knowing and loving the Shiloh refugees. There is so much that could be said, so many stories to be told, and I hope to document them all in the coming months… right here. Some stories may be from 3 years ago, and some may be from 3 hours ago. There are still so many of them that I do not know well enough, that I do no do justice to. Sundays have always been my favorite days. Getting the privilege to worship freely, hug my sweet friends, and be poured into by Tall Man [my pastor, Robbie]. Recently, there has been so many more reasons to love Sundays. They have become the days that I spend with Emmanuel, Rosatta, and their 4 kids. They are from Rwanda/Tanzania, they met in a refugee camp and fell in love. Emmanuel was a Pastor and a teacher in Rwanda before the genocide. He would preach to thousands about his Savior. I will explain his story in depth in another entry.

This past Sunday, I was sitting on the floor of their living room – tickling Bosco, taking silly pictures, and trying to get Christella [who has Brittle Bone Disease] to smile. Rosatta would sing in Kirundi and I would close my eyes and [even in a different language], I could just hear the praises she was lifting up to the Lord. There is no place I’d rather be. We don’t speak the same language, but somehow we understand each other very well. Rosatta mostly laughs and will hug you so tight that you truly stop breathing for a second. Emmanuel came in and I caught up on his week, his new job, and the happenings around Shiloh. He told me about a girl that moved in above their apartment.

“She is a… black American…”, he said. “Oh, is she nice?”, I asked. “No, she is very loud. Drinking. Drugs. Alcohol. Fighting. Men come in, they go out… sometimes for $5 or $10.” “Are you saying she sleeps with them for money? For $5?” “Yes. I am sure she has HIV. She came here. Asking me.” I left with a sick feeling in my stomach. Honestly, I’ve never seen prostitution this “close to home” before. In other countries, yes. Not that I was blind to the reality, it was always something I knew happened… just never so close. My heart aches for this girl, and I have been in prayer for her since Sunday. Praying that the Lord would guide my naïve steps, to show me how to love her. To not let fear keep me from serving her. To take my brokenness and my fear and let it be used by His strength. Will you, my friends, join me in praying? I don’t know her name [yet], but I will meet her this weekend. selah