My Aunt Gen was the quintessential great-aunt.  She was a dreamer who gave me a safe place to dream my own dreams.  There was never such a thing as “too lofty” an aspiration.  In fact, at times I think she believed my dreams were not grandiose enough.  But she was far to kind to ever tell me so.  Somehow she knew a young person needs someone to come alongside him and nurture that unmapped part of his brain that dreams big, and foster that corner of his heart that keeps those dreams safe. 

Aunt Gen was equal parts love and grace, always accepting of any of my friends who came with me to her house to help move a piece of antique furniture or hang a dramatic painting on the wall.  There was always gourmet food to be eaten, albeit the portions were très Français:  a light summer salad, a few spoonfuls of soufflé, perhaps a sliver of freshly baked persimmon bread.  Nonetheless, it was just enough to get a taste of something delicious and allowed more time for conversation without full mouths.

It is not easy to envision our family without Gen. Even as I type, the reality of our loss, (her gain), leaves me with an aching heart and moist eyelashes.  However, I believe that she is now alive in a place even she could never have imagined in her wildest dreams.  And that’s saying a lot, isn’t it? 

And so now, with an affinity for persimmon bread and soufflé, I will cultivate in the young people in my life the appreciation for big dreams, the ability to grandly dream for themselves, and the blessed assurance that our Father’s ultimate dream for His children is meant for us all.

We’ll miss you, Aunt Gen…

- Love, Michael

Imagine you are the mother of a four year-old girl. 

 You are seven months pregnant with your second child, excited by the future of the growing family you and your husband are nurturing together.

 You have a promising career with the UN. 

 You come from a close-knit family.  You, your siblings and your parents all live near each other in the same city.

One day, you are widowed because a neighbor you have known for years murdered your husband.

The next day your parents are murdered by one of their neighbors.  Your siblings have gone missing.

Your entire world has turned into hell on earth.  Overnight.

Determined to survive for the sake of your children, you seek shelter in a hotel with others who share your experience of the last few days.  But the hotel is not the safe haven you expected it would be and becomes clear that you cannot give birth to your baby there.  They are targeting pregnant women at the hotel.  They take them and they kill them.  Slowly.

So you run.

The closest place of refuge is in a town 80 miles away.  You strap your daughter on your back and you walk.  Not on the roads, because the militia are everywhere.  You walk on uneven terrain.  You walk.  You hide.  You walk again.

Soon after, you reach the town, and just in time.  You welcome your second child, a baby boy, into an uncertain world with an uncertain future.

The joy you feel bringing a new life into the world is interrupted by more disturbing news.  Not far from this town over 50,000 people were killed in just two days.  The government told them to take shelter at a secondary school where they would be safe.  They would be protected.

But it was a lie.

And again you must run.

Your daughter becomes very ill along the way but it is too dangerous to seek help.  Then a man, a stranger, finds you hiding and offers to bring your daughter to the doctor and return her safely to you, with the medicine she needs to recover. 

You certainly can no longer rely on the kindness of those you know.  How can you rely on the kindness of a stranger?  Do you have another option?  In the light of the morning sun, you put your little girl in unfamiliar arms, praying to God to protect her because you have no other choice.

And then you wait.

Late that evening, you realize that even though you have not spoken to God in many years He was still listening for your voice.  He heard you.

The unfamiliar arms return with your daughter.  And with more than enough medication to make her well again.

This time you run across the border with some friends you meet who are also running.  One of your new friends knows a wealthy family who is housing refugees just across the border.

When you arrive at the family’s house with your children and your friends you are welcomed with open arms.  Once again you put your little family’s lives into the hands of strangers.  Once again, you have made the right choice.

For two weeks, they buy you dresses, clothes for your daughter and milk for your baby boy.  You feel safe, and for the first time in weeks, you feel loved.

One day the family sits with you and tells you the militia has heard of your hiding place.  You are no longer safe.  Soon they will come to attack your benefactors, your friends and you. 

However, the family has a plan for you and your friends.  They write a letter for you to take to a friend of theirs who lives further from the border.  Further from danger.

One more time, you run.

After many months, you return home to a country you no longer recognize.  Your family is shattered.  The course of your life, unrecognizable.  Yet in the midst of loss, of pain, of mourning, you understand the only way to move forward is through reconciliation.

Reconciliation is a bitter pill, but you know there is no other way to a future made whole.

So you hold your breath.  Close your eyes.

And swallow.

Your name is Chantal. 

You are a survivor.

You are loved by God.

If only I could write like this…

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Foy Vance. 

I just walked in the door of my beloved little house in beloved Franklin, TN.  I have about three entries in various stages of completion but I had to stop and process all that I experienced over the last ten days before I could finish any of them.  Stay tuned! In the meantime, my close friend Tivo and I have some catching up to do… 

My mind is racing and my heart is full after two days in Rwanda.  We have not met one person who was not affected by the 1994 Genocide.  Yet the people of this country are exhibiting a supernatural ability to forgive and reconcile for the greater good of the nation.  Imprisoned Hutus are now returning to assimilate amongst the surviving family and friends of their Tutsi victims.  Those who ask for forgiveness receive it.  Not because they deserve it, but because the survivors know that bitterness is a prison.

To forgive is to be free.

Welcome to Dubai International Airport:

I’m on my way to Rwanda and I thought I’d take you along.  I’ll be posting as I am able throughout the trip.  I give you the inaugural entry… 

The airline switched planes on us in Detroit so we were on a much smaller plane.  That meant we could only take one piece of luggage on the plane.  I had two pieces.  Everything was with me so nothing is lost in transit.  So, after a quick repacking in the waiting area to accommodate a couple of days of clothing should said bag get lost, I board the plane. 

Me = happy and content (dare I say smug?) because I have an exit row seat.  Window.  Perfect for a red-eye to Amsterdam.  A scrawny Dutch guy has the aisle seat.  Nobody boarding is very large so it looks like my luck is kicking in. 

And then… 

The Russian Strongman team boards at the last minute.  And I’m not kidding.  They had the matching track jackets to prove it.  The biggest, widest, most Russian of them all is assigned the middle seat.   

Next.  To.  Me. 

Soon the panic induced by the armrests groaning as he squeezed into his seat was replaced by the sunburn to the right side of my face from his body heat.  My new bosom buddy (!) was clearly more uncomfortable than I.  In fact, it was not so bad being wedged between his triceps and the window.  I was able to sleep without worrying about slouching or nodding!  I would have taken a photo but I couldn’t move enough to get my camera or phone out of my backpack…

We all made it to Amsterdam safely and now I’m in Dubai waiting for our flight to Addis Ababa en route to Kigali. More to come!

Let’s see how the guys do tonight, shall we? 

First up:  Michael Johns.  Can’t wait to see what he does tonight!  Is one considered a “jock” in the US if their sport of choice is tennis?  Not sure about that…Love the song…can’t go wrong with a little Fleetwood Mac.  And it suits him well.  Not his best, but still loved it. 

Jason Castro:  Another favorite from last week.  He has the guitar again…good move, but he’s going to have lose it sometime soon.  Great song and performance again this week.   

Luke Menard:  I still don’t get him.  Crappy song.  Crappy vocal.  You know you’re in trouble when the background singers have a lower voice than you.  It’s time to go home… 

Robbie Carrico:  The drag racing?  Actually, not a surprise.  He.  Is.  Not.  A.  Rock.  Singer.  He has a good voice, but he’s not what he thinks he is.  He’s a pop singer.  Just so-so tonight.  And I didn’t get the song choice. 

Danny Noriega:  I don’t get him this week either.  Really pitchy and weird vibrato tonight.  Not to mention the big rainbow-colored elephant in the room.  He’s too over the top. 

David Hernandez:  I really didn’t get him last week.  Good vocal this week, but I just don’t connect with his performance style.  Kinda awkward.  Kinda Vegas. 

Jason Yeager:  Couldn’t stand him last week.  And you now what?  Don’t like him this week either.  He’s like karaoke at a white-man-can’t-dance convention.  Complete with the white man overbite.  And what was that last “move”?  GO.  HOME.   

Chikezie:  Not great last week.  Way better this week, but still not doing it for me. 

David “The Word Nerd “Cook:  I liked him last week and I think I like him better this week.  Great song for him.  REALLY enjoyed him!   

David Archuleta:  Can’t wait to see him tonight!  Singing one of my favorite songs.  And I’m going to download it TONIGHT.  He was fantastic.  Fan.  Tas.  Tic.   

Flawless.