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This is Congo

Last month, Brenda, the field coordinator for Heart for Central Africa, gave Ray the keys to her Nissan and said it was his. It had been Brenda’s husband’s and hasn’t been driven since his death four years ago. Ray was a very happy camper!

He and Mulonda, our #2 fundi (expert), as we call him, worked on it for days, trying to get it running again. Discovering it needed a foot of fuel line, Ray and Jean Pierre, another team member who helps with all things concerning the mission, went to the more “industrial” part of town to visit the many tiny little stores there and hopefully find some fuel line.

They went through more than dozen “stores,” which are really 4-by-5-foot mini junkyards, selling anything you can imagine, but found nothing. They went on to the larger stores that sell more new parts. No one had anything even close to what they needed. A passerby overheard them, and unbeknownst to them, went looking himself, eventually finding a used piece of hose the right size diameter. Where from? No one knew. He wanted four dollars for it, but Ray was looking for a new hose. Surely, in a city of many vehicles, there must be a new one somewhere!

They went on to the main street in town, which rose steeply uphill, to the more organized stores. Once again, Ray and JP trudged from one to another. When they got to the last one, the owner said, “Yes, I have it! But I’ll have to send someone to my ‘warehouse’ to get it.” After fifteen minutes of waiting, Jean Pierre asked the store owner, ”Just how far is this place?” The owner said it was close and his man would be right back. Another half hour went by, and the young man returned with a fuel line in his hand!

Drumroll, please. It was the same fuel line Ray had refused to buy for four dollars from the man at the bottom of the hill. The owner said, “I’m sorry, I don’t have a new one.” But he would willingly sell Ray this used one for five dollars!

Realizing this was clearly the only hose in the entire city, Ray intelligently decided to buy it! When he said five dollars was too much to pay for a used piece of hose, the owner simply replied, “This is Congo.”

So in the end, Ray paid four dollars for a hose he could have bought for four dollars an hour earlier! And an errand he thought would take half an hour actually took close to three hours. Later that same day, Mulonda and Ray installed the hose, and within minutes the sound of a running vehicle assailed our ears, along with wide smiles and great rejoicing!

This (really) IS Congo!

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Culture differences? You bet!

  

What is fast food in Congo? Only what you bring with you: Spam, crackers, and Manchego cheese, plus local eggs, were what we ate for the first few days as we all had just arrived from the States. As you read in my previous post, the time came to shop for more and begin to fill the larder. I was game to go with Chantal, our kitchen worker extraordinaire, to see just what was available in THE store, yes, only one, grocery store in a town of 4 million. What fun! Heinz ketchup ($11.50), a teeny can of corned beef ($3.85), four-berry jam ($6), a pound of BlueBand margarine ($4.40), and a small can of Nido, canned dried full cream milk powder, the only way milk is available ($4.80).

The open market

These were delightful finds. But we found ourselves in a pickle straightaway. We had to drop off our baskets before entering the store. When we checked out, the checkers began the process of calling out what was on the receipt and matching each item to it one by one, putting everything in a large cardboard box. They taped it up securely, forgetting to use the baskets we came with. Chantal then put the very heavy box on her head (!) and we walked to the open market without remembering to pick up the baskets.

The open market is another kettle of fish altogether. This is where local people buy food: fresh veggies of many kinds, fruits, live chickens, dead fish, and more, all on long tables in narrow aisles with many people vying to get your attention. The market, or soko, is a place where people connect with each other while arguing over prices. When Chantal finished buying, we both realized we had no baskets to put our veggies in. There was a mountain of spinach, onions, green beans, potatoes, carrots, and more, and we were at a loss about what to do. No, grocery bags are not an available commodity.

Chantal asked me if I felt comfortable staying there with the box of groceries while she ran back to the grocery for our forgotten baskets. I said, “No problem.” The soko had not been a comfortable place for me thirty years ago, but now it all seemed different—the people interesting, the bantering fun—and I was not intimidated by the language or my lack of it. (I did have the thought that someone else was in my body and where had I gone?) Clearly, I had changed over the years.

As I waited, a very old man sitting nearby hollered at someone to bring a chair. Really? I thought. Sure enough, a young man appeared, carrying a chair over the heads of all, and set it down as though it was a throne, and I, a queen. It was a battered old wooden folding chair, and I wasn’t sure it would hold me, but I was not about to refuse their kind gesture, so I sat.

The man who guarded me and my groceries as I waited for Chantal to return.

As if I were a queen holding court, the men, young and old, came by to chat, smile, laugh and greet me, shake my hand and maybe ask for a photo to be taken. One mature gentleman, in particular, came by often, speaking French, which I told him I did not understand. However, I understood a little. He had a twinkle in his eye, and I knew what he was saying. He was teasing me, wanting to get to know me better. Oh, brother! Eventually, switching to Swahili, he said he loved me! I laughed uproariously and said, “Bongo, yako,” which, loosely speaking, means “You are a liar” or “You’re nuts!” but in fun. The old man next to me also laughed heartily and gave me a thumbs-up.

When Chantal returned, it was clear she had been worried about me. But I assured her I was fine. And I was! It had been a fun experience, and I had communicated without intimidation. I thanked the old man for guarding our box of groceries—and me—gave him some local currency for his help, and we walked out, caught a taxi and rode home. I was undaunted and feeling rather good.

Our favorite veggie seller. We buy green peppers, carrots, and spinach from him regularly.

It was truly a cultural experience that made its mark on me in a positive way, a good introduction to life in Congo with very different traditions. Serious jet lag and exhaustion had an iron grip on both Ray and me, but in spite of that, culture shock, as yet, did not. Little did I know that it would come soon enough.

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We Arrive – and Eat

After two days’ travel by air and on land, in vans and on foot, we arrived at the border of  Rwanda and the Congo. The river Ruzizi is the border.  A bridge spans the waters, the only way to enter Congo in this province. It is old and rickety, with loose or missing boards, some higher than others, and a bit tricky to navigate. Nationals walk briskly across, sometimes barefoot, with heavy loads on their heads or backs. After officially exiting Rwanda, we walked slowly across, keeping our eyes riveted on the boards, not the rushing water below. Well, that was me at least. Behind us walked many men, each one paid to carry one of our ten 50-pound bags, us toting our carry-ons.

We were quite a sight, but unfortunately, photos were not allowed. Ever the rebel (in a small way) I wanted to surreptitiously take one or two, but Ray kiboshed that. For some reason, he was opposed to explaining his wife to the authorities and paying her fine, or worse, overnighting in a less-than-pleasant police station. Where is his sense of adventure?

Stepping off the bridge, we had arrived at the open air immigration office in a drizzle of rain. We stood in line to have our passports stamped, and were thrilled when the director of Tracy’s Heart met us. She had already talked to the head of immigration, an acquaintance, who graciously approved our bags entering the country without undergoing inspection. This was a huge blessing!

We were whisked away in one vehicle, our bags in another. Exhausted and off-kilter from no sleep, we were all taken to the house where we, and many other missionaries before and after us, had lived in the past. It was a bit surreal, to say the least. Brenda, Field Coordinator of our HFCA mission, had traveled with us from Chicago, as she had been home for some R & R.

After spending a day unpacking and finding room (or not) for everything, we faced a challenge. Food was the first priority; there was nothing in the fridge. In the old days, we bought our veggies and fruit, and even orchids, from various traveling salesmen who brought them to our gate, wrapped in burlap and carried on their heads. We had a meat man who took our orders in kilos, then went to the open market where slaughtered animals hung in the open and various cuts would be macheted off, wrapped in newspaper (or whatever kind of packaging was available) and carried immediately to our house. Back then it was mainly Filet American (hamburger) or Roti du Porc (pork tenderloin) or a pork butt to be made into ham, a process that took several days. Chicken was not edible. It was too tough, like rubber bands, even when cooked in a pressure cooker. Occasionally, fish, fresh from the lake was available for a dollar a filet. They were small and one person could easily eat three or four if we were willing to pay the price. If I remember right, it was called Nile Perch, but today we know it as Tilapia!

However, things have changed a bit. Food doesn’t come to us–we go to it, somewhat as in the US. There is still an open market for all in-season fruits and vegetables, but there is a roof on it now. There are several grocery stores where we can buy canned goods, two kinds of frozen fish, frozen chicken, various kinds of locally made bread, even a piece of vegetable pizza (or a facsimile), one kind of locally made cheese. Finally, if you call ahead they will turn on a soft serve ice cream machine just for you! Nothing like this was available years ago.

On most streets, there are tiny tables or a blanket on the ground where you can buy bananas, huge avocados, eggs, juicy pineapples, and other fruit when in season. A neighbor sells homemade bread, so we can send a zamu (watchman) to buy it whenever we want. Coke in small glass bottles is available everywhere. We buy a case of empty bottles, then trade for a case of Coke-filled ones, made here with cane sugar. Coke is the traditional offering when guests arrive, so we are always prepared with a case on hand. Even Coke Zero is available in some places.

After playing the game of, “What do we want to eat?” and, “What is available?” we consulted with our kitchen helper, Cherona, and made a list. I decided to go with her to get the lay of the land where foodstuffs are concerned. Thus, a big cultural experience ensued.

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Two Life-Changing Weeks

Not only did Ray literally change the everyday lives of all who lived or worked in the house by fixing the water situation, but he went on fixing things. At that time, there were four people living in the house: Bob, Dawn, and Elizabeth Baird, who had been so instrumental in getting us there with Graci the first time; Brenda, the field coordinator to whom the house belongs; and us. JP also has an office in the house, and then there is Chantal, who helps in the kitchen during the day, two outside watchmen, a dog, and a cat. All are in need of running water for various reasons.

Ray also discovered the electrical system was not grounded and was heating up so badly in the laundry room that, without doubt, there soon would have been a fire. He climbed into the attic, too, and identified which rafters desperately needed changing due to termites, and to no one’s liking, what animals lived up there. Rats! Yes, I mean the animal variety. (Shudder.)

We, the Bairds, and Brenda talked of many things: what could be done, what needed doing, the spiritual state of the churches with which the mission, Heart for Central Africa, has connection. And how the culture has changed due to the large influx of aid organizations with expatriates from many countries. Truly a catch-22. Many more items, foods, household goods, hard goods, and so on were now available because people from those organizations have money with which to buy them. This is good in some ways for those who have money, but sadly, it also makes prices rise so much that the average local cannot afford even basic foods. (In one instance, ice was being shipped in across the lake for certain people who liked their drinks extra cold!)

We toured the city seeing how things had changed or even disappeared. It was shocking. So much traffic! So many people! So many little stores!

Arriving in Zaire in 1985, our family was immediately taken to a village high in the mountains, where we lived with a pastor and his family of seven for a month to get into the culture and be immersed in the language. We knew only a few words of Swahili, and they knew no English. It was a small wood house with a dirt floor, corrugated metal roof, and an outdoor privy surrounded by corn stalks for privacy. (Some of us cannot forget the two-foot blue-headed lizard who lived in the privy! However, he was usually gracious enough to stay outside when it was in use.)  Altogether, it was quite nice compared to the other homes on the mountainside, most of which were mud huts with thatched roofs.

What generous, hardworking, kind people they were!  Unforgettable in so many ways. Certainly, they remember our youngest boys crying at every meal, wanting a burger or anything other than beans and rice or a warm sardine. But despite such enormous culture shock and very different living arrangements, we forged a relationship that, surprisingly, plays a part in our mission today.

The pastor’s wife and I would sit on tiny wooden stools behind the house and prepare meals together over a small wood fire on the ground. I was never as tiny as she, so to lower my behind onto a stool only six inches high was quite a feat. I tipped over many times, with my knees in the air and my skirt still covering all the necessary parts, before I learned to balance myself! She and I had many laughs as we cooked and tried to communicate.

This same family was one of those who lined the brick wall in front of the house when we first arrived back in Bukavu with Graci. There they were, with so many beautiful grown up children, twice as many as they’d had back in 1985! I had to blink back tears upon seeing them again!

I would soon learn that Byabeca, the little girl with the big eyes I remembered so well (inset: front row, fourth from the right), who had quietly watched every move we made when we lived with them, was now a married woman with four children of her own. She is also the director of Tracy’s Heart, the HFCA home used for abused and trafficked women, and Brenda’s right hand.

I am amazed by Byabeca’s wisdom, her heart, her love for God, and her commitment to helping damaged women. The woman she has become says much about her parents. And Emanuel, her younger brother, is the computer instructor at Tracy’s Heart. Yes, some of these women are being taught the basics of computing because someone from Brenda’s home church in the States graciously supplied Tracy’s Heart with computers. Amazing! We were delighted to see all of them and find that thirty-two years later, they are playing these important roles.

We were delighted to see all of them and find that thirty-two years later, they are playing these important roles. And we are excited that we get to share with them another season of our lives.

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Where Would God Lead?

Did we accomplish all we set out to do just ten months earlier?  Graci met her biological mother, check. The meeting went well, and Graci received answers to some of the questions that frequently plague adopted children, check. Ray and I were finally able to return to the part of Africa we had long dreamed of, if only to say a final good-bye, check.

Although our trip went on from there to an awesome safari in Kenya, then a visit with our oldest son and his wife in Germany on our way home to the States, our minds returned often to Bukavu and then moved to “What if ____?” If it was possible to return and there were roles we were capable of playing, how long could we stay? How much money would it take to maintain our home in Michigan and live in the Congo? In order to do any work there, we’d have to have other funds. Where would they come from?

Then there was the question of my Mother. She was ninety-two, and as her only living child, I knew in my heart I could not leave her. All the what-ifs were silenced as Ray and I agreed we were not free to leave for an extended period of time. When we shared the details of our trip with her, she instinctively knew we wanted to return, and I think it pleased her in some way. But no. Our dream, with all its unanswered questions and hopes, would have to wait.

But not for long, it turned out. Just two months later, my mother died, suddenly and unexpectedly. Without warning, with no health issues, she passed from the world in January 2016. It was traumatic for me. Grief and loss, emotions the Lord is still helping me wade through, sat side-by-side in my mind with an urge to at least explore the possibility of returning to the Congo.  We leaned heavily on God as Heart For Central Africa pulled at our heartstrings.

Eventually, we agreed to a two-week fact-finding trip back to Bukavu. This time it would be just the two of us. Did we have anything to offer? Since the mission is small, would our particular personalities, gifts, talents, and life experiences be a good fit?  There was only one way to find out.

During that first trip back to Bukavu with Graci, Ray had examined the mission house and all its working systems: plumbing, water holding tanks (2), electrical and structural issues, and so on. The house is an old, Belgian cement-over-handmade-brick house built in the mid-1940’s. Ray found it in great need of care, new rafters (due to termites) , and the tin roof needed repairing and repainting. Most importantly, there was no running water in the house.

City water comes from large holding tanks, although not every day, and it comes from Lake Kivu.  (This means it cannot be used for drinking water. That must come from another source.) Outside pipes run around the house to each bathroom and the kitchen before entering the house. When city water is shut off (daily for periods of time), then the tanks are used. These, unfortunately, were useless, as the pump no longer worked. Showering and flushing toilets was not possible during a shutoff.

Instead, a bucket of water drained from a tank was heated up on the stove (when there was electricity), and each person would take turns standing in the tub with a bucket of warm water to do their ablutions. The more people there were living in the house, the more time it took to heat water.  More water had to be heated for dishwashing.  A bucket stood by each toilet for flushing. This is not an ideal way to live.

Ray researched the pump problem, coming up with what he hoped was a viable solution. Consequently, we took the proposed equipment with us on our second trip. We only had to take bucket showers for a couple of days, as Ray’s plan and equipment worked!  Water was running in the house again, plus he had cleaned every faucet of years of sludge so they ran at more than a trickle for the first time in recent memory. What a celebration there was! The woman who helps with kitchen chores danced with joy at the prospect of washing dishes with hot, running water. After that huge success, Ray went on to solve several problems in the house.

It was clear we had contributions to make. But how?

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The Meeting of Mother and Child

Our days in Bukavu were filled to overflowing as we met with many people, visited the present-day work, Tracy’s Heart, and learned what had taken place during the years of our absence. We met with church leaders, too, who had approved our visit in the first place, something without which we could not have acquired visas. All this was to give Graci a few days to acclimate to the culture a tiny bit before the meeting with her biological mother was to take place.  It was a whirlwind of activity, and I think Graci slept very little. But because of jet lag and the eight-hour time difference, I suspect none of us really did.

We were staying at a guest house just a few houses away from the mission house, and Thursday arrived sunny and bright with anticipation. The day–the reason for our visit–had finally arrived. We had chosen the main sitting area of the guest house as the meeting place.  JP had arranged for Graci’s bio mom to come down from the mountain village where she lived to her son’s house on the other side of Bukavu. (We had discovered Graci has two half-brothers, one whom is married and has a child! Ironically, the child is named “Neema”, although no one knew we had named our Graci that.) They were all being picked up by a taxi and driven to the guest house. They were late. Very late. Tensions grew as cell phone calls were made here and there to try to find out what was happening. (There is no infrastructure, so there are no land lines, but cell phones are cheap and readily available.)

They finally arrived, and Graci’s bio mom walked in. She looked like an old, old woman, small and grey and terrified. I can only imagine what she must have been feeling!  I am sure she had never been in a taxi before, nor in a house as grand as the guest house would have seemed to her (to us it was very basic.) Not being educated, she only knew her mother tongue and a very little Swahili.

JP came to the rescue again, as he had been born in her village. He introduced her to Graci, and she simply cried, “My child, my child, you are alive!” and they hugged for a long time. It was an electrifying moment. There was not a dry eye in the room. Ray completely forgot to take a video the way we had planned, and I took no photos. JP interpreted our questions and answers back and forth. I found myself simply praying through my tears that Graci would find some of the answers she needed to make her life more complete.

One thing was certain–both mother and child had the same engaging smile and beautiful eyes! As they sat on the couch together, looking at each other, one very small and elderly, the other young and vibrant, they saw how much they looked alike. Graci laid her arm next to her mother’s to show how they were identically shaped, although different in size. It was a magical moment for Graci. For the first time in her life, she looked like someone! The room was lit up with her joy. This is something those of us who grew up in our biological families, surrounded by people we resemble in one way or another, cannot fully grasp.

Graci had come prepared with gifts for her newly found family, and we enjoyed watching them being opened. The brothers received large world maps, which JP explained, showing where we live in relation to where they live. They had never seen what the world looks like in map form. For her mother, Graci had put together a photo album of her life through the years so everyone could see something of where and how she had grown up. And on it went, with more gifts and ending with money to ensure they would eat for a long time to come. We then took photos, fed them the traditional meal of locally made French bread, bananas, and Fanta Orange, and they left. Graci’s bio mom looked younger and prettier than when she had arrived, while our daughter looked the happiest I’ve ever seen her.

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The Long Journey Back

The months following the startling discovery that our daughter Graci’s biological mother was still alive and Graci needed us to go with her to Congo were stressful. However, God continually worked through every issue on our behalf. We discovered that two families from our old mission, people we had worked with and cared for so many years ago, had recently returned to Congo to begin a new work , one with goals and objectives fitting the current needs of the people. They called the new mission Heart For Central Africa.

Brenda Buell and Bob, Dawn, and Elizabeth Baird were once again living in Bukavu. Working for them was a local man who had worked for our mission doing many of the bureaucratic jobs needed to keep expatriates there. “JP,” as he was called, was a tremendous help to us all. He was fluent in several languages, knew how things worked, knew the various offices, customs, and people as well as the needs and peculiarities of we expats.

Reconnecting with this small group was how the trip became a reality. They helped with information and advice, lists of things to bring, where to stay, made reservations, hired vehicles, and more. Truly, they were God’s provision for us.

It was not an easy trip to plan. We had to fly into Kigali, the capital of Rwanda, where we were picked up at the airport and delivered to a guest house. The next day we were driven back to the airport, where we boarded a small plane to Cyangugu, the Rwandan border town located just across the river from Bukavu, Congo, our final goal. From the tiny airport in Cyangugu, we took another pre arranged taxi (Thank you JP!) to the river, had people to help carry our luggage, and crossed the rickety, uncovered, and slick bridge on foot. Yes, I do mean rickety! With holes large enough to fall through, it swayed as we crossed with the river swirling beneath us.

Emotions ran high in all of us that day: Graci, Cathy (my cousin), Ray and myself. The experience was different in each of us.  Graci had no recollection of living there, so despite our efforts to equip her, she was not prepared. She remained very quiet, which was unusual for her. Ray and I had mixed emotions: euphoria as our dream of returning materialized was interspersed with dismay at the conditions of the town.  

As we stepped off the bridge into the inevitable mud, trash and people were everywhere. Barefoot women in traditional clothing were literally bent double with the weight of enormous bags of flour or rice or cardboard boxes the size of a Volkswagen Beetle on their backs. Legless men on small, wheeled boards begged in the streets. Ragged children looked for handouts. We stood in an outdoor line, in a drizzle, waiting to have our passports examined and stamped, and our luggage pawed through. Yes, we were back! Yet in spite of the dismal weather and the sad conditions of the locals, Ray and I felt extraordinarily happy.

Our old friend JP was there at the border, where he helped us into his vehicle. Leaving the melee behind, we traveled a short distance on the hard-packed, deeply rutted roads to the house the present missionaries lived in—the very house we first lived in when we arrived in Zaire all those years ago! It was as if time had stood still. To our great surprise, there, standing in a long line snaking across the front of the brick wall that surrounded that house, was a large group of people, all waiting for us!

There were friends, people we had known and worked with, some with grown-up children, all waiting to greet us! It was an amazing surprise, and I had to blink back tears. Some had traveled on foot from miles away!  It was a humbling moment, to be sure. They were delighted to learn that the beautiful young black woman with us was a very grown-up Neema, our Graci. There were warm handshakes, and laughter filled the air, with everyone talking at once as we struggled to understand and speak the Swahili we had once learned.

But always in our minds was the true reason we had come: to reunite Graci with the woman who had given her birth. How would Graci feel? Where would we meet, and what would they say to each other. Who would be there to interpret? In fact, how would I feel? Underneath all that lay something else, known only to Ray and myself, the question: Could we be used again here, at our age? Or would this bring finality and closure to our years in Congo?

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Double Grace

“Mom and Dad…….I found out my biological Mother is still alive.  She still lives in her village, and I want to meet her.  And I want you both to go with me.”

Silence reigned as our daughter’s words sunk in.

Through a set of circumstances only God could have produced, our daughter Graci, thirty years old, had discovered her biological mother was still alive in the Congo. She was reportedly living very near to the place we’d met the infant Graci so many years ago. In the years since, Congo had become a place of violence, war, rebellion and refugees, sickness, slave trafficking and abuse. We’d never dreamed Graci’s mother could be still alive.

With Graci’s discovery began an odyssey we hadn’t foreseen. There were thoughts and emotions we hadn’t expected to grapple with, but the hopes and dreams of our daughter were fulfilled, and events unfolded that would ultimately change all our lives.

Thirty years ago our family of six was living in Zaire, in East Africa (now called the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) or just “Congo”) with a mission organization. The day we met Graci, we were visiting our senior missionaries’ station and home. They ran an orphanage high in the mountains above Lake Kivu. It was a very small house, formerly the servant’s quarters of a Belgian tea plantation-turned-church. The former stables had been requisitioned as an orphanage.

At some point during our stay, I walked through a tiny bedroom on my way to the restroom when I spotted a doll’s plastic infant seat with a tiny, brown baby doll bundled inside. However, on my way back out, I noticed that the “doll” had its head turned to the side.  Without much forethought, I touched the little head, which was no larger than a small orange. To my enormous surprise, it felt warm and soft. What I’d thought was a doll was in truth a tiny infant! Even more surprising, as I stroked the perfectly formed head with its downy, straight black hair, there came a voice inside my head saying, “Here is your new daughter.”

The baby had been brought in by her grandmother just hours before we arrived. She had walked over several mountains to get there, hoping the baby would survive. The tiny, nameless girl was a mere seven days old.  We learned that her mother was extremely poor and had a protein deficiency which commonly ended in death. She was unable to care for the infant. Two babies had died previously in her small, mud hut.  Because it’s cold in the mountains and the other orphans were often sick, newborns did not normally survive in the orphanage. I talked quietly to Ray, then to our other children, and we all agreed that we would take this tiny baby home to Bukavu.

Though there are many more stories of crisis, illness, worry, and tears as we began this new journey, there were also many answers to prayer. After several weeks of learning how to care for our delicate girl, finding the right milk formula (goat’s milk), meds for various problems we had never encountered before, crying and rocking and rocking and praying for her to live, we were totally connected to her. All she needed was a name.

We asked a local friend to help us choose an appropriate name, and he said, “By the Grace of God she was like Moses, found in the bulrushes by someone who could care for her. Her name should be Neema.” Neema (pronounced Nay-ay’-ma) is Swahili for “grace.”  And so our new daughter became Graci Neema, or double grace. She was a survivor, and a year later we completed her formal adoption, making her our daughter legally and permanently.

As Graci told us of the amazing circuitous route by which she had learned the present status of her biological mother, thanks to social media, her sobs of deep  joy touched us beyond words.  We could not turn her down. But how would it come about?

As far as we knew, all missions in the area had left when the 1996 Rwanda/Burundi genocide ensued. The aftermath involved soldiers from several rebel groups fighting each other for territory and minerals, hundreds of thousands of hungry refugees seeking refuge, and thousands of United Nations soldiers all vying for territory, food, and control. These were violent times. If Graci’s biological mother, Marijane, was still alive, how would we find her, and was it safe to travel to see her?

Then there was the question of how we felt about the idea of our daughter meeting her biological mother. What about our own long-held dream of returning to this enigmatic country, beautiful beyond words yet uglier than our wildest nightmare? Where would we stay, how could we get into the country when no commercial flights could land there? Could we really make it happen? The thoughts, questions, and emotions were overwhelming.

For weeks, even months, our hearts and minds would wrestle with these questions and more. We spent many sleepless nights either staring at the ceiling or deeply in prayer. Truly, the ground beneath our feet was shaking.