Phoneix and Jerusalem ... Both Hot ... But Not the Same

This morning, I was already awake when my mom opened the door.

"Time for Jerusalem!" she said, happily. Then, she rushed upstairs to make warm bran muffins. I knew she was trying, so hard, to get me excited, ready and rearing for this potentially nerve damaging trip.

No need.

I'll admit, there may have been a small swarm of monarch butterflies in my stomach when I considered meeting my group ... but I was (and I still am) ready to go to Jerusalem.

So when my mom came to wake me up, I popped out of the covers.

My light was already on. My hair was sticking out in 500 different directions. And my suitcase was packed upstairs (the product of a restless sleep. Hence, the hair).

A day later, I am not in Jerusalem.

My group and I arrived in Phoenix, AZ, at around 11:15 this morning and stayed there until about 7:00pm.

We spent the hours making first introductions-nervously approaching one another, then tossing customs to the wind and lying on the chairs/basking on the floor to talk and laugh.

But at 7:00, the news was final.

"Mechanical malfunctions," they said.

"We apologize," they said.

The airport tried to ease the creases in our foreheads with vouchers for one meal (the veggie pizza did help a little ...), a free water bottle, and setting us up at a rather charming conference hotel.

But, now, I may be at this charming hotel for a week.

Humph.

I am just ready. I am ready to get on a plane for 15 hours. I am ready to run around in Jerusalem. I suppose the anticipation will just make getting there even more wonderful.
(I am trying this new optimistic approach. I'll let you know how it goes. It is hard to have the glass half full when you are sitting in 110 degree weather ... I think I may just drink up my half full glass.)

Holding Beja: Back from an Annual Trip to Kenya

When he holds me close, I want to kiss his cheek.

When he looks up at me, I want to kiss his nose.

I love Beja.

No, Beja is not a boyfriend (who needs one of those?). Beja is one of the students at the school dedicated in memory of my brother in Mynzeni, Kenya: the Sean Michels School for Special Needs.

This past week, my family and I returned from Mynzeni, where we treated over three hundred Kenyans at our makeshift dental clinic.

(For pictures and a write-up of the trip, check out seanmichelsschool.blogspot.com. Warning: you will want to adopt every child in Africa if you so much as glance at any picture of an SMS child).

At Seany’s school, we have twenty-three beautiful, gorgeous, kind, grateful students (enough synonyms for you?).

This trip, I was in charge of taking pictures with my new handy-dandy camera.

It is a Sony.

With a microphone.

And I absolutely adore my new bit of technology.

As soon as I saw our children smile, my camera shutter went off. The flash bloomed a thousand times. The children thought my eye turned into a black, technical protrusion.

I love to take pictures of these special, beautiful children. They each walk so confidently. They do not hide their amputated arms or deformed feet. They smile for the picture.

But as I go through the pictures now, I must admit: most of my pictures are of Beja.

I know it is wrong to play favorites.

And I promise I do not have favorites.

I just love to hold Beja until my arms ache.

One day during the trip, Baba Bret came up while I was holding Beja. Beja had just gotten a cavity fixed. And I was feeling like a villain for holding Beja down while the dentist jabbed mosquito-like needles into his cheek.

"I’m sorry Beja," I said, murmuring apologies into his ear.

Beja tucked his head under my chin and looked up with puppy dog, hazelnut eyes. He jutted out his lip and motioned to the trash. He needed to spit again. I rushed him over to the trash bin and he sputtered up more spit and blood.

After wiping up his brown, puckered lip, I continued to walk around the Koins site.. Beja looked up and saw Baba Bret nearby. Baba Bret called out Beja's name and took him into his own arms.

My arms felt empty.

I can be quite possessive over Beja so I waited for Baba Bret to be done playing with Beja.

Bret showed Beja his camera and tickled him until he smiled, his brazen, devilish smile.

Then Bret looked at me.

"Beja, is this your other mama? Your white mama?" Bret said, playfully.

I just smiled sheepishly, hoping he would say yes. I want Beja to love me so bad, it hurts.

Beja just grinned wider. Then, he shifted away from Bret, towards me.

"He is leaning to you," Bret said, kindly.

I reached out and took Beja into my arms. I tucked his crumpled legs around my waist. And I walked around the Koins site, pretending to be an African mama. Regal. Strong. With a child wrapped around me like a sarong.