AAPI Reflection

The last few weeks have been especially exhausting for the AAPI (Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders) community. The Atlanta shootings were a tipping point to the frustration that many Asian Americans have felt over the past year of rising anti-Asian hate crimes. To be honest, it felt like AAPIs had been screaming out into a void for months and while it was a welcome relief that the world finally stopped to notice and listen to our pain, it was so, so disheartening that it took such tragic attacks to get its attention.

The silence, ignorance, and seeming disregard of non-Asians was deafening and especially hurtful because one of the main ways that AAPIs experience racism and discrimination is in being gaslit, dismissed, and silenced when we do speak out. (It’s also tempting to think this is “not as bad” as the racism and discrimination that other BIPOC face, but comparing whose experience of racism is “worse,” jokingly referred to as the Oppression Olympics, loses sight of the issue at hand and is unproductive. Racism is racism and not okay no matter what form it takes.)

The shootings revealed to me and many other AAPIs just how much we have been trained to stay quiet about our suffering, not just by our own Asian cultures but by the culture of Whiteness that dominates mainstream American life. So on top of processing the tragic events of that Tuesday evening and the recent rise in (or awareness of) anti-Asian hate crimes, many of us were also left reeling in the sobering realization that we had never even noticed, let alone dealt with, our own racial trauma.

I had to get off social media because it was all too much. I felt so torn because those who know me know how passionate I am about talking about issues of race, especially about the Asian American experience. I wanted to be a voice and an advocate at a time when it seemed like more people were actually listening and caring. But that stems from such a scarcity mindset and being okay with settling for scraps. I want to have more faith in people’s capacity and desire to care, even when it’s not “trendy” to.

Jenny Wang from @asiansformentalhealth posted that Tuesday evening, “Dear AAPI family, it has been nonstop. Please listen to your body and mind. Give it what it needs tonight. This fight will outlast our lifetimes and we will take it up tomorrow.” It was a sobering reminder for me to remember that this fight for racial equality and increasing awareness of the AAPI experience WILL outlast my lifetime so how do I take care of myself so that I can be in it for my lifetime? Thank you to those who’ve reached out and extended love and grace during this exhausting time.

I have gained a newfound level of empathy and compassion for the Black community through this experience. It isn’t until you personally experience the full-body, holistic exhaustion of your pain being thrust into the world’s spotlight that you are able to understand this unique type of pain. Friends, it is truly exhausting. The sudden influx of messages from friends asking what they can do to help, saying they never knew this was even an issue, and some even writing the issue of racism off through statements of spiritual bypassing like, “We all just need to love one another and read the Word more” are all well-intentioned but not helpful. I have learned what NOT to do when someone is grieving. (If you did any of those things, please don’t reach out and apologize; it centers you in the discussion and adds more of a burden to the person in pain. Receive this as a firm but loving moment of self-introspection and growth instead. 😘)

I wrote this in my journal on March 14, two days before the Atlanta shootings: “I am thankful to be Asian American. As challenging as it’s been to process and unearth ways I have suppressed my culture in an effort to assimmilate and fit in with mainstream White culture, I am thankful I am not White! I am thankful for how I have always been interested in race and that this passion has found an outlet on social media and in real-life discussions with people who are willing to listen and understand and be challenged in their thinking because they trust me and have a relationship with me. I am thankful for a perspective and the chance to share it.”

That last line says it all–I am thankful for a perspective and the chance to share it. Thank you for listening; it means more than you know. 💛


Conviction. I’ve been thinking about this concept lately. It’s a word that is used in a court of law when someone is “convicted” of a crime but it is also a word that is often tossed around in Christian circles. The Holy Spirit “convicts” Christians, not by declaring them guilty in a court of law, but by gently convincing their conscience to see specific areas of sin in their lives (another difficult word to define, but in short, I think sin is evidence of a corrupt heart that is bent towards things not of God). It’s important to note that conviction from God ultimately results in hope and a desire to change, not despair and a sense of shame.

2020-meme in 2020 | Really funny memes, Stupid memes, Funny relatable memes

That being said, I’ve been feeling convicted by God lately about how I’ve referred to 2020. The whole world has suffered from this pandemic and it is commonplace for people to complain about what a horrible year it’s been. Misery loves company, right? We tend to bond with others over our shared pain, which is not a bad thing! I’ve enjoyed all the memes about 2020 being represented by a dumpster fire, how it’s cute we’re all acting like things will be back to normal on January 1, 2021, how kids in the future have their work cut out for them when they study the year 2020 in history class, the list goes on.

It is considered normal and acceptable to complain to your heart’s content about what a terrible year it’s been. And again, let me affirm that it truly has been a terrible year. From the global pandemic to the protests against racial injustice to the divisive election cycle to everyone being emotionally dysregulated from having to change, stop, and adjust their daily routines, we are justified in our complaint! We should all be rewarded for simply surviving and making it to December.

Conviction is when God convinces your conscience of something in your heart that is different than what’s in His heart:

• “Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things.” (Colossians 3:2)

• “Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise.” (Philippians 4:8)

• “Don’t use foul or abusive language. Let everything you say be good and helpful, so that your words will be an encouragement to those who hear them.” (Ephesians 4:29)

My coworkers and I spent some time reflecting on this season of Advent this past week. A season of hope and anticipation as the Church remembers and celebrates both the birth and return of Christ. I made a comment about how 2020 has been a joke of a year and that’s when I suddenly felt convicted for having such a pessimistic attitude. Sure, 2020 has been pretty chaotic, but God has still been faithful through it.

We’ve had one of the most, if not the most, successful fundraising years at Every Orphan’s Hope. Our team keeps referring to it as a “circumstance-defying year,” because it truly doesn’t make any sense given the events of the year. Despite the incredible amount of loss and disruption that we have all endured, God has still provided for the needs of the orphan and widow in Zambia. God has still provided for us and our families. God has still provided and been with us through it all. And that deserves some praise and recognition, does it?

I felt convicted by the fact that our words and attitudes matter. They have the ability to hurt or to heal. They can be used to break down or build up. They can join in with other voices around them in complaining about things they can’t change or they can walk against the grain to bring encouragement, hope, and kindness.

Conviction ultimately brings about hope and a desire to change, not despair and a sense of shame. Your words are powerful. How are you using them?


I recently discovered that every day in the Creation account in Genesis ends with, “And there was evening, and there was morning—the first [second, third, etc.] day.”

This order of evening being mentioned first, along with the fact that Jewish people observe shabbat, or the Sabbath, starting at sundown on Friday evening, made me start wondering if each new day actually begins at sunset and not sunrise.


What if God intended for each of our days to begin in the stillness and tranquility that accompanies the sunset instead of the stress and hustle that accompanies the sunrise?

What if the very moment we think our days end is actually the very moment our next day begins? What if we were able to intentionally observe the start of the new day each evening instead of letting it passively pass us by while we are already fast asleep?

I think there is something beautiful about God intentionally ordering the day to move from darkness to light instead of light to darkness. A crescendo of hope, warmth, and clarity with each new day.

As an Enneagram type 7, I’ve found myself feeling frustrated by this “forced” season of slowing down, being still, and being present right where I am instead of constantly looking forward to the next fun adventure. I’m used to having travel-filled summers and a busy social calendar, so it’s been uncomfortable to stay put and wrestle with what true contentment looks and feels like.

What if God is using this pandemic to remind His creation to go back to the basics of His Creation? To value the moments of calm and stillness before the day begins?

What if we have it all flipped around? What if being still really is worth more than being busy? What if rest really is productive? Selah.

Wow. Chills.

black mary

”sometimes I wonder
if Mary breastfed Jesus.
if she cried out when he bit her
or if she sobbed when he would not latch.
and sometimes I wonder
if this is all too vulgar
to ask in a church
full of men
without milk stains on their shirts
or coconut oil on their breasts
preaching from pulpits off limits to the Mother of God.
but then i think of feeding Jesus,
birthing Jesus,
the expulsion of blood
and smell of sweat,
the salt of a mother’s tears
onto the soft head of the Salt of the Earth,
feeling lonely
and tired
and i think,
if the vulgarity of birth is not
honestly preached
by men who carry power but not burden,
who carry privilege but not labor,
who carry authority but not submission,
then it should not be preached at all.
because the real scandal of the Birth of God
lies in the cracked nipples of a
14 year old
and not in the sermons of ministers
who say women
are too delicate
to lead.”

-Kaitlin Hardy Shetler

Painting by Tim Okamura

Quarantine Thoughts


After first acknowledging the suckiness of this season we’re all currently in, one of my professors posed this thought-provoking question yesterday: If all this magically ended tomorrow—no restrictions, no fear, everything goes back to whatever normalcy is—what would you lose?

He repeated the question.
*More silence*

To be honest, I was kind of offended by the question at first. what would I lose?! How is that even a legitimate question? How could this season of quarantine and social distancing and oh y’know, a global pandemic where hundreds of thousands of people are DYING, possibly offer something that I would be sad to lose after it ends??

I guess i might lose the sacredness I currently feel for the simple things in life, like hearing the birds sing in the morning or feeling the sun on my skin or being more intentional about connecting with loved ones from afar.

I guess I might lose the level of appreciation I feel for the things I’ve taken for granted, like my health and having enough food in the fridge and my freedom to travel and do whatever I want with my time.

As much as I miss grabbing coffee or meals with friends and having plans in the evenings, I might lose the surprising freedom I now feel from having an empty social calendar.

But most of all, I guess I would lose this feeling of discomfort that being still brings that I believe is necessary for personal reflection and growth.

I’ve been trying to find the balance between accepting the ickiness of this all while not losing sight of the silver linings, so this question was challenging for me to think through.
I’m curious to hear your thoughts: “If everything went back to normal tomorrow, what would you lose?”

Remembering the tension.

I came back from Zambia exactly one year ago last night, which means one year ago today was my first full day back in America after my six months abroad. I feel like I’ve lived three lifetimes since then, ha!


This was my last photo taken in Zambia before I left. Some of my team members escorted me to the airport and very generously allowed my best friend Tinta and her (slash my) baby Martha to tag along for the trip! It was Tinta’s first time to the airport and it meant so much to me that my team let her join to see me off because she was a huge part of why my time in Zambia was so wonderful! Tinta worked and lived at the same boarding house I stayed at and she really became my family while I was there. If you’ve heard me share anything about my time in Zambia, you’ve most likely heard about Tinta and how much I learned from her!

The transition back home to the US was R O U G H for me. It was way easier to adjust to life in Africa than it was to come back home to America. In addition to missing my new family in Africa, I found myself constantly comparing the comforts of first-world living to the daily realities I faced in Zambia.

To be honest, I was really mad and judgey towards Americans for a while. I’d hear people complain about literal first-world problems and I couldn’t stop my brain from thinking back to Tinta and her family’s humble home where we’d prepare food over a charcoal-burning brazier and eat with our hands while sitting on the concrete floor surrounded by flies in the sweltering heat. I’d see people enjoying beers at my favorite outdoor patio bar and cast judgment on them for not realizing how privileged they were to not only have disposable income to spend on overpriced drinks but to have free time to just sit in the sun and do nothing.

I cried more in those first few months back than I’ve ever cried before. I felt stuck in-between all these different worlds and I didn’t know where “home” was anymore. For months, the only word I could think of to describe how I felt was “displaced.” I hated feeling disgusted by the luxuries I once enjoyed (and are not inherently bad!) but I also didn’t want to make anyone feel guilty for enjoying those luxuries (because they aren’t inherently bad!) so I just felt stuck and alone with my inner conflict. It was the worst!

But as time would have it, we adjust and adapt to our surroundings super well and here I am one year later, almost back to functioning as if I had never left! Of course I’ve changed a TON through my time in Zambia, but it’s kind of sad how quickly I’ve forgotten all those uncomfortable feelings and tensions I experienced. It was easier (and probably healthier) to just put them in a box and store them away so that I could move on…

But today I want to remember that tension again. Not to feel guilty about first-world living, not to feel pity about third-world living, but to feel that sense of gratitude I felt after the angry judging phase wore off those first few months I was back. We don’t need to feel bad about how we live or about how others live because it’s our normal, every day reality and it’s their normal, every day reality. I just think we could all benefit from a little reminder to be grateful for the life we’re living and where we’re living it! So if you’ve somehow made it to the end of my external processing here, I’m grateful for your life and how you embrace it today!


I was only one week into seventh grade. My Computer teacher ignored the loudspeaker notice to keep all classroom TVs off and our middle school class watched as the headlines flashed on the screen: “World Trade Center On Fire.” A girl in our class started crying and was brought into the hallway. The rest of us murmured in confusion to each other, “What happened? What’s the World Trade Center? I think it’s in the City. It’s the Twin Towers!” Panic ensued. “My dad works in the City! My mom does too!” At 12 years old I recalled that my dad worked in the City at one point but I couldn’t remember if he still did. What if he was in the City today?! My heart rate quickened.

Everyone was sent home early that day. When I got home, the news was already on and I watched in horror as the footage of the crashing planes and falling towers replayed. America was under attack.

The silence that fell over this land the following months was deafening. No amount of U.S. flags lining the streets could ease the pain from our nation being punched in the gut. The only semblance of hope that came out of that dark day was seeing how Americans stood united and truly loved their neighbors as themselves (although some struggled to love our Muslim neighbors…but I digress).


Three months later, my cousin and her friend came to visit us in Jersey. We spent a whole night planning and creating a poster to bring to Ground Zero as a tribute to our country’s heroes, both awake and asleep. I’ll never forget being in the City that Christmas Eve at just 12 years old with my humble contribution towards our nation’s healing.

Three months after the attack, the rubble of debris still lay in a heap and the smell of smoke was still in the air.

Today, the Freedom Tower proudly stands watch over the Memorial. The rubble and smoke is long gone but we will #NeverForget.

Crazy Rich Asians

I finally watched Crazy Rich Asians last night and left the theater declaring how proud I was to be Asian, ha! It reminded me of how I felt after I watched Wonder Woman dominate the screen or how Black Panther made me want to shout “Wakanda Forever!” as an honorary Zambian.
There is something so empowering about watching your minority culture be unapologetically displayed on-screen to majority culture moviegoers. This. Never. Happens!!
It’s so validating to have your culture shown to the masses in a light that is not condescending, derogatory, or stereotypical. To see Asian faces playing characters with true depth and speaking English without Asian accents. What a relief to see a more accurate representation of the Asian American experience be shown to the world.
The movie featured old-school Chinese songs I heard as a kid, the Chinese language being used in non-stereotypical scenes, and delicious Southeast Asian food I grew up eating and just recently traveled to Malaysia for! My parents know all three dialects that were spoken in the movie and I love that there were specific Asian moments that were not explained or translated.
I’m so grateful the filmmakers turned down the Netflix deal to push for the big-screen release. Here’s to more representation in the industry. #加油!

A squint into my Asian American experience.

I have always been fascinated by the topic of race. Growing up, my family was the token Asian family in our neighborhood, my best friend was the token black girl on the block, I went to predominantly white schools, and most of the friends I hung out with were from our Chinese church. I’ve received my fair share of racist remarks, from the classic “Chinese, Japanese” eye-pulling children’s rhyme to “Go back to China!” remarks to “compliments” about my English being “really good!” (eye roll)


For a few years in middle and high school, I attended Chinese school on Saturday mornings with the other Chinese American kids whose parents wanted them to retain their culture and language despite growing up in the US of A. It was there that I learned that all Asians really do know each other and that being called “whitewashed” was the biggest insult someone could give me. (“Whitewashed” is a derogatory term used to describe a non-white person who has seemingly rejected his/her own cultural heritage to fit in with the mainstream white culture.) I prided myself on being able to speak Chinese and I never understood why the kids at school thought my lunches smelled weird. In high school I was part of the step team, which was a fun mixture of blacks, Hispanics, and Asians and the few white girls on the team were considered minorities for those few hours after school each week.

When I went to college, I was afraid I wouldn’t have any Asian friends since Penn State is basically an all-white school. This lack of diversity was such a well-known fact that one semester, the student satirical journal made one of those motivational teamwork posters that showed a bunch of white hands interlocking and read, “Diversity: because we’re all different shades of white” with the Penn State logo in the corner. (It’s okay, you can laugh at that. It’s hilarious!)

I found myself in the Asian circles my freshman and sophomore year until I decided I didn’t want my whole college experience to exist within the confines of that exclusive bubble. Large groups of Asians would swarm around campus together as if they were one entity. I didn’t understand why college was so segregated when it was supposed to be a place you got to meet and interact with people from different walks of life than you! When you walked through the student union building, there was a clear black students section, a clear Asian students section, and a clear international students section. (The white students section existed everywhere outside of those three sections, ha!)

I spent most of my time with my friends from my dorm, which meant I was usually the only Asian in any given group I was with (sometimes one of two, gasp!). I eventually started taking pride in being the token Asian and even found myself judging the Asians who would only hang out with other Asians (“because it’s easier”). I was very content with my newfound friend group and the term “whitewashed” no longer offended me–I was fitting in with the mainstream culture!

I missed my high school stepping days so I joined a step team in college that happened to be paired with a gospel choir (though I was definitely not a part of the choir!). This time I was the only non-black person on the team! Suddenly I found myself as the minority within another minority group.

Hanging out with my black friends was so much fun and like entering another world from my day-to-day college life. I learned about weaves and waves and shouting, “Ya betta saaang!” when someone hit a high note. I was welcomed in as one of them and we all cracked racial jokes at each other. It was somehow okay because I was another minority and a neutral party of sorts. Because I stood in this neutral territory, I was a safe person for them to freely express themselves around. I remember feeling so cool to be included but also so shocked when I heard my first racist comment towards white people. Huh? How was that okay?? Would they dog on Asians too if I wasn’t there?

I remember when The Princess and the Frog came out in theaters. We were all so excited! The very first black Disney princess! I saw it in theaters with 13 black girls. When the credits rolled, I distinctly remember cheering along with them until one girl stood up and proudly shouted, “I have a black President, that’s my black princess, we’re taking over the world!!” to which I was left speechless as they all celebrated. Was I supposed to cheer with them? But I wasn’t black! But I was happy for them? Wait, what about Asians??

My favorite class at Penn State was a sociology class on race relations where we boldly discussed race issues in a diverse 700-person lecture that included a 15-person recitation class that met once a week. I don’t know how they racially profiled our names to create such diverse recitation classes, but that classroom was the first diverse space I had ever been in where controversial race issues were freely and openly discussed! We had students from every race, students from different socio-economic backgrounds, students from different religions, students from other countries, etc. I realized how beneficial it was to meet, sit down with, and truly listen to people with different perspectives than my own. Needless to say, that was a very educational semester for me.

Now this whole race issue is even more complex for me because I am not just a typical Chinese American whose parents are from China, but I and my parents are a part of the overseas Chinese diaspora, or the 46 million ethnic Chinese who either moved out of or were born outside of China. Both of my parents were born in Southeast Asia, and only two of my grandparents were born in China (later emigrating to Southeast Asia in their 30s). So even among my other Chinese American friends whose parents are from either China, Taiwan, or Hong Kong, I have been an anomaly. My ties to “the motherland” are more removed, so any comments that attempt to tie me back to her are annoying and come off as ignorant. My first trip to China wasn’t even until college! That trip was also my parents’ first time to China, so it was a strange experience for all of us to enter into the culture of our ancestors but feel so alien in it. We were all so excited to finally be back home…in the US!

A few years ago there was a viral video (in the Asian American community, at least) called, “What kind of Asian are you?” The reason that video became such a hit was because it resonated so deeply with Asian Americans everywhere. The all-too-familiar “Where are you from?” question that we get asked on a regular basis, inevitably followed by its evil twin of a question when our answers don’t suffice–“No…where are you really from?” are the banes of our existence. Because it’s not possible for us to actually be from New Jersey, or Texas, or California…even when we speak English with a perfect American accent, even when we cheer for our favorite football team while drinking Budweiser at a tailgate, even when we sing The Star-Spangled Banner on the Fourth of July while dressed head-to-toe in red, white, and blue and eating hot dogs and apple pies and Twinkies and all the fried foods during a NASCAR race!!! I digress. Because Amurica can’t possibly look like we do even though that’s what makes her so great to begin with, right?? (For the record, the correct way to ask that question is, “What is your ethnicity?”)

You see, the annoying thing about being Asian American is that we are the perpetual foreigner in our own land. We will never be seen as fully American but when we visit “the motherland,” we will never be seen as fully Asian either. So we exist in our own culture. Some of us choose to “side with” our Asian-ness and band against white people by watching Asian dramas during our dumpling-making parties, while others of us choose to suppress our Asian heritage by drinking lattes at brunch and rocking jean shorts and flower crowns at Bonnaroo to prove our American-ness. (Hey. You do you, Asian reader!)

I recently returned back to the States after spending six months living and working in Lusaka, Zambia. It was one of the most rewarding experiences of my life and I absolutely fell in love with the people I met there, but I definitely do not miss being stared at and catcalled by random men on the sides of the road. Being an Asian American in Africa was an identity crisis waiting to happen, ha! People there either saw me as white because I wasn’t black (something that would never happen back home in America), or they saw me as a Chinese person from China because I didn’t “look American,” AKA white. They would either shout “Chinese! Chinese!” at me when I walked by or “Mzungu! Mzungu!” which is what they call white people. Any time I tried to explain that I was, in fact, an American who was born and raised in America, they would either try to dispute me or look utterly perplexed. Because how can non-white people be from America, right? Facepalm.

Since droves of Chinese immigrants are moving to Zambia for business in recent years and oftentimes either mistreat their Zambian employees or are too proud (read: scared/unwilling) to assimilate to Zambian culture or even smile at locals (which does not help their already poor reputation there), I found it extra pertinent to dissociate myself from that part of my culture. I didn’t like how I would be immediately put in that Chinese box at first glance. You don’t know me! I’d diva-girl snap at them in my head. The negative reputation of the Chinese there made me scorn my own heritage even more. I would purposefully greet Zambians in their local language just to separate myself from “those” Chinese people. “You’re so nice! You’re not like the other Chinese people,” I would often hear. “Well, I’m not Chinese…” I’d try to explain. But deep-down inside, I hated that I felt this need to suppress that part of my heritage!

The movie Black Panther came out in theaters two weeks before my six months in Zambia was up, so I watched it in a packed theater with some of my (Zambian) friends. I found myself feeling equally as empowered as the rest of the theater watching the Wakandans dominate the screen and I even picked up on some cultural nuances I’d probably have missed out on had I not spent this past half year immersed in African culture. The movie did a great job showcasing the beauty of African culture and it felt especially meaningful to watch it with my African brothers and sisters (one of whom even knew two of the three languages being spoken in the movie!).

But what was most interesting about the movie was how different my Zambian friends’ interpretation of it was from mine! They did not catch how it symbolized the racial tensions between whites and blacks in the States. They did not think about the double standards that American minorities face on a daily basis when it comes to equal rights. They could not fully embrace why it was such an important and empowering movie for Black Americans. Don’t get me wrong, they also loved the African representation in Hollywood and the all-black cast (with one or two white people), but their interpretation of it was different than mine because their life experience is different than mine. They thought more about the colonialization of African countries by white Westerners, the corruption of government leaders seeking power and wealth at the expense of others, and the competition between various tribal communities within Africa.

I started thinking about how complex race issues are and where I fit into those discussions. I thought back to the racist comments my black friends in college made about white people. I thought back to my own experiences with racism and prejudice as an Asian American female. I thought back to my own judgements against Asians who host exclusively Asian dumpling-making parties. And I realized that I am a part of the problem too!

But then I thought about all of the beautiful relationships I’ve formed over the years with people who are not like me. What would it look like if we could all humble ourselves enough to enter into the world of someone who looks different than we do, who believes differently than we do, who lives differently than we do?

Prior to working for the orphan ministry I work for now, I worked for another ministry in Dallas that focused on loving the marginalized of society because Jesus loves them even if/when/though the Church seems distant. I found myself in unlikely places through this job–street corners of high-crime areas with drug addicts, refugee neighborhoods with immigrant families, gay bars with members of the occult, Korean brothels with likely trafficked mama-sans, strip club parking lots with single moms, community colleges with students from the Middle East, section 8 housing with ex-criminals. My eyes were opened to the indisputable thread between humanity and how Christ’s offering of love on the Cross was for all of humanity–all of them, all of us. I think that season of my life prepared me for this most recent season in Zambia.

The reason I fell in love with the people I met in Zambia is because we welcomed each other’s differences with open arms. I did all I could to learn their language, to eat their food, to sit in the dirt with them and they did all they could to teach me their language, share their meals with me, and invite me to sit in the dirt with them. We allowed ourselves to face our differences and in the process, realized how insignificant those differences really were. Because we are all members of one Family.

And I guess that’s kind of the point of all this race talk, huh? That despite all of our racial identity issues, we all ultimately belong to the same human race and the same all-powerful, all-knowing, all-present God created each one of us in His image. So we should accept and love each other as brothers and sisters of the same Family–God’s.

I know, I know. That seems like an oversimplified solution to this whole race issue, us all being part of God’s big family…but is it, really? Wakanda is alluring because it is a glimpse into a world where we really do see each other as members of the same family–a world where we freely share our resources with one another, a world where we truly care for one another as brothers and sisters, a world where our differences become insignificant against the backdrop of our shared humanity. It’s alluring to us because that’s the type of world we were made for, and it starts with each of us choosing to reclaim our citizenship in that world and acting like members of that society even while we are still living in this one. It starts with us looking within at our own life experiences and choosing to see the “other” as our brother, no matter how different he may seem. It starts with us humbling ourselves to leave our comfortable little worldview long enough to enter into the world of someone who looks different than we do, who believes differently than we do, who lives differently than we do, because maybe, just maybe, they can help us see a fuller picture of this beautiful world we live in…and maybe, just maybe, we won’t have to squint to see it anymore.

[Please comment if you read through this novel of a post! I’d love to hear your thoughts!]

Back to America!

I’m back in the US of A after six wonderful months in Zambia! Here’s a quick glimpse into what my last three weeks there were like and some insight into what’s next! (Also, this 6+ minute video would’ve taken at least three hours to upload in Zambia but it only took THREE MINUTES here!!!! Hahaaaa!)

Back to America-screenshot

Thank you all for being on this journey with me! Your prayers, encouragement, and support have carried me through and I have come back a changed person. God is good. The work that He is doing in Zambia through Every Orphan’s Hope is no joke and I am humbled that He’s allowed me to be a part of it. Thank YOU for being a part of it too!!

To check out some of the work I did in Zambia, visit everyorphan.org/givehope or click these videos below!

YE_Lisa_screenshot1 YE_Clement-screenshot YE_Esther-screenshot YE_Lubasi-screenshot