Visiting Hours

Excited, I hop into the auto rickshaw waiting outside. I am going to visit my kids. I am starting to become more familiar with the road to their house from mine. The rickshaw driver speeds and swerves through bustling traffic, the constant honking of horns and zooming motorcycles trying to cut ahead. I sit in the center of the seat, peacefully amidst it all, while still taking it all in. I steadily watch the sidelines of the busy road I am on- women bartering for their fruits and vegetables, men crowded around the food stand for a snack or an afternoon cup of chai, children giggling as they walk home from school. This sight has become familiar to me. “This is the world my kids live in. How different it is from the one I’ve lived in for 23 years”, I think to myself. My vibrant ride to the orphanage causes me to fall in love with India a little bit more. I fall more in love with the country where my kids were born, the country they’ve grown up in, the only country they’ve ever known, their home. 

I arrive. I walk towards the doorway, a little nervous to enter as I usually am. I slip my shoes off, step inside, and look for the secretary so I can ask for permission to go back and visit with the children. I remind her that I am with Sarah’s Covenant Homes and I will be taking the group with HIV soon. She smiles and gives me the “ok” to go back and see them.

I walk down the long, dark, narrow hallway. I look over at room after room I pass by on my way, each filled with small seas of children. Unlike walking through a school and seeing small groups of children in many different rooms, I cannot help but think that this is much different. This is not a sweet orphanage you read about in your church bulletin with butterflies and bible verses painted on the walls. This is an institution, operated by a government. This is where India holds their abandoned children. This is where I see the stark difference between SCH and a government institution.

I get to my kids room. There they are- all huddled up together on the floor sleeping. I am told it’s their nap time. Slowly, they begin to wake up, rubbing their sleepy eyes awake. I reach for a few of the toys tucked away on top of one of the cabinets. The kids perk up and scuffle their feet quickly across the floor to eagerly receive the toys that rarely get taken down from the shelves by someone tall enough. All of a sudden, I look around the room and they are happily playing. Content. Simple. Innocent. 

We spend the next hour on the floor. We read books. We play pretend with the tea cup and pot. We giggle about the monkey that makes funny noises when you push a button on his belly. They play with my hair. We smile at each other when we can’t find the words to say in each other’s language. I escape. And for a moment, I pretend that this is us together in our own living room, in our own home.

Then I hear the shuffling of more little feet around me. I look up and see a line of children from another room at the doorway. They’re all holding onto the shoulders of the one in front of them as they walk down the hallway. I stare as the line continues to pass from one end of the doorway to the other, one child after the next.

After the line finishes passing, I look around the room, amidst all that is going on around me, my kids grabbing my face for my attention and showing me the pictures in the books they are reading. Their need for my attention becomes greater as I get distracted with the sudden realization of my surroundings. The grey walls, the tiny window in the corner that is fogged over with bars on it, the humble straw matt on the floor where they all curl up together and sleep every night look back at me. 

“My kids live here”, the voice inside of my head speaks bluntly

“This is their life”, it continues

“This is all they’ve ever known”, and on it goes

“How have they possibly gone on this way?”, the words pounding in my head

I understand. Some kids have slept on the streets their whole lives. Some kids have been forced under much worse conditions. Some people suffer greater. It’s always worse for another isn’t it?

But those are my kids in there.

A shift happens when something becomes yours. When all of a sudden, you have a responsibility to care for something with everything inside of you because you know that’s what they deserve. And no matter what it is, or how many of them there are, when they’re yours, you’ll stake your life on protecting it.  

My babies.

And while they do not know what they are missing out on in a childhood and they do not know another life outside of the four walls of that small, windowless room in a hallway full of rooms just like it… I do. I do know the richness and fullness of life. I know the beauty of childhood because I experienced it growing up. I know what it is to run outside in green grass and climb trees and play hopscotch in the driveway with my friends. I know what it was to have tea parties with my mommy and have my daddy tuck me into bed at night. I know what it feels like to be woken up late at night by my mom kissing me on the forehead and I know the sweet embarrassment of hearing her yell in front of all my friends at school, “I love you Natalie Grace!” I knew security. I knew nurture. I knew a family.

Why me?

Why not them instead?

Beauty and gloom.

The spirit of a child and something tainted.

Joy and despair.

All represented before me as I watch my children naively and happily play with their toys in what seems to me to be one of the darkest, most depressing places I’ve ever been.

This is the not the way it was supposed to be.

All of a sudden, they are lining up at the door. Time for dinner. Which means time for me to go. I wave goodbye. I blow a kiss. I say, “I’ll be back soon.”

I get back in the rickshaw to go home. I sit square in the center of that seat again with the busyness of the streets still at play in full. This time, I feel numb to it all. The enthusiasm in my face is gone. I’m discouraged. Beaten down by the pain of this world. Angry at the inequality of their lives and mine. Burdened in a whole new way. With no flinch in my face and no evidence of emotion besides the tears on my cheeks, I cry the way back home.

Right before I left Seattle to come to India my sister wrote me a card of farewell and encouragement. I will never forget the words she wrote because they repeated themselves back to me in my moment of defeat in the rickshaw today.

“Don’t ever stop fighting for beauty- because you know what it is, you see it, and it matters to you. Even if (and especially when) its weight feels like it’s crushing you, don’t forget that it’s the only battle worth having”.

And so I’ll get back up, dust myself off and continue to fight. 

A Letter From Mom

Dear darling daughters,

            They say love can either come slowly or it can come fast. When it does comes fast, the chances of falling hard are high. Seeing you for the first time today, I fell fast and hard. It didn’t take long for you to wrap me around your fingers and let your sweet faces make my heart so giddy I felt like it could burst. Like a mother waits in anticipation for her unborn baby or the adoption of her child, so I have waited in anticipation for you. I have dreamed about you, had my thoughts consumed with you and eagerly prepared my heart for you up until this day. Technically, I should have walked into a room full of strangers today. But I walked into a room full of my daughters. You are my girls. And I love you all with a deep, deep love. I think I knew that long before meeting you. 

There are a few things I want you to hear from your foster mama.

I want you to know that my love for you is not a reflection of the goodness and charity in my human heart. You are not a charity case. You are not a good volunteer opportunity. You are not “a year abroad to serve the less fortunate”. You are so much more than that. And you are loved by something much bigger than the mere passion in my heart. You are loved by me because I am loved by God. I desire to give you no other love than that of what God has already graciously lavished onto me. Because that kind of love pierces through darkness, tears down the strongest of walls and heals the most painful, deep, broken parts of your heart- something that my sheer humanness cannot even come close to giving you.

I want you to know that I am not naïve to your pain. When I look into each of your eyes, I see so much more than a sweet, silly, beautiful little girl. I see a forced maturity, a robbed childhood, the injustice and cruelty of this world. I want you to know that I will fight to see that you get innocence, justice, and carefree pieces of childhood handed back to you. I can’t promise you a lot of things, but I can promise you that when you come to live with me, we will start a journey together towards your healing and restoration. I promise to lighten your load, to carry your burdens with you and to invite your pain to be mine, too.

I am not perfect. I will not be a perfect foster mother to you. I will fail you and it will be more than once. But in my both my failure and my victory as your foster mom, I hope to point you towards the only true perfection, the only flawless parent, your healing place and strong tower where you will never be shaken. His name is Jesus. And He will never, ever fail you. 

I pray that our home is a sanctuary of safety, security and peace for you.  I pray that when you experience the love of a mother, you experience the love of your Father in heaven. I pray that when I make mistakes and need your forgiveness, you see my humility. I pray that when you see me, you really just see Jesus. He is the best thing I will ever give you. 

Darling daughters, I wait in great hope for you to come home. You are loved by so many already. 

Love, 

Natalie Akka

On Saying, "Goodbye For Now"

When I said yes to a year in India back in January, I don’t think I was quite aware of the weight of that “Yes”. Now, days away from moving to India for a year, I feel the weight of that “Yes” with every day that approaches closer to September 19.

If I’m honest, it’s been a startling realization for me to see what I am leaving behind when I board that plane with a one-way ticket in my hand. My entire life has been in the Seattle area, in the northwest, miles away from the ocean in one direction, miles away from the mountains in the other, with family and friends always a short drive away. The longest move I’ve ever made was across the 5-20 bridge from Seattle’s suburbia into the city. In many ways, this life I live in Seattle is the only life I’ve ever really known.

But more importantly than that are the relationships that live in Seattle. I’ve known rich relationship here. I am surrounded by people that know me, love me, accept me, and even laugh at me because they know I’m a weirdo. It feels really good to know that you are surrounded by people who are in it with you for the long haul.

If I were to freeze my life right now, I would say I’ve got it made with the friends I have, the city I live in, a college degree I’ve worked hard for, a number of job opportunities in my field, and the freedom of being young and independent. I’m pretty comfortable with where my life is at here in Seattle. And deep down, I think that really scares me.

I’m learning a lot as I prepare to leave. So often these past few weeks, I’ve had moments where the sudden rush of tears, the kind that come from so very deep inside of you, well up and almost take the very breath out of me. I'm starting to see that saying goodbye, no matter what or who it is you are saying goodbye to, is a season of grief. I think the mixture of graduating from 4 years of college and moving across the world 3 months later has been new, uncharted territory for me. The crash of so many different feelings-of real fear, anxiety, nostalgia, sentiment, reflection, joy, gratitude, hope, and peace have become apart of my daily life. It’s overwhelmed me in ways I can’t even really describe.

I’m scared for what lies ahead, but I fear with hope. I wait in the unknown with sacred peace. I cry tears that hurt, not out of despair but out of gratitude for all that is to be left behind. I grieve because my life here is truly beautiful and overflowing with good things, something that won't be easy to turn around and walk away from. I feel the pain of leaving not because I never want to leave but because I'm pulling out my roots so I can plant them somewhere else for a while. I will board that plane with a feeling of loss but not without knowing that there is much waiting for me to gain when that plane lands.  I’m learning that a grief like this doesn’t lead me to a place where I’m drowning in sadness. No, a grief like this leads me to a place of utter thanks to God, in borderline disbelief at the ways He has given me gift after gift when I definitely didn’t deserve it. Surely, I know now more than I ever have that “every good and perfect thing comes from above.”

I think God has been very gently undoing me and reminding me so tenderly, “See how much I have given you already? Just watch me give you more”

For all that has already been, I look forward to all that is to come with great hope.

This Indian Heart

I would say I’ve always been a dreamer, in every sense of the word. When I was a little girl, I played with my baby dolls and dreamt about the day I would have real babies to call my own. When I was in college, I dreamt of traveling the world and a life without the responsibility of school. I have a tendency to always look ahead for what life has next, which can be both good and bad as it often deters me from living fully in the present. Consistently though, I’ve dreamed of living a life that doesn’t look normal or routine for most people. I’ve put a lot of hope in the fact that my life can look different, if I choose to play my cards wisely.

As most of you know, this fall quarter I got to live and learn in one of the most amazing corners of the world for my last quarter of college. Every day in Guatemala, I was given the space to explore, run free with my thoughts and dreams, and soak in the world around me. The experience gave me the chance to learn the complexity of textbook matter first-hand, and to ask the hard questions while they stared me in the face. It was four months of sheer refreshment and “Pura Vida” (Pure Life in Spanish), as if I were dunking my head for the first time in a natural spring. Those months felt like an undeserving gift handed to me to enjoy for my last moments of college. I finished college in Guatemala and I had the world at my fingertips. In Guatemala I had space to dream, so I did. I dreamed so big that at the end of the day, I felt overwhelmed with all of the passion I found in myself for so many different things and the varying routes they could take me on. I was brimming with hope for the things God could do if I just decided to say “yes”.

One night in Guatemala, I had a dream in my sleep that woke me with a veracity that I knew I wouldn’t be able to run from. In this dream, someone was asking me bluntly “What do you want? Don’t think, just answer. What do you honestly want?” I responded, “I just want to be a mother to the motherless.” In the first moments of that early morning in Antigua, those words repeating themselves in my head, I knew then what my purpose was. I know children who need mothers. I know they are at Sarah’s Covenant Homes in India and I know my time there isn’t finished—it’s actually just beginning.

3 years ago, I went to India for the first time to work with Sarah’s Covenant Homes, a non-profit organization that rescues abandoned children with special needs. I was totally captured by India and the children of SCH, to say the least. By the end of my summer in India, I went home changed like I’ve never been before. I returned the next summer after a seemingly long year apart from the children who won my heart over. And my heart has remained discontented apart from this country and these children ever since. 

So this September, I will be moving to Hyderabad, India to become a foster mother for Sarah’s Covenant Homes. I will be caring for somewhere around 10 children who have recently been rescued from government orphanages where they have been very severely neglected. Because of the unfortunate caste system that still remains alive in Indian society, being born with a disability inescapably throws them in a category of very little to no worth. The children of SCH come to us malnourished, abandoned, and uncared for. The mission and heart of SCH is to claim these unseen children suffering in the margins of society, nurse them back to health and wellness, provide love and care in a family style setting, and place invaluable worth on every life that comes through their doors.

When I was 13, I was captivated by Jesus. I fell in love with Him because of the heart of who He is. I read story after story in the Bible about Jesus touching the untouchable, making clean the dirtiest of sinners and stopping entire crowds of people to bend down and look at the unworthy woman on the ground at his feet. It’s without question that God’s heart is where the unloved, the invisible and the dehumanized are.

I want to be where His heart is.

I want His story to be mine, too.

            I can think of no greater honor than to love these children as if they were my own, and I am humbled that God would allow me to return to the country that first showed me the power of such a love three years ago.

God has been faithful to my wandering, restless, back-and-forth spirit. Through all of that, He’s protected what He’s placed in me before I was even born. And God will protect what He knows will bring Him all of the glory.

“Being confident of this very thing, that He who has begun a good work in you will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ.” Philippians 1:6

So here’s to life taking a new turn! I’ll see you on the road.

I Am Responsible.

These are the facts of my life.

I grew up in middle class America.

I’ve gone to school and continued my education every year since I was 5 years old.

I was given opportunities my entire childhood to play sports, try any musical instrument and get involved with any extra curricular activities I wanted.

My parents loved me, believed in me and supported me in everything I did and they still do.

My mom went back to school in her 40’s so she could get a job at a university that would help send her kids to college.

Because of that, upon graduating from high school, I was able to go to a private Christian University. I was even luckier to receive an education that did more than merely educate its students, but push them towards thinking past tradition, stereotypes, easy answers and half truths. 

I’ve traveled to 8 countries on 3 different continents before my 23^rd birthday.

I’ve been able to see raw poverty, injustice and inequality at an early age and watch my own ignorance and unconsciousness be wiped from my eyes because of it.

I’ve never been molested, raped or physically taken advantage of.

I am a woman.

I am educated.

I am empowered.

But because of the facts of my life, I am a minority in the world of women.

In the world of women…

Babies are aborted before taking a single breath on this earth simply because they are female.

Women and girls are seen as nothing but an expense-another mouth to feed, another body to clothe and another daughter to marry off.

Little girls are forced into marriages to men far more than triple their age when they are as young as 4 or 5 years old.

Women and girls never make it out of elementary school, let alone have the chance go to school in the first place.

Women and girls only dream of going to a university or college and they never see the day where that dream becomes a reality.

Women and girls are seen as nothing worth more than a dishwasher, house cleaner and baby maker.

Women and girls are raped, prostituted, and trafficked all for the pleasure, power and profit of their bodies.

Women and girls are beaten until they are nearly dead by the men in their lives who are supposed to love and protect them. 

Women and girls have allowed themselves to believe the lie that they are just a body and not a brain or a heart or a spirit or a soul.

And because of all of these facts…

I am responsible.

I am responsible to these women in the world-to see more of them go to school, earn college diplomas and become intelligent, strong and passionate people because of it.

I am responsible to the women in the world with no voice- to use mine so they don’t have to suffer in their silence anymore. 

I am responsible to the unborn and unwanted baby girls in the world- to make sure they have a shot at a life and good one at that.

I am responsible to the child brides, the prostitutes, the trafficked, the abused, the uneducated, the disabled, the alone, the missing and the un-advocated for.

I am responsible to myself- to take advantage of the undeserving cards dealt to me and make sure that it doesn’t go to waste on the meaningless and selfish things of the world. To acknowledge every day that I am not entitled to these privileges and that they are a sheer gift. And to use my cards to see one more girl go to school and graduate from college, one less little girl trafficked and one more woman valued for all that she is, from the inside out. 

I am responsible to the ignorant and uninformed- to show them that they can use their privileged hand of cards to make someone else’s life better.

I am responsible to God- to represent His name with honor and truth and to be an usher of His justice, compassion and victory here on earth.

“From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked.” Luke 12:48

A Lesson in Central Park

Today, as I was sitting in central park with a classmate filling out a worksheet for our class, a group of three young boys walked up to us. Close behind them was a middle-aged woman, who was hustling them over to us. As she approached us, she asked us if we spoke English. We told her yes and in her broken English, she began explaining that these boys are currently learning English and they need a fluent english speaker to practice it with. We happily agreed to converse with them so they could practice their English. They were so nervous when she prompted them, each of them shyly smiling, barely looking up and hiding their faces behind their friends. I began to ask them questions in English and the first brave boy responded with his well spoken and thought out English phrases. In my broken and nearly indiscernible spanish, I told them that I too, needed to practice my spanish. We conversed for about 10 minutes or so, giving and taking from what each other had to offer of their language. It was beautiful.

            I’m horrible at Spanish. I took 2 years of it in high school and most of it went right over my head. Ever since I stepped foot in Guatemala, I have felt so lost and confused because I don’t know how to speak the language. Many of my classmates on the trip are either fluent or very good at Spanish. It’s been intimidating and I’ve found myself feeling insecure and incompetent in my inability to keep up. But today, I felt like there was a two way street with these boys and I. No longer was I the only one struggling to understand. For the first time, I had something to give and to teach and to share. And in their nervous yet brave presence, they still had something to give, teach and share with me. 

           

There is something really important about this exchange. We all have something to give each other. And we all have something to receive from each other, too. That statement includes every single person on this earth, no matter who you are or where you come from. 

Loving this country and the way its humbling me already. Thanks for your prayers and support.

                                    View from my balcony, shortly after a 4.6 earthquake!

Thoughts on Being a Human

The other night I was walking down the streets of downtown Seattle with a few friends. As we were strolling back to our car, I looked to my right down a steep bank that had another level of parking. Next to the garbage dumpsters, I saw a man lying on the ground. He was shirtless, dirty, and sprawled out on the concrete. He looked like he had just barely made it to that place to lie down. At first glance, it looked like he wasn’t even alive. It looked like he had chosen that place to crash because it was hidden away where no one could see him. But I saw him. And when I saw him, I immediately looked away. The sight was horrible and the pain that followed felt too heavy to bear. I was in a funk for the rest of the night thinking about it. How did he end up there? What went wrong?

            The next morning, I woke up and found myself thinking about that scene again. I was ashamed of the way I chose to respond to it. Is the unbearable pain I felt for that man really a good enough excuse to look away and keep on walking? Does telling myself,  “I just can’t handle how sad that is” really count as having compassion for a stranger? Because the truth is, Jesus doesn’t turn his face from anyone. He is not concerned about their pain being too much for his heart to bear. Jesus is not afraid of allowing someone else’s pain to become his own. He looks at our pain, no matter how big or small, and bravely stares at it straight in the face. In doing that, Jesus shows us compassion that is boundless. It’s because of this we can know true acceptance and comfort in our darkest hour.

             I’ve really struggled with this lately. How can I walk around the slums of India and allow my heart to embrace the immense amount of suffering and injustice that is everywhere? And how can I be completely overwhelmed and terrified with the same amount of suffering that is on my own neighborhood streets? Why am I not afraid to embrace the pain of others when I’m on the other side of the world, but hit the ground running when it approaches me here in Seattle?   

             
              Vulnerability is scary. Fear can feel relentless sometimes. Compassion doesn’t always feel good. And the human spirit is a powerful thing. The more I think about it, the more I count my encounter with the man by the dumpsters as sheer grace…and a true gift. The fact that we can look at strangers and feel so deeply for them; that is grace. In so many ways, I am just like that man lying by the dumpsters. I’ve felt hopeless and alone. And at the end of the day, it’s a beautiful thing that we share those same feelings, because it connects the human spirit and it doesn’t divide. I count it as no mistake when God decided to make us all human.

             So what’s worse? Embracing the suffering of someone else or embracing apathy in your own heart? At some point, we can’t keep on claiming our own ignorance. There are only so many times you can run and hide.

            Maybe I need to start being brave and allow someone else’s pain to manifest in my own heart. Maybe I need to choose courage and stop allowing fear to have the last word. Maybe in doing this, I will be able to see Jesus a little more clearly. Maybe that’s what it means to run after the heart of God. Maybe that’s what seeing Jesus alive outside of the four corners of a church building looks like. I think I’d rather see Jesus in the face of a drunken homeless man than in a routine church service.

So I’m going to try and stop running away from fear of pain. I think there is more beauty than brokenness in allowing compassion to complete it’s work.