I started my job with an air of excitement. It was a secretarial position at a prestigious law firm paying about 10 dollars an hour, with 15 dollars an hour for overtime...

I started my job with an air of excitement.  It was a secretarial position at a prestigious law firm paying about 10 dollars an hour, with 15 dollars an hour for overtime.  I left everything in Tennessee behind, friends, family, and a boyfriend.  I found a room to rent six miles from the beach.  I didn’t know anyone in Charleston.  It was just me and my west highland terrier, Lincoln.  It was invigorating, scary, and wonderful.  I was 23 years old, standing on the beach, and breathing in freedom for the first time.  

My job grew dull and mundane after a year.  The repetition of organizing files, making copies of letters for one of my many authority figures, calling clients and gathering information, and listening to rowdy, egocentric men trying to out-voice one another on conference calls was emptying.  I found myself buying in to the need to sound important.  Like I had some urgent business that needed attention.  I didn’t.

Perhaps it’s an innate desire to feel important.  I can personally testify that it is amplified by being around people who sound like they have new and important things to say, like “Mrs. Jones is unhappy about the 10 million we are asking for and thinks we should ask for much more.  Someone needs to get a handle on this or we will lose her, and her money.”  I never had anything to say that held 10 million dollars in the balance.  

I eventually worked my way up to paralegal.  They milked me at 10 dollars an hour long after I began doing paralegal work.  One of the other paralegals told me what she had been making, just after she quit our firm, and I was crushed.  I felt exploited. I was indignant and left work immediately.  I called one of my bosses and told him I was finished.  There was nothing he could offer me to stay.  He told me to name my salary.  It couldn’t have been better timing for leverage in my favor.  Our clients had put their trust in me.  I had become the voice of our law firm to them.  They didn’t want clients leaving our firm for another more stable one.  For once I was needed and I was able to bump my salary up to about 17 dollars an hour.  

The adrenaline from the salary jump eventually wore off and I realized once again that I was not enjoying my work.  Starbucks helped keep my eyes propped open most days.  I began dreaming of a caffeine drip.  My whole being longed for adventure and meaning.  It was like a splinter in my throat, constantly nagging me. I found it difficult to be on time, having to force myself to get out of bed in the mornings.  I was grateful for the pay, but I longed to work with my hands, to experience new culture, and give of myself in a way that my heart had always longed to do.  I was ready to be in the sunshine.

Although work bored me, I found a passion watching Senator Brownback discuss issues surrounding the genocide happening in Darfur and other Sudan regions.  I was intrigued and heartbroken.  I became passionate in wanting to help.   I spent many evenings on my back porch sketching faces of Sudanese refugees I clipped from New York Times.  Listening to my sentimental moods CD, forgetting to smoke my lit cigarette, I tried to connect with the pain I saw in their faces.  It was almost a year before I got the nerve to quit my job, move my stuff into storage, and find a friend who was ready to step in faith with me. 

A few months later, surrounded by native Kenyans and Sudanese refugees, my entire world had changed.  My brain was awakened with fulfillment and purpose.

When I stepped off the bus, my first thought was, “This must be what hell is like.”  The refugee camp was situated in a desert land in north east Kenya.  “Hot” and “suffocation” are two words that come to mind as I think about that first day in the desert.  It was flat and dry, with the mountains of Uganda off in the distance breaking the flatness of the area.  No plant life or shade to hide from the merciless sun bearing overhead.  

It was my first experience being in the desert, aside from an occasional family vacation to Las Vegas which I’m pretty sure doesn’t count.  No running water, except in the inner part of the camp where the NGO organizations were established.  We got our water from the Uganda River that could flood one day and be completely dry and cracked 10 days later.  

I bathed out of a bucket with a cup to pour the water over myself in a room about three by four feet.  Note, I use the term “bathe” loosely here.  I was pushed to engage in local culture.  

We stayed in a small compound located just outside the refugee camp that was run by two women in their early twenties, one from Kenya and the other from Sudan.  They worked to mentor and educate a group of about 15-20 orphans.  They taught basic life skills like how to wash clothes by hand and how to bathe.  The children’s ages ranged from one to fourteen.  

One of the little girls, Margaret, stood out to me.  She was a hard worker and frequently carried the littlest baby on her back.  At the age of eight she had more responsibility than I had my entire twenty five years of life.  She was almost always singing and smiling.  She loved dancing and got several good laughs trying to teach me her dance moves.  

I’d like to say that things are going wonderfully here in Africa, and I am being fulfilled in my innermost parts.  That my career change was everything I had hoped for and gave me an opportunity to empower street children to learn that they are lovable and trustworthy.  That I was able to find ways to empower them with skills they need to find some trade that would help pull them out of the engulfing poverty. 

But that’s not how my story unfolded.  I worked my heart out for four months.  There were many chances for me to finally put my social work degree to work.  I was given the opportunity to counsel Sudanese refugees, take food to a starving tribe that had been hit hard by a drought, teach orphans basic life skills, and reach out to street children who were seen as a heart breaking nuisance in their society.  Sometimes the most I could do was simply love a child with a hug.  In the end, I feel I received more than I was able to give.  They had so much for me to learn about being content and joyful, regardless of the surrounding situation.  Margaret taught me to sing while I work, and to take care of those less able than me.  I learned to be grateful for running water, and the joy of a shower.  

Throughout my trip Illness slowly overcame me, and I had to return home for medical care.  I picked up some pretty nasty parasites and amoebas during my stint in Africa, in addition to nerve damage down the left side of my body possibly from West Nile induced encephalitis.  Once home I spent two years running tests, and letting doctors bomb my body with antibiotics trying to help me recover.  Three years later and I am fully recovered, married, and have a 10 month old son, Elijah.

My time in Africa was a gift.  It was there I found perspective on life.  As I reflect on my time there I see so much to be thankful for.  The orphans and kids living on the streets changed my life.  The poverty changed my perspective.  The joy and sadness in the midst of the poverty changed my world.  

 All hope of returning to Africa to empower women and children living in poverty is not lost, just on hold.  My husband is finishing up his fourth year of medical school this June and we plan on returning to Africa after residency.  He has dreams of building medical infrastructure in developing countries and setting up teaching facilities to empower and train people native to the area.  It is an exciting time as we dream and make plans together.