"O My Soul, Faint Not."

"O my soul, faint not, faint not." 

Strong words from some of my favorite artists, Jenny & Tyler. The words from this song (and their whole album for that matter) helped get me through a trip that not only tested my faith in God, but own personal values and future. There is so much I could say about my time in the refugee camp in East Africa, but to sum it up, there wasn't enough time.

One look at the faces of people hurting, starving, dying and it's enough to make you want to weep. But to live amongst them, to walk the path they walk is something I could never do. Yet there was happiness. There was joy. And there was laughter. Yes, there was heartache and death in a place where hope is not even familiar, but there was life. Mothers with their children, children with their laughter, and one white girl in a sea of hurting.

"Oh my soul keep up, keep up in love."

Listen to Faint Not by Jenny & Tyler

P.S. If you are in the Dallas area stop by Crooked Tree Coffee House where many of these photos and the stories that accompany them are hanging on the wall. And if you make it in, be sure to tweet me @jessicalee2819

Holding on to Hope: Meet Fatixya

As we went back to our hotel and I found myself alone in the silence, I began wondering what I was doing here. Had I come in vain? These thoughts danced around in my mind as I fell asleep waiting for another day...another day of heartache.

As we drive around the city our guarded guides take us to another camp. You can imagine that in a place where visitors are scarce, news travels fast that we have come. People emerge from their paper tents. Crowds start to form as they look for a sign of hope. Children start to laugh and gaze in anticipation. And my heart begins to get too close to my chest.

I meet a family on the other side of the barbed wire. I can't seem to find a way in so I'm stuck, once again, as an outsider from their world. I ask her name. "Fatima," she responds in a quiet voice. Through my translator I begin to find out that she is the grandmother of the seven kids all huddled up next to her. Her daughter was one of the lucky ones to be picked for the distribution. I begin making faces at the kids, probing them for laughs, when I notice a young woman in a bright pink head-dress. She seems to know the family and I found it it's Fatima's niece, Fatixya.

Fatixya comes over eager to hear what's going on. She politely answers my questions as I learn she is 27 years old and only arrived in the refugee camp 3 weeks prior. She told us how she has 2 children and her husband divorced her. She has walked days just to get to a place that offers not much more hope than from where she came. I notice that Fatixya is pregnant. She looks down at her covered round belly and says, "Yes. I am 8 months pregnant. I am in a lot of pain."

Knowing there are no hospitals or doctors on call in the forsaken place, I ask her where she plans to have her child. She looks over her left shoulder at the camp across the street, "in my tent." My heart breaks, and tears begin to well up. But I notice something strange. She isn't crying, she isn't sad, and in fact, she's almost laughing. She has a beautiful smile across her face. I ask Hassan, my translator, why is she smiling.

He asks her, looks back at me, and says something I will never forget, "She is happy because you are interested about her."

I bow my head, part in prayer, and part in shame. My heart pounding, my eyes blurry, my head spinning, what am I to do with that? I look up at Fatixya and smile. She may be smiling because I want to hear her story, but I'm smiling because she gave me hope. Hope for her people, hope for their openness to one day escape the heartache of war, famine, oppression, lifelessness. Hope that when I go back home to my cozy bed and all you can eat buffets that I will no longer be stagnant. Hope that her story can change the hearts of our Western comforts. Hope that one day I will return and bring Good News that they so desperately need to hear. Until then I smile. Because in our smiles holds a thousand words. It holds hope. It holds love, and most importantly it holds the truth of something greater. That when times are tough we continue to press on. We strive to fight and push back the darkness. And whether we are fighting in refugee camps in Africa or the suburbs of small towns, there is darkness everywhere, and we must fight.

While I only spent a few minutes with Fatixya it was enough to change my world. I glanced over my shoulder to answer a question from one of my colleagues, and by the time I turned back around she was gone. I had my camera in hand, planning on how to take Fatixya's portrait, but now she was gone. No one could find her,  but I did happen to snap one photo of her  before we talked. It was all I had left of that conversation, but it was all I needed.

First Steps

The air was dusty. Before I even stepped out of the Land Rover I could feel the sand in my shoes and in my clothes. It was dry, just like the rest of the country. In a place where turmoil had reared it's ugly head for so long, it seemed as if the ground had begun to mimic the ways of it's people.

My heart was in my chest. Partly because there were men surrounding us with AK-47s and partly because the people we were visiting were so beautiful, and yet so lost. As our guards ushered us into the first camp we began to separate. I, and my translator kicked the dust around as we slowly shifted in and out of the tents. There was a man lying in a tent, bones sticking out of his dark skin. He was too weak to stand, and probably wouldn't make it past the end of the week.

My colleagues wanted me to take a photo, I figured it was better to move on and lift up a silent prayer. I wasn't there to get a Nat Geo image, I was there to listen. To hear the cry of the people and understand, if even for just a second, a glimpse into their hearts. I wanted to try and open up my calloused heart just long enough to cry with them and love them. But it was already time to go. Anyplace longer than 30 minutes was too long. We had to watch our steps carefully, and trust no one.

As a mom rushed up to me with her baby boy I began to feel my heart explode. The child was sick, his skin was rotting off and his mom just looked at me and begin repeating something. My translator tried to explain but it was if time stopped. Sound bounced off my ears and all I could do was cry out to my God and pray for this little sweet child. A child born into chaos, war, famine, and a place void of true love. I choked back the tears as I touch his little hand. Our guards ushered us out as quickly as they ushered us in.

What now I thought? What could I possibly ever do to help? These questions have a way of keeping me up at night. Wondering, praying, crying, wanting to know why I am not doing more. But for now I have to play my part. I have to play the part God has given me for this moment. So if that means sitting in an office developing ways for our in-country partners to be more effective, then so be it. Because it's one step at a time. As God opens a door, I must be faithful to follow.