I feel it again. The urge to move. To meander. To pack up my (few) things and move across the world.

This feeling is inevitable when the majority of your adult life has been spend doing exactly that. Since I was 19 I have been able to pack almost all my belongings into a travel bag. I have more stamps in my passports than most people I know, and I have an entire box of clothing only meant for wearing overseas (mostly long skirts and baggy sweat-stained t-shirts).

I would have it no other way. Since being married, Steven and I have not even spent more than a year living in the same place. Come this April, it will be a year that we have been in Salem (which freaks me out!) Our lives have continually been on the go, without hardly a moment to catch our breath.

Now, I don’t mind it really either. It’s exciting and adventurous and continually challenging my beliefs and strengthening my faith. This last season of being here with ywam salem has been really good for us, too. We have a small house, we painted the walls (!) and we actually have a real honest to goodness couch in the living room. I mean, this is as settled as we have been since africa.

But change is in the wind.

We are gearing up to lead the Spring Engage DTS (discipleship training school) where we will have an african slant for the outreaches. We have an amazing group of staff, and we are now praying for students to come.

I like it, though. I like that at a moments notice we could sell our few belongings and set sail. I like that we are not in debt, and that we have the freedom to move about the earth. There is nothing quite freeing as the knowledge that you are completely unencumbered to pursue your life, dreams and calling. True, we don’t live by the typical american standards of wealth, but the more I get to know God, the more I realize it is most likely for the better (for our calling, anyway.)

I have written a few posts about my desire to have less, and experience more, and that challenge has only gotten more real and more difficult. The longer I spend in America, the more convinced I am that I need that iphone, that car, or those boots. But the more I think and pray about it, I know that the devil is continually trying to dull my senses, make me busy and make me lethargic. I have to confess that the more things I usually own, the more disconnected I am with reality and with relationship with those around me.

My brave sister has decided to do a facebook fast for the entire year of 2012. I am so proud of her, and somehow envious. She understands the waste of time is can really be, and that pursing real community around her with real people is probably a better use of time. I am definitely not giving up facebook (i love to snoop) but I do understand her desire.

So here is to change! We don’t know if we will actually be leading a team overseas (depends on the number of students we get) but we will at least go and do pastoral visits for the teams who do go. It is exciting to think that Jubalee will get her first taste of africa at such a young age (she will most likely turn 1 over there!)

We are getting ready. We are excited.

So so so much happened in 2011, and it will be hard to narrow in down, but here are the 11 best things that happened:

1) Obviously, numero uno on the list is JUBALEE, born on July 26. She is a beautiful little package of joy, lungs, smiles, giggles and angry babbling. I truly think that having a kid is one of the hardest/best things that has ever happened to me.

2) Steven getting his green card. This was epic. We had ZERO money, and had ZERO idea what we were doing, but thanks to dear friends and family (and a helpful lawyer named Matt) we finally got Steven his green card. We don’t have to worry about expired visas anymore which is a huge relief, being as we are kind of a traveling family.

3) Finding out I don’t have a brain Tumor. As many of you know from my post “the brain cloud uproar”, during my pregnancy I went to the eye doc, who (in short) told me I had a brain tumor. One MRI, seven major freak outs and a million prayers later, we discovered this to be false. Also, I really don’t recommend Wal-Mart optometry, in case you were looking.

4) Moving back to Salem. After staying around the portland area for half a year, we finally made it back to Salem, and are happily working with ywam again. It’s nice to be back in community.

5) Being asked to lead the Spring DTS (discipleship training school). Steven was asked to consider taking on this exciting challenge, and we felt God say yes. Now, we only have 3 months until it starts, and we couldn’t be more excited/nervous/expectant.

6) Spending a whole year in the states. It is nice to be stable for awhile, as for the last few years Steven and I have been roaming vagabonds. I never thought I would want so much stability, but hey, even us vagabonds need some structure.

7) I turned 25 and Steven turned 30! Both major birthday milestones, if I do say so myself. I mean, we are legitimate adults now, who can rents cars and in just 10 short years I can run for president of the good ol USofA.

8) working (and QUITTING) at seattles best coffee. Working in corporate america was good for me, if only for a short while. It reminded me why I do what I do, what is important in life (giving, loving, risking) and how I really am not cut out to just make money (and how hard a mission field america really is). I like global missions. I like authentic community. I don’t like petty drama or being yelled at for wearing nail polish.

9) Only 2 (count em) 2 visits to the ER this year! Excluding the brain cloud drama, and pregnancy stuff, we kept the medical emergencies down to a dull roar this year. Steven was in the ER once in 2011 for an abscess tooth, and I was in once for a malaria scare.

10) Steven is alive! After accidentally breaking a gas line at our base, Steven had enough sense to alert his authority figure about the situation, and after evacuating the lower half of our base, they figured out the problem and no one blew up! It was kind of a huge deal, and we are so so grateful that everyone is in one piece.

11) Sudan became it’s own nation this year. This is a big one, and something that will affect Steven, Jubalee and I for as long as we live. Sudan will always intermingle into our lives, even if we are not living there at the moment, and we look forward to what God is going to do in that nation (both north and south.) We can’t wait to go back.

So there it is. the list. I hope you found it pleasant, and I hope that this year of 2012 will be filled with even more adventure, love, romance, joy and faith than ever before. A few things we are looking forward to are: leading a DTS, possibly leading an outreach, and taking Jubalee to africa for the first time (if my mom lets her go…)

goodbye 2011. helllooooooo 2012.

rainbow bright.

When I was young, everything had a personality. And a color.

For instance: letters. The letter “A” was obviously red. B was green. or brown. C was yellow or aquamarine. These things made sense.

Numbers were my favorite. Each number not only had a color, but a very specific personality. The number 8 was my least favorite number (he is a bully) and was always the color brown. No exceptions. 9 was wry and clever, and almost always the color yellow. 6 was red and shy but trustworthy, while 1 and 0 were almost exclusively white and self centered and a bit naive.

And on and on the list goes.

To this day, I still love colors very much. In the last few years I have been likened to Rainbow Bright and Punky Brewster (both a little before my time, but that is what we have google for.) When we moved into our new place on base, I immediately went out and bought the most unlikely wall colors I could find. I am so tired of neutrals. Now our walls look like the african sky and the african dirt (not on the same wall, obviously.) I love it. Makes me remember my other home every day.

Even certain seasons in my life are attributed a color. Our time in Alaska is the color of the woods behind our house, or the scales on “Sam”, my moms great big salmon she caught on her very first fishing trip that she had stuffed and hung on our wall for the next 15 years. Alaska is the color of adventure and fresh snow and cold, clear rivers.

Wyoming is a light brown/beige. It is somehow sad and unnoticeable and never changing. It may have flecks of blue in there (the color of our giant trampoline’s spring cover, or the sky on a summer day) or it may be green like in the spring while driving across those great plains to the double diamond X, the dude ranch where my mom worked as the dessert chef.

High school was grey, which seems pretty self explanatory.

Every season has a color. And I think this is why I hated pregnancy so much (twist! I bet you didn’t think this was going to be a baby post!)

My whole life, pregnant women always had a certain color scheme. Pastel. And if there is one color scheme I hate more than anything, it is pastels. Pastels are also for easter, which doesn’t make much sense, being as the resurrection of our dear saviour should be celebrated with the brightest and most vibrant colors around! Reds! Golds! Deep purples and bright blues! I mean, even in the spring the colors I most notice growing out of the ground are some of the most exciting and outlandish colors imaginable.

Pastels have always represented calm, peaceful things. It is, I suppose, trying to represent the beauty and peace of having a baby (HA!) Women decorate baby’s room with soft greens, light blues, the faintest pinks… It is a reflection of serenity.

And that is always how I viewed mothers (other than my own, I guess.) Women who only wanted to talk about babies, and baby things, and buy tiny baby clothes that were always in pastels (maybe that is also because i DID grow up in the early ’90′s.) Mom’s were always given the reputation of being quiet and nice and calm and pastel-y and really really into being a mom.

Being one now, I would say that is all wrong (except I DO want to talk about babies now. Funny how things change.) Mom colors are all wrong.

Being a parent, there is a side of me that I knew existed, but never let loose (except for a few times on outreach when a creep would hit on one of my young lady students). It is a fiercely protective side, a part of my that would never hesitate to sacrifice anything for my baby. It is the side of me that finally understands true exhaustion but considers it the greatest honor. It is the scariest side of me. And the best.

Mom colors are very different from what I thought. They are deep, and steady. Reds. Browns. Ocean blues and midnight blacks. There are yellows for early mornings with a cuddly baby, and purple for those times that strangers at the store call your child beautiful and you feel like royalty. Mom colors are strong. Vibrant. They never fade, but sometimes intermingle to create an entirely new color.

This season of my life is colorful. It is definitely not filled with Pastels (somedays, maybe) but rather like a rainbow, so glorious you can hardly look away. Every day brings something new, challenging, exciting and a little intimidating. Every day I get to do something I never thought could do, and it is never boring, because bright colors are never boring. And that is exactly what being a mom is: bright colors.

So, many of you probably didn’t know, that I never really ever wanted to be a mom. I was always kind of afraid of kids (people think I am joking…) and the amount of energy and time kids took up just seemed exhausting.

But here’s the deal: I met Steven. And Steven’s life passion is to be a dad. So we settled on an agreement: We would have kids, but not for a LONG time (ha!). We also settled on the number 3 (which may sound like we settled high, but it took awhile for me to get him down from 7). So we had ourselves an arrangement, as it were.

Well, as the trite and yet furiously true saying goes “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans. lolz.”

So, obviously we didn’t wait a very long time to have kids. We waited approx. 6 months. I mean, we DID date for 3 years, but still, not the same. And me being the ripe age of 24, I figured I could wait a long time. I was in my prime, and I was just getting prime-ier.

I remember the day I took the pregnancy test. I cried like a child in a haunted mansion. Steven had a mild look of bewilderment mixed with shock and awe, as if he couldn’t actually believe we were both capable of making a tiny human.

I know of couples who it took YEARS for them to have babies. Years. And here we were, the most fertile couple on planet earth.

So I cried. I cried not because I was afraid I was going to afraid of my own kid, but I cried because I am WELL AWARE of the reality of raising tiny people. IT.IS.HARD.WORK. I have always known this, mostly because I myself was an insanely hard child to raise. From pretending to be “Sarah the most angsty dinosaur” to head-butting my sunday school teacher, I was definitely my own (unique) person. I knew this was the threat of having a kid of my own: I can’t control this person. They will have an attitude all their own, and it will most likely be something akin to my own, being as I believe in reaping what you sow (mom, I give you permission to high five anybody and everybody around.)

And the funny thing about pre-momhood (pregnancy) is that people like to tell you doomsday types of things. Example: “oh you better sleep all you can now, because you aren’t going to get much the next 18 years of your life bwahhaha!!” or “yep, you can kiss your sex life goodbye” or my favorite, “you wanna come over here and change my kids diaper? Your gonna need all the practice you can get!”. erg.

But the thing is, I already knew how hard it was going to be. I was never the “head in the clouds” type of girl about babies and parenthood. So it was all pretty bleak when I was pregnant. I was so unsure of the outcome of this whole thing. Was I going to hate it? Was I going to love it, and surprise myself?

Truth is, I do love it. I love it WAY more than I ever thought possible. Mostly because Jubalee is just so stink’n great. Even when she cries, she is darn cute.

But it truly is as hard as I ever imagined. It’s hard for all the reasons I thought of, and way more. It’s hard because now I truly have someone to worry about. Oh my goodness the thought of getting into a car accident with that tiny baby in the back scares me more than I can say. My family has a history of car accidents, and one particular where my older brother Jonah, was actually killed. He was 4. I wasn’t alive at the time, but it remains to be one of the greatest tragedies of my life. I never got to meet him.

I know perfect love casts out fear, so obviously mine’s got some work to do. I am finding myself leaning quite hard on Christ these days, as I figure he knows how to do things like help protect and raise a tiny human.

And the adventures of parenthood are just beginning, I am sure. I thank God for coffee (even if it IS decaf, at least I can pretend) and husbands, and moms and sisters who help make me feel sane, and I thank God for his most perfect and adequate love. I thank God that for the first time today, Jubalee put herself to sleep.

TONS of people have TONS of opinions about baby-raising and what they swear works for them. I have been yelled at even for theories on baby-raising.

And please, for what I am about to tell you, I honestly don’t want to hear your opinions. Let me have my time in the sun.

So today (all month actually) Jubalee will not be put down. She just cries and cries, but as soon as we pick her up, she is ok. But this is killing my back, AND creating a little needy baby. I have catered to this because I honestly want her to trust her parents, and I don’t believe she knows manipulation yet. But today I snapped (NOT in the crazy acting out kind of way, btw). I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t hold her all morning, because I have been sick for a week, and my back is aching so bad I want to cry. So I set her down in her crib, and came out to the living room and cried. And I asked God for help. Help for patience and joy. Help for me to know what to do for my baby. Help to let me understand this phase isn’t forever.

And then I heard it (well ok, not heard it necessarily, but it came to my head): Swaddle her. You see, normally we never ever let her “cry it out” because I have a nasty guilt complex and I don’t want to destroy my child’s trust before she can even crawl. So, as she was crying, I went in, swaddled her, kissed her cheek, and set her back down. And you know what she did? She slept. All by herself without being rocked for hours, and without crying.

I have no idea if she will ever do this again, but hey, it saved my day. I feel refreshed and new. I feel like I can do this, even though she has decided to wake up every morning at 2 am, and 5 am, and 7 am (something which she hasn’t done in awhile.) I can do this.

Sometimes though, I just wish we were africans so that we could live in a mud hut community and my family and neighbors are all a few steps away, and come and help you take care of yourself and your child. I wish for a warm culture community, because honestly, I don’t think we were meant to do this on our own. I know I have Steven, and he is amazing, but he is also working. I just wish sometimes we were less western, less isolated, and more african.

But I can do this, so help me God.

Honest to goodness, I missed the rain during the summer. And I never really get tired of it until it turns icy somewhere in December, and then I loathe it. But for now, this muggy, not-so-cold rain is pretty awesome. I get to wear hoodies, and not worry about tan lines, and drink (decaf) coffee and bundle little baby up in wonderful animal onesies.

What can I say, I am an autumn kind of girl.

Well, Jubalee is now 11 weeks old (as of tomorrow) and let me say, time has NOT just flown by. Seriously, days seem somewhat like eternity when you are getting very little sleep, and your child has instantaneously decided she hates being less then 4 inches away from you at all times. Yep, I have THAT baby. The one that likes to be held CONSTANTLY, hates bottles and pacifiers, and likes to be entertained on a minutely basis.

Here is the deal: even though she is the baby that I was terrified to have (I had visions of having the calmest, most placid and content kid around. A baby that I could put in the swing for hours at a time, whilst I went about my life mostly unhindered, with a beautiful little baby accessory that everyone would coo at, and say to me “my what a happy and easy baby!”) but I still think she is the greatest baby in the whole world. Seriously.

It is mind blowing how much I like this kid. I mean, I have NEVER been a kid person. But this one is different. Yes, she is mine. But she is also smart, and sassy, and so so lovely. Did I mention she decided to laugh this week? Like real, guttural laughs! Mostly when I am singing to her over-dramatically, of right after bath time when she gets to be naked for more than a few seconds between diaper changes.

Momhood is a trip, yo. I mean, I would never go to this amount of trouble for any other human being on the planet. When Steven is bored, I tell him to read a book. When Jubalee is bored, I turn into BoBo the high-pitched side show clown until I get a smile. Also, dressing her is the best. While I don’t get to wear all my awesome fashiony clothes these days (still working on the preggo weight…) I CAN dress her like a little hipster baby whenever I feel like it. From jeggings to reindeer onesies, this kid may not be the “happiest baby on the block” but she is the hippest.

I am enjoying this season in my life, for the most part. I could def use more sleep and less crying (on Jubas end) but I really really like it thus far. It is hard to imagine her as a toddler, as I am quite afraid of children from 18 months onward, but then again I was afraid of all infants a mere 11 weeks ago. I am just enjoying her now, in the present and not wanting her to grow up too fast.

Also, Steven is the best dad ever. He is solid, like a big, brown mountain of strength and patience and love. He is unwavering in his affection for his tiny mocha girl, and you can already see that she has him wrapped around her miniature fingers.

lil' cub.

So yeah. Steven and I are learning TONS about each other, and about priorities and marriage and all that. It’s been good and hard. And it’s just getting more hard as we prepare for the DTS we are leading in the spring. It IS exciting though, because we are booking our speakers, and praying about outreach locations, and it’s all becoming real. I can’t WAIT to go out there again, to smell, taste and see africa. I can’t wait to let others experience it too, and the way God’s character shows up in such strange and good ways over there. I can’t wait to introduce africa to Jubalee. I think they are going to be friends.

So, it’s official: I.am.a.MOM.

A mom. I have a kid. A daughter, even. A squirmy, bright-eyed little slice of heaven meets earth. She is nothing what I expected, and rightly so. She is Jubalee. Her very own person, with quite the large personality.

Jubalee Jereasa Wani Koriak was born on July 26th at 11:56 am, weighing 8 lbs 13 oz. The moment I met her, I knew she was my kid. She had these big questioning eyes and a husky cry. It was love at first sight.

Before Jubalees grand arrival, Steven and I had gone to the hospital once already, but were denied a room because I was not far enough along. I was having contractions, but because I have never had them before, I had no idea at what point I was supposed to be alarmed or not.

So, we got sent home, and 24 hours later, went back, at around midnight on the 25th. Silverton Hospital is rated on of the 100 best hospitals in the US, so I have heard, and I must say, I could tell (I specifically chose it for its large jacuzzi tubs).

As far as birthing stories go, I think mine is pretty normal/awesome. I really wanted to go all natural (you know, no epidural or drugs of any kind) and I told my midwives that. Well, they did a great job of encouraging me on, and as it turns out, I can, in fact, go all natural! (I seriously don’t know if I will ever do it again, but I am sure glad I did this time!)

So all in all, it was a 16 hour labor (most of which was spent in a large, bubbly jacuzzi) and only 15 minutes of pushing. I may or may not have yelled “I am going to die!” to my husband at one point…but hey, it all turned out great, and my midwives were the most amazing midwives in the entire world. They were so kind and helpful, and after a few hours of snuggling with jubalee, they all came back in to tell Steven and I what an honor it was to be with us, and to deliver Jubalee. They said they were impressed with us, and they adored Steven (who didn’t sleep the ENTIRE time, and gave me massages and was just in general awesome.)

Also, I was pretty much in love with that hospital. I was telling my mom what a beautiful experience it all was, when she pointed out that maybe I felt that way because the only other hospital experience I had was that time in Kampala, Uganda, getting my gall bladder removed (see previous posts… like REALLY previous). Compared to that, I suppose any american hospital seems like heaven itself.

So, now that I am a mom, I have to say, I feel like I have joined some sort of club. Like, a club where you look into the tired eyes of another mom, and say “yeah, I hear ya. totally worth it.” I mean, from breastfeeding, to not sleeping, to dealing with ample amounts of loud crying on a daily basis… moms are pretty great. Like super-people.

Its very encouraging to speak with other moms as well, and I finally feel like I have something to add to mom-conversations. I usually avoided moms before being one myself, as I really had no idea what it was like (also I was terrified of children. Still kind of am.) But now things are changing.

Being a mom is crazy. And good. And hard. And so incredibly emotional and joyful. I mean, my child smiled at like week 2 (or maybe week 3?) SMILED. I didn’t babies did that until like, toddlerhood or something. Also, she mimics us. I read somewhere that they could mimic you at some odd week, and so I tried yesterday. I stuck out my tongue. AND SHE DID TOO. omg. Babies are kind of magical.

thank you, "happiest baby on the block".

The thing is, I was well aware of how hard parenthood was going to be. I was never the girl who thought having babies was going to be all cupcakes and rainbow sparkles. I knew it was going to involve loads of sacrifice (mostly in the sleep department) and loads of selflessness. And I was right. Parenthood is hard. I have never been so sleep deprived in my whole life. But it is so rewarding. I really had no idea you could feel this way about such a tiny person. A tiny person with a very large destiny.

So far, Jubalee seems fairly even keeled. She is content and happy, but definitely has these stormy baby angst moments, where she kicks out her pudgy legs and crinkles her eyebrows. She is super expressive. But I like it, as it makes knowing her mood so much easier.

lil gnome.

And there you have it. This is the official “welcome jubalee” blog post, and I know there will be many more posts about her to come…

family.

The Republic of South Sudan is officially the newest nation on earth. Steven stayed up until 4 am just to watch live streaming of the celebrations taking place in Juba, Sudan.

People were singing, dancing, decked out in their cultural attire and even weeping openly. For most of us, we are happy for them. We think its nice that they get to have their own flag now, and even add a few more words to the official title of the country. We think its just wonderful that they feel so happy.

But knowing the darker side of that countries history, I am more than just happy. My heart actually aches for them. Aches because for the last several decades, ALL these people have known is war, land mines, bombs, janjaweed, hiding in the bush for days without food and water, and watching their loved ones die.

We all say things like “you never know what day will be your last”, however that was never more true than for the people of south sudan. They absolutely never knew.

Steven doesn’t like to talk about it much. I have gotten glimpses of his life during the war which he was born into, but I know that look in his eyes when he gives small details. Yes, its sadness and pain in that look, but more than anything, is the acknowledgement that so much life was just wasted. Gone. Precious life was utterly destroyed without so much as a proper burial. They watched as friends and family were gunned down in front of their eyes, and yet instead of mourning, they kept surviving. Hoping someday there would be answers, someday there would be grieving. There would be a justified reason why people who were created in the image of God, were so easy to view as lower, as worthy of the end that was given them.

Some wanted revenge. Some joined the SPLA (sudanese peoples liberation army) to avenge their country and their people. Some fled. Some became refugees living in the northern part of the country (like my husband) in mass displaced person camps for years and years.

This is the internally displaced persons camp Steven lived in from 1989-1999.

These are a people who have struggled for everything. It is no secret that South Sudan is one of poorest and least developed nations on earth. It is no secret that their politics are also fairly corrupt, thanks in part for living in a constant state of war and survival.

But I tell you what, I know this country can heal. I see the steps being taken already, toward wholeness, toward stability, toward forgiveness. Yes, forgiveness.

If Steven and I have one passion, its for reconciliation. To see people forgive and heal. To see countries, tribes, religions move on. Not forget necessarily, but not let it control their futures, their every day lives, and their relationships. It is a known fact that a person who forgives those who have hurt them, are more stable and healthy individuals, often with a longer life expectancy.

Let me tell you about my husband and why he loves reconciliation.

Steven was 8 when his father decided to send him to live in the north, because living in the south had become too dangerous. Steven wasn’t going to school because every few days they had to hide in the bush and wait until it was clear to go back to their home.

His father being an army man and hunter, knew that the situation wasn’t going to get any better any time soon, and felt it best to send Steven to live with distant relatives in the IDP camp called Hadjussef.

Steven wasn’t very sad, as he knew opportunities like this didn’t come to everyone. He was also given the opportunity to study in a catholic school, something which was highly coveted.

But he did miss his family. A lot.

Jereasa, his mother, taught Steven how to be a family man. She instilled in him the desire to raise a family, and she planted in him the notion that women are valuable, helpful, hard working, and respectable. Steven and his mom have always been very close.

Mogga, his father, was a hunter and army man, and taught Steven how to kill for food, and taught him basic survival skills in the midst of african war. He instilled in Steven the importance of education, and knew it was Stevens ticket to survival. Steven said on long journeys, his father and him often had long political and theological discussions, and that his dad taught him how to view the world. He loved and looked up to his dad, much like any son, and especially loved their long hunting trips together.

Steven said his dad taught him how to act in front of a lion, that you should never run, but rather walk by casually because they can always sense fear and weakness.

One of the most important things his father taught him over the years, was to stay away from alcohol. Now, I love a good beer every now and again (obviously not when I am pregnant…) but this is something Steven and I will never share, and we respect each others decisions.

Steven says it all started when his father came home drunk like he normally did one evening, and knowing that it was destroying him and his family, he made Steven promise him, repeatedly, that he would never touch a drop of alcohol. And to this day, Steven never has.

After having been to south sudan numerous times, and seeing army men slinging their AK-47′s around their backs, fully plastered by 9 o’clock in the morning, I understand why “social drinking” doesn’t exist there. There is only survival drinking. Drinking to stop the memories.

Thank God for Stevens parents.

So, Steven was sent up north.

When he was 16, Steven was given the news that his father had been killed. He had been walking with a neighbor through the bush on a hunting trip, and while he was walking in front, the neighbor shot him in the back. After having done this, the neighbor ran back to Mogga’s home, and took all the sheep and goats for himself.

That is why Stevens father was killed. For sheep and goats.

When the news reached Steven, he vowed he would kill this same man. He tried to join the army right away so he could go back and destroy him, but they informed him he was still too young to fight… he needed to be 18. So he waited. Steven has always been a patient man, and he knew that nothing could stop him from finding this man once he was 18, and killing him.

Well, time passed as it normally did in the camp. Slowly. But one day, a revival was set to take place in the city, lead by none other than Reinhard Bonnke. Steven, wanting to see what all the hooplah was about, decided to go and see for himself.

Steven recalls 45,000 attended the event, and it was his first experience with a full blown crusade. He was struck by the words of Bonnke when he said that jesus needed to be a part of his life, that jesus wanted to know him. But also, that jesus commands us to forgive.

Steven agreed with the part about jesus needing to be in his life, and felt like he could do that. So, Steven got saved. But he didn’t like the part about forgiveness. He thought maybe Jesus could just forget about it, just this once, until he had killed his fathers murderer, and then maybe he would consider it.

Steven said he was excited about christ and what he was doing, and to this day, Steven loves Bonnke.

After the crusade finished, Steven started attending church. It was a local church, and the very first sunday there, the pastor starts talking about how christ forgave us, and therefore we need to forgive others. We need to forgive those who have hurt us.

Steven was not amused and thought that the pastor was just saying this because he knew Steven and his story. So he left the church, and found another one the next week.

The following sunday, dressed in his best, Steven was happy to be in a church where nobody knew him or his story, and was glad to just soak up the word. Steven recalls how great the sermon was, how it was all about the love of christ. But then, in mid sentence, the pastor changed his topic, and he started pointing at various people in the church saying “christ forgave us, YOU need to forgive those who have hurt you! YOU need to forgive!”

Steven says when the pastors finger settled on him, he actually turned around to see if the pastor was pointing at someone else, but there was no one behind him. Steven was being called out. And he broke down.

Weeping in the middle of the church’s dirt floor, people left him alone to cry, knowing that something deep and hurtful and awesome was going on.

Steven forgave the man that murdered his dad that day. Steven also forgave the north for the years of war and suffering and death. Steven was and is the most free man I have ever met.

He still has not seen the neighbor who robbed him of a father, but we have a feeling someday we will. I very much plan on being there, in support of my dear husband, but we both know that even more healing is under way, not for Steven so much, but for this man. This man who gained a few goats, but lost his soul.

We pray for that day. We pray for the day when South Sudan as a whole can forgive their captors, release their anger, and move on. We pray for the day that dependence on God and his grace will sweep over that country, and lead the world in an example of reconciliation, beauty, stability and truth.

SO join with us as we celebrate the worlds 193rd nation, the Republic of South Sudan! Steven and I want to be there SO INCREDIBLY MUCH, but we are still awaiting the arrival of dear Jubalee, who is taking her sweet time.

We can’t wait to be there, and see what God is doing. We can’t wait.

I applied for WIC only a short while ago, even though I was already 7 months preggo. I like the thought of monthly rationed gov’t cheese and milk, mostly because those things are expensive, and having married an african, money doesn’t seem to just magically gravitate toward us, as I naturally assumed it was going to, given that we are pretty hard workers and also fairly awesome.

But WIC likes to control EXACTLY everything you purchase. Which is not actually a bad thing, as it is trying to provide nutritional food to mothers and infants. Unlike SNAP (food stamps) you can’t just load up your cart with sheet cakes, twinkies, and frozen pizzas. You are only allowed to buy the things that they give you on the handy dandy food guide… mostly things like brown rice, milk, whole grain bread (although NOT Dave’s killer bread, which is my favorite) and corn tortillas.

I like that WIC is looking to make healthier babies and mothers, but sometimes it drives me CRAZY. This is the story of how, for the first time, I was almost rude to a cashier at safeway all thanks to WIC and frosted mini wheats.

Now, I always try to be extra nice to people working in places like grocery or department stores. I know what it is like to work with ample amounts of busy people on a daily basis, and it is hard. I always try to slap a smile on my face and genuinely be polite to the people scanning my items.

So, I take my WIC vouchers, and I race through the store like a kid on a scavenger hunt, looking up items I can purchase, and how many ounces of bread I can buy (yes, it goes by ounces). I believe Safeway likes to make their customers get their daily allotment of exercise simply by the layout of that whacky store. You would think all the food stuffs would be clustered together, easy to find, and all the non-food stuffs (e.g. dog food, contact solution) would be clustered on the other end of the store.

But no. It is like they asked a sleepy toddler to pick what isles should go where.

So, I am racing back and forth, all the while having to pee so bad that every step was torturous.

And finally, after covering ever square inch of that place, the last item on our WIC list was cereal. I get excited about cereal, because I find it ridiculously over-priced, but with WIC, I get two small boxes. And surprisingly, they have a rather large selection you can choose from on your WIC cereal guide.

I found two that I thought sounded good: Life cereal (regular) and my old standby, Frosted Mini Wheats.

Now, I understand that WIC doesn’t want me to buy all those frilly cereals… coco puffs, cookie crisp… and understandably so. But it also doesn’t allow for me to purchase any other kind of offshoot flavor from the original cereal it said I could buy. Like, I can’t purchase any other flavor of Mini Wheats. Just the original.

But I don’t want any other flavor, so WIC and I are good.

We approach the cereal isle, and I grab the most normal looking mini wheats I can find. I swear that there are AT LEAST 18 different options for this one cereal alone… I honestly can’t imagine who would want to eat blueberry streusel mini wheats in the first place, being that the original is so good. So I chose the orange box, without any other colorful, sugary additives.

yeah, I am not even sure this is all of them.

After running around the store, and having to pee quite bad, I was ready to go home. The other thing with WIC, is that you have separate vouchers for different food items, and you have to cluster your items accordingly, and the cashier will do completely separate transactions for your different purchases. ALSO, if you go over your limit, you have to make another transaction with either cash or credit. AND if you don’t spend all the money on your voucher (say you didn’t buy the entire $10 worth of fruits and veggies) you will never see that money again. You get one chance. Solo uno. Kaput.

So, I get my items and steady myself for potentially annoyed customers who will stand behind me in line. I group my items, and am pleased with myself that I am getting almost everything those vouchers told me I could get.

Well, things are going pretty ok (I forgot a frozen juice) when the cashier man picks up the cereal. Life cereal gets scanned and placed in the bag. He picks up the mini wheats. He is ABOUT to scan it, when he read the words written under the oversized name; “Little Bites” it reads. Now, I did notice this when I picked up the box, but I didn’t see any other box that look as normal as that one. And I thought that “little bites” was just a new term for “bite sized” which is what I always get.

The cashier (an overly apologetic mid 30′s over-weight man, who is slightly balding, and very VERY particular about his job) informs me that this box could not be sold to me, due to it being a special “little bites” box, rather than the original “bite sized” option. My eyes widen when I realize he is serious, which makes him call his manager, who confirms that I can not, in fact, have that box.

You would really have to be a moron to think they could possibly be the SAME DARN THING.

the difference is glaringly obvious.

So, I have a choice to make: Either I run to the cereal isle and try to find the absolute correct box (although I have to pee like a banshee at this point, and every step hurts) or I can send my Sudanese husband, who has absolutely no idea the difference whatsoever. The cashier didn’t offer to send another employee, being that he knew I was with my husband, however, he didn’t understand that Steven was even more confused about the situation than that sleepy toddler.

As Steven volunteers to go, I asked him quietly, trying not to sound like a crazy controlling, ill-spirited pregnant wife, if he understood what kind we COULD buy… because I was not sure if he picked up the exact reason why we weren’t walking out of there with our “little bites” mini wheats in the first place… Unless you speak perfect english, I am pretty sure that whole exchange was massively confusing.

Steven wanders off, and as the line behind me starts to sigh audibly, I start shuffling through my purse, looking for any reason not to look into the cashiers eyes.

Steven returns. But he returns with a bright pink box of Strawberry Frosted Mini Wheats. I can almost see the angst in the cashiers eyes as he glimpses the pink box. Before he has the satisfaction of saying it, I announce “yeah, I know we can’t have that one. The Life cereal will be fine, thank you.”

He didn’t say anything as he scanned the rest of my items, except an intermitted “sorry about that” or a “just doing what I am told” that simply made me more upset. I was tired and cranky and sweaty and hot, and on top of it all, I didn’t get the cereal I loved most, based on one stupid word printed on an orange box.

As I apologized to the long line of annoyed people standing behind me (without so much as a “its ok” in return) I finished the mini wheat-less purchase, picked up my pride, shoved my sunglasses on my face while walking briskly out the door, and began to cry.

I know it sounds silly to cry over something so lame, but it was kind of traumatic. It was like, not matter how hard I tried to do things perfectly, how many times I wandered those isles and scoured items for their net weight, I still lost.

I am grateful for the items WIC gives me, and I know it is a blessing, but man, talk about feeling a bit defeated.

And after all of that, the bread I had picked was, in the words of the cashier man, “way over the designated ounces for bread. Sorry.”

Thanks WIC And Frosted Mini Wheats for this post.

Between moving and re-learning how to live in community, it has been a pretty busy two months. Steven and I feel right at home here in good ol Salem, where we get to live around passionate people who share our same love of Christ and adventure.

If you don’t don’t anything about where we live and what we do, you can click here. I must admit, it is pretty great.

So, being back in living, breathing community feels a lot like living in africa. No privacy, walking everywhere, eating meals communally… Just like home. It feels terrific. You can almost see the glow in Stevens face as he walks around greeting people, even getting comfortable enough to crack a few jokes.

I love him really a lot.

our awesome/tiny room.

It seems almost strange to be here, while I am in this stage of life. I mean, when I first walked onto this base, I was an unruly 19 year old, with no real love of missions. I wanted adventure, and I wanted to travel, and wah-la! I found myself here, with 18 other youths all desiring the same things. Thank God we got more than we bargained for, as we were stretched to out uttermost limits spiritually, physically and emotionally.

I remember not feeling much, as a 19 year old who grew up being continually disappointed by the church (as a pastors child you get to see some pretty ugly church politics). I was shut down spiritually, and unable to trust any kind of religious  organization (still half true some days.) I was skeptical about this thing of “hearing God’s voice” as they called it, but decided to give it a go, being as I was spending 6 grand to be here. I was going to get my money’s worth, dang it.

And I tell you what, no amount of money is worth what I learned in those 6 months. I learned how to live in community (making my bed… yes yes, I was 19 and never fully appreciated bed-making until one of my leaders told me I couldn’t possibly change the world until I learned to make my bed… meaning I needed to do the small things to get to the big things.) I learned how to really pray, and act on what I heard in those prayers. I learned that taking steps of faith is terrifying and makes you look really stupid sometimes, but incredibly powerful and effective in seeing the glory of God.

I made life long friends, and can’t ever forget how I first fell in the love with the Gypsys of Georgia (the country, people. NOT the state.) It was the first real time I cared about anything other than myself for an extended period of time. It made my uncomfortable, and it ruined me for anything normal ever again. And I am so grateful.

5 years and 10 countries later, here I am, back at this same base. Except, I am married and about to become a PARENT. I feel like I have come full circle. From reckless youth with no commitments, parading around the world without a concern, to a quieter version of this same girl, married to her best friend and dealing with the notion of parenthood while contemplating how this effects her vision to live in north africa the rest of her life.

I feel grown up. I feel seasoned. I feel…old.

Yes, old. Did I ever tell you how much grey hair I have on my head? AT LEAST 6 or 7 strands, and laugh if you want if you think this amount insignificant, but I am 25, and I didn’t have these 2 years ago. I like to blame african malaria, and indian ameobas for these recent hiccups in my appearance. But I don’t pluck them out and I never will. They actually comfort me in thinking that the past few years have truly been as hard as I thought they were. I thought maybe I was crazy for thinking that having to wait 3 years to marry Steven due to visas, money, and african war was insanely hard. I remember thinking I was actually going to feel my heart collapse inside my chest. It physically hurt to say goodbye every time we left each others nations.

And don’t get me started on leading teams throughout various parts of the world. I mean, there you are, barely a 20something, and you have the lives of OTHER 20somethings in your hands. You create the itinerary, budget, do the visas, plane tickets, contacts, set up ministry, make housing arrangements, get everyone the appropriate vaccinations, calm the parents, process with the students, pray, ask God for wisdom and sleep, pray, live in loud dorms, pray and most importantly, pray. Oftentimes I was also the worship leader for these schools, not out of skill but solely because I was the only one who could pluck out a few tunes from a guitar. Talk about humility, especially when you find you have musical geniuses for students.

Then, there was the whole “getting married and living in africa” thing. Man, that was hard and awesome. I tell you what, if I wasn’t a different person from that 19 year old, I would be alarmed.

And you know what is funny? Through everything that has happened… crazy outreaches, busy schools, moving from nation to nation, hopping across dangerous boarders, being continually harassed by large african army men with large guns, having all kind of illness’, planning a wedding overseas, sometimes not having enough money to buy food for Steven and I, cockroaches living under my bed… NOTHING scares me as much as parenthood.

there, I said it. I am terrified.

My sisters and I were never the kind of girls to gush over babies. We weren’t the ones who volunteered to babysit, and we didn’t know exactly the right way to hold a baby… I always thought I was going to break them.

Lindsay was probably the best, but still, compared to the average girl, she was definitely not ga-ga over them.

I mean, kids are people. And people get messed up. How am I supposed to raise a people? How am I supposed to not to hurt them emotionally? I mean, I am just learning how to be married, much less how to be a mom, for goodness sake! I just never thought of myself as a kid person.

But now I suppose I have to be. I pray everyday that God can give me and Steven the wisdom to raise our daughter how Christ would have us raise her. I want to show her the world, but still protect her from all that ugliness out there. I want her to love her skin, even though the majority of the world would prefer she be white. I want her to see the miracles I have seen, and know that I will always try my best to take care of her. I want to make sure she feels secure, no matter where in the world God takes our family.

Family. Such a strange thought that I am starting my own. Me. Steven. And our daughter, Jubalee.

The word Jubalee comes from the Bible, and it means “year of the lords favor.” It was when all the captives were set free and debts canceled. I believe this is the most appropriate name in the whole world for our daughter, as she comes from a nation that is beginning a new era. She comes from the blood of a man who lives to forgive, release, set free, and restore. She also comes from me, who is nothing but stubborn and a little rash at times.

I don’t exactly know the plans God has for her, but I know they are good. I mean, she is going to have the most awesome dad in the whole world. Steven is TOTALLY ga-ga over babies. My niece Ramona is basically obsessed with him and his chocolate face.

I will admit, I am excited. Excited to see what she looks like. After all this time feeling her kick and wiggle, I finally get to meet this little person who has such a mighty destiny. I can only imagine the kind of things she will encounter as a little mocha girl… both good and awful. I can only imagine the kind of joy she is going to bring to everyone who meets her.

I don’t blame God anymore for giving me this huge responsibility. I am coming to peace with the notion that I am a mom. I always thought myself entirely inadequate, because I came to grips with my selfishness long ago. I acknowledged that fact for years, and now the time has come to change it. To makes things right. To not only acknowledge that I am broken and selfish, but now to let myself love something unconditionally that doesn’t make me coffee in the mornings, or tell me I am beautiful everyday. To love her simply because she is Jubalee, a gift from God, in this, the year of the lords favor. To love her because she stems from one of the deepest loves I know, between me and my best friend Steven.

I thank God for trusting Steven and I with this gift. I can’t believe he would find me ready!

So, I am embarking on my last month of childlessness. Sometime mid July, Jubalee will make her grand appearance and our lives will forever be changed. But I would have it no other way. I have a feeling she is going to teach me more things about life, God, marriage and joy than I could ever ever imagine.  Steven and I eagerly await this beautiful change.

Also, can’t you just imagine Steven, me and mocha baby traversing africa with THIS amazing thing? I desperately want one. I have heard from all the travel moms that this one is golden. Too bad its a million dollars. Oh man, I seriously can’t wait.

OH ALSO! Before I forget, Steven and I were asked to lead the next Spring DTS, which is a school focussed on injustice and reconciliation. LEAD a school. Up until now, I have only ever staffed schools and lead outreaches (Steven has lead a few up in north africa though… he is a pro at basically everything.)  NOW Steven and I get to pick our staff, outreach locations, speaker list, yadda yadda… we are STOKED if not slightly terrified. If we decided to lead an outreach, mocha baby would turn 1 while overseas. Hopefully we will have a healthy, bouncy, beautiful baby girl who likes things like long plane rides and hot dusty weather, or this could get sticky. We feel God gave us a “go” so now we wait, prepare, practice being parents and generally just be really happy for how awesome our lives are.

But more importantly, I was nervous because a year ago today, would be my very last day as a single lady. We had been planning the wedding for nearly two months (and that’s a good long time for me, people) and my parents had flown in for the occasion. I was set on making it a “nobigdeal” kind of thing (I honestly wanted to elope) but the people who loved me insisted that we make it memorable, seeing as I was, in fact, marrying the man who I had been crazy in love with for almost three incredibly hard years. Hard because we never seemed to be able to be in the same country with each other for more than a few months, and hard because every time I had to leave him, it honestly felt like my heart was ripping itself in half.

Our incredible friends over in Uganda (Cam and Jen) REALLY helped us out (mostly Jen, because she is a fantastic bargainer and found us our reception venue for about 1/4 of the cost of other places around town.) They were supportive and tough when I couldn’t be tough about things like the price of our wedding cars, cake, food etc… Actually, without them, I think our wedding wouldn’t have been the amazing day it was.

Then there was Jacey. My maid of honor. We had met a by a fluke, and found ourselves in such similar situations in life, it was almost laughable, and we agreed that our friendship was literally planned out by the Lord himself, because it was all so unlikely in how we met.

It started one day, while I was leading my students on an outreach in the giant city of Kampala. I was bummed because we had to leave Sudan earlier than I wanted, simply put, because we ran out of money. I had planned on staying in Sudan until the end of outreach, and then when my students surprised me by flying Steven down for a visit while we were there (on my birthday!), made it even harder to leave (he couldn’t come with us to Uganda, because Sudan at the time wasn’t allowing anyone to renew their passports. Steven was literally trapped in Sudan, and because of the looming possibility of war, that did not settle well with me.)

So, back in Kampala, I was desperately searching for ministry opportunities for my team. There was no way we would sit around, not doing anything. It was an outreach, after all, and I like to get to work. And being africa, we were surrounded by poverty, hopelessness and orphans. We were GOING to minister, darn it.

So, While my co-leader (Jamie) and I went off in search of a child soldier orphanage we had heard about through the grapevine, we sent our students off to pray for the city, and ask God what they could do to bless people they met. We also asked them to keep their eyes peeled for ministries or opportunities where we could (as a team) help out.

Jamie and I did find the child soldier orphanage (UJV!) and obviously, it would permanently become a part of Steven and I’s life later on (our apartment after we got married was literally 20 feet from them). And our students came across something, or someone interesting too.

While they were walking down the street, they noticed a nice Mzungu (white) girl walking on the opposite side of the street. It isn’t uncommon AT ALL to see other mzungus in kampala, as it is a popular place to backpack and gorilla trek. For some reason, the team decided to speak to her. I think they yelled something like “hey mzungu! how are you!?” (and if you know anything about mzungus who live there, you know we get annoyed when people address as such, and even more annoyed by fresh mzungus who think it is funny to yell things like that at us…)

Well, she WAS annoyed, but decided to be nice and answer back. As it turns out, she was also an M, and was teaching hip-hop and aerobics at a youth prision. And she said that she could use a team to come and share stories and songs with her at the prison.

The team came home all excited, and insisted that I needed to meet her. As I had just discovered a whole world of ministry at the UJV, I wasn’t too thrilled about this idea of meeting up with a stranger my students met on the street, but I agreed to meet her.

And my life was never the same. I found out that Jacey and I had similar passions, struggles and goals. While she uses sports and dance as ministry, I use art and music. We both were engaged to African men, and had both endured almost unbearable scrutiny for it. We both had led teams, and both loved africa and yet we both broke for africa. Our friendship was sealed over some sodas and a long conversation.

And little did I know that three months later, she would be my maid of honor, and I would have had it no other way.

Steven didn’t have it so lucky though. He has asked months in advance for his friend Emmanuel to come down from south sudan to be his best man. He had agreed, but in the few days leading up to the wedding, we stopped hearing from him. We couldn’t reach him, and we had no idea if he was coming or not. As it turns out, he was not coming, but was ashamed to say so, and Cameron was brilliant enough to fill in that role for him. Also, I wanted my dearest friend Will to be on my side as a bridesman (very northwestern of me) however the ugandans thought I was crazy, and demanded he be on Stevens side, as they were of the same gender. Pick your battles, I always say.

The wedding was what I would call “beautiful chaos.” It consisted of long sermons (not done by my father who was in fact leading the wedding) Songs I had never head of, and people singing the songs that I had never met (one lady, and Will agrees, looked EXACTLY like Michelle Obama. No joke. To this day I still like to say Mrs. Obama sang at my wedding.)

There was a lot of tears, and foot washing, and child soldiers and dear friends. It was filled with the notion that this was a crazy start to a crazy life. Steven and I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect wedding. Looking back, we see God all around.

And the reception was fabulous. Full of goat-meat-on-a-stick, fanta, and strange ugandan traditions (i.e. hiding the groom and making me go look for him…) it was a blast. I even got Steven to dance to with me (which is a huge deal) and by the time evening was setting, we had only been rained on for a few seconds which is a minor miracle of itself (my hair still looked awesome, thank you african hair oil).

I think the only thing that would have made it more perfect, is if my sisters had been there. I knew the sacrifice I was making when I decided to marry Steven in africa, but it didn’t make it any easier. I missed them so bad that it hurt, and I could only imagine how much fun it would have been to have the other puzzle pieces there.

A year ago today, I was about to embark on the best adventure yet, with my bestest friend in the whole world. Steven and I have had to work insanely hard to be together, what with visas and countries that don’t like each other, and people who are loving but skeptical. We knew what God had said… that we were made for each other, but that didn’t make the process easy. We see now, how all that work and fighting for each other has prepared us perfectly for the things to come. We fight for what we know is worth it. We will never stop fighting, not for each other, and not for the kingdom of God.