"How amazing is it that God designed water to flow from our eyes, and with that release of liquid we release such deep emotion.  Anger, fear and sorrow.  How amazing is it..." my mom said, as she stroked my back and held me while I cried.  I cried for so many different reasons, the majority of which are running around in Africa right now, being little boys.  I cry because I miss my boys.  

Have you ever cried so hard that you think you're never going to stop?  Your stomach hurts and your soul feels such a deep pain that you have a new understanding of the term "heartache."  The muscles around your eyebrows are tired and the only thing you want to do is sit in a hot shower for thirty minutes and let your tears get lost down the drain with all the other drops.  That is, if you're over-privileged enough to have access to running water, let alone hot running water.  Have you ever cried so hard that your body can't function right and your eyelids threaten to quit your face?  

I hope you have.  I hope you love someone to the point that you break when they hurt or are separated from you by an ocean, or by death.  I hope you are passionate enough for something you believe in that you crumble when it fails.  I hope you fall apart every once in a while.  God knows I do.  

Last night I cried harder than I have in a long time.  Every time I open my computer, there is a higher death count.  I was in Nairobi less than a month and a half ago.  It was the end of Ramadan.  Emma and I had just traveled for a week from South Sudan to Uganda to Kenya.  Over borders on foot and by plane.  I met so many beautiful Muslims who were fasting the whole day.  We rode in a taxi and I offered food to the guy sitting in the trunk, and he smiled politely and said he was fasting for God, he couldn't eat.  We got to a tiny town in Northern Uganda called Arua, made up of 60% Muslims.  I awoke to the call to prayer every morning, and it brought me to think about God and all his children who were praying as I laid in my bed.  And I prayed, too.  

Not once during my travels did I see hatred.  In fact, one of the best days of the summer and of my life was my reunion with Hamzah, the beautiful boy I sponsor.  Last year I met him in Uganda and he became my little brother.  When I left I didn't know if I would ever see him again.  13 months later, I walked up a dirt path and came through some trees to see that same boy sitting on a bench outside his mother's hut, studying.  He looked up when he heard my footsteps and dropped his book on the ground as he catapulted off the bench and sprinted into my arms.  I will never forget that day, and that I love him.  Muslim and Christian.  Brother and Sister.  

My heart breaks for the victims in Nairobi, to all who lost their lives or were injured.  My heart breaks for their families.  My heart breaks for all of the Muslims that have to stand by while terrorists defile the name of their religion and destroy human life.  

Today I reach my broken heart out to everyone in Kenya, a country I love dearly.  Kenyans are some of the most amazing people I have ever met.  They are my brothers and my sisters, a part of who I am.  And I refuse to fear Islam, I will only give love and friendship.  If I am hateful or scared, that means I have been defeated.  I long for a day when religion is no longer divisive.  But that day can only come if I start with my own heart.  So to all my amazing Muslim friends and the Muslims I have not met, know that I love you.  

And love will always win.  Kenya strong.  

I've been home from Africa for one month, one week and two days.  I don't know how that happened.  I don't know when I stopped being a victim of jet-lag and when I started becoming comfortable with getting water from a faucet or food from a grocery store that I can drive to. And I don't know when I started getting used to these new mountains.    

The past month in my tiny town of Boone, NC has been crazy.  I've cried a lot, laughed a lot, cried some more and learned so much about myself that I'm tired of thinking.  But one thing that I've realized since I've been home is that being present and living vibrantly is imperative to being happy.  Also, serving other people.  In every moment that you have the opportunity, serve.  

Earlier this week I was coming home from my women's group, thinking to myself that I didn't want to be in the United States anymore.  I didn't want to be in South Sudan either because that was quite a thirsty time in my life and I wanted to be close to my family and be able to take showers and not wear skirts.  I wanted it all.  I wanted comfort, but I also wanted some type of clear purpose.  In my heart I felt that neither Boone nor Wadupe could give me all of that.      

It was really dark outside.  I live on a poorly lit street, and as I was turning onto my road somebody yelled, "STOP!"  I slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road only to see that there was a guy who had wiped out on his skate board in the middle of the road, afraid that I was going to run over him.  His backpack and skateboard and phone were scattered everywhere.  His elbow was bleeding really bad and it was filled with gravel.   He was about to break into tears.  I got out of my car and asked him what happened and if I could take him to the hospital.  Then the poor guy got up and clutched his arm as a pool of blood started filling the palm of his hand.  

"No," he responded.  "But could you take me home?"  

So we piled his skateboard, his backpack and his bleeding self into my gold minivan, also known as Chariot of Fire or Burns Mobile, and went on our way.  He tried to make small talk in the car while simultaneously trying not to bleed everywhere or cry.  I felt so bad for him.  When we got to his house, he couldn't even open his door, or carry any stuff.  He had to drop-kick his pride and let me do everything for him.  So I walked him to his house and explained to his roommates what happened as he began the painful venture of washing his wounds.  

And then I went home, shocked that I had nearly avoided killing someone and got a serious reality check.  I still can't believe that just minutes before I was complaining about not knowing how to help people in the United States, not knowing what my place was here.  I was lost in my own self-pity and mourning for times past when I felt needed.  And just like that, skateboard man fell from the sky.  He needed me to help him, but in reality I think he helped me the most. Geography doesn't define my purpose, or yours.  

Serve people.  In every opportunity you have.  Love people well, even when you don't want to.  Seek out the broken, the hopeless and the weary.  And in those moments you will realize your own broken, weary and hopeless heart, and it will begin to heal.