On a journey...

It’s been a week of contrasts. From a wonderful Christmas party in prison, where we were moved to tears by songs of grace and the Christmas message; to continuing the tradition of baking Christmas cookies with old friends; to hearing that one of my boys (now adult) in Brazil is dead... I remember the 8 year old Paulo I got to know a little over 19 years ago at Minha Casa (a residential project for streetboys in Fortaleza). And I remember how my heart was wrecked by his desperate question of: “why do you have to leave, tia (auntie)?” as I was saying goodbye. Knowing him changed my life, and that moment changed how I viewed my future. It led me to ending up living in Brazil for most of my 20s because I didn’t want to be one who “left”, but be one who was stable and safe. Now that little boy turned adult is no more. He had a beautiful smile, a contagious personality and was so very easy to love. And he was so very loved by all of those who had the privilege of knowing him. I pr...

It’s amazing how much living and experiencing can be packed into just a week. As I let my mind wander back to the past week, I remember the cracked and dry ground in the mountains, the tagine (meat and vegetables cooked in a clay pot with a pointy lid) eaten with bread (i.e. no cutlery), the sugary hot tea, bantering at the market, fresh pomegranate juice, and of course, the incredible beauty of the people. A week of living in Morocco. As I stepped off the airport and felt the warm evening air hit my face, I felt such joy. Walking towards the airport terminal I was struck by the beauty of the sandy coloured lattice which adorned the outside of the building. Passing through all the customary steps to enter a country, I was impressed by the friendliness of the people, and as I was hugged meeting my friends picking me up, I knew this was going to be a good week. Marrakech. It was fascinating seeing small carts overflowing with pomegranates on every corner, and as I took ...

In one month today I head to North Africa on a mini-ministry trip. Last year I went south in Africa, and now the door has opened to step into the northern part. I have never been an “Africa-girl”- Latin America has been my heart... and yet I find myself travelling to this continent still so unfamiliar. But sometimes the best move is to just walk in the direction of the open doors. It might sound dramatic, but just to clarify: it’s a 7 day visit not a life-time move. Going to help a contact-become-friend with her project reaching vulnerable teenagers. It’s new and pioneering and exciting! Part of me feels so unequipped, and yet I am so honoured to get to be a part of this in a small way. So, after navigating the challenges of figuring out the best dates and finding flights that don’t require 24 hours of travel I am set to go. And as I prepare my hope is that some of what I know, and most of all, who I am, can be a blessing to my friend and her team as they also step out into ...

Part of my heart is in the windows of Amsterdam. The windows of the Red Light Districts. Although not the windows per se, but the women each of those windows represent. Women whose identity is “everlastingly loved by God and beautifully created by Him”, and being daughters, sisters, wives, mothers, friends. Women who are not “prostitutes” because their occupation doesn’t define them. It’s been three years since the women in those windows were part of my every day. Three years since I got on a plane with a ton of luggage, making yet another move towards what is now home here in Norway. This seems to be the month of walking down memory lane, and so I figure I might as well take little walk through the streets of Amsterdam... Some windows are empty; representing women who were but are no longer in them. Women who have taken steps and are now living lives of dignity, bringing life instead of slowly dying on the inside. Some windows remind me of the times when I was invited into ...

Almost ten years ago to the day I sat in this very spot. Also on my way back from celebrating my cousins birthday in Bergen. But the difference being I’d just moved back to Norway two days earlier, and was a little more dazed. Ten years. I remember walking to my gate in Fortaleza. My face red and blotchy from the tears of saying goodbye, and glimpsing through a rare window into the main airport the group of friends-turned-family waving another goodbye as I walked past them. I was so sad to be moving from the place that had been home for the past 6+ years, and yet the sadness in a strange way fuelled thankfulness. Thankfulness for the time I got to live there, and proof that the relationships built went deeper than surface level. Ten years. It still feels so recent, and yet 10 years of living away. It feels like an appropriate moment to stop for a moment and reflect. Fortaleza, Brazil. The amazing privilege of becoming part of the lives of so many people I met on the s...

As we started to sing the Norwegian Christmas song “Mitt hjerte alltid vanker i Jesu føderom” (translation: My heart it always wanders in Jesus’ birthplace”), they took the initiative to stand up and take each others hands. It’s was a powerful moment, and I think that at that point there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. Singing of finding home and the blessed Christmas night , a place of such hope and peace and freedom, moved us all. It caught me off guard and I hadn’t expected such vulnerability from these women. Many of them live with a wall built around their hearts as protection from a life which they have experienced as far from safe and kind. Now they find themselves literally behind bars, and yet behind the tough exteriors, are hearts that are still capable of being moved. Moved by being literally overwhelmed by presents and love and the message of value and hope. Moved to maybe, just maybe, believe that they are worth more than what life has communicated to them so far. ...

As we sat there quietly in the pews of the church, all I could hear was the occasional sniffle. Looking around me there were many faces with red rimmed eyes and tears silently trickling down their cheeks. In the front rows I could see those who were her family, their shoulders weighed down by the sadness of the occasion. The white coffin and flowers surrounding it made it clear that this was a sad sad day. A day to lay to rest a young woman who couldn’t bear to live anymore. Another reminder of the frailty of life, and that for some the pain and chaos of living is just too much. The tables were carefully placed to enable 30 people to sit down for the Christmas dinner. They were decorated with white tablecloths and small vases with red flowers in them. The whole house was filled with the smell of dinner having been lovingly prepared, and the guests were arriving. It was a beautiful evening of constant conversation, laughs, eating and games. A time of community and family, and of cr...