I can feel the rumble of change, forging pathways of hope. I sit with my friends, the people I love, their faces the name of poverty. It took rejection, word games, bribed currency, just to secure a home, for a broken women, lost boy and helpless baby. The intensity of expectation settles heavy during our one-hour drive, moving the meridian of lives. We toss with the weight of the future, and scour the past from today. Each lost in our silent worlds, meeting with God, watching as new letters are scratched into our histories, the grain of their stories etched by Love.



Four simple walls, a door, fresh paint, a mattress, running water ~ for some it is the first time ~ home ~ can ever be whispered, hope held near, mixing with peace, the welling of warmth, strength of security, a place for them.



He lays his boy hands on the walled concrete, his fingers trace freedom. She perches like a lady, confidence strengthening her downcast frame. My arms cradle a bouncing baby, nursed to life by the world’s community.



And the stoic engineer wipes streams of tears as heaven gushes grace.



I hear the clashing spheres of destitute change course, as angel choirs sing, beauty songs of hope.

And it feels right.



Pray silks toss on the parting waves of thankfulness. Languish ommited through the gentle fragrance of God, settling peacfully on that humble home in the back streets of Africa.