There were lots of relatives in town over Christmas, and my cousins and I joked about the questions we kept getting asked. “Do you have a boyfriend?” everyone asked Andrea (who doesn’t, but who does have a lot of other cool things happening in her life). “When will you be graduating from high school?” they asked Jenna (who is currently junior at Xavier University). “Weren’t you going to be on Broadway?” they asked Angela (who got married last year and now lives in Cleveland). And to me, “What are you going to do after this year in Africa?”

All questions we didn’t necessarily want to hear over and over again, although mine at least was a pretty good one. One I had started asking myself, in fact. What was I going to do? For those relatives and distant friends, I had my typical answer, “I’ll probably start trying to figure that out in March or April.” But when I asked myself, I was much more unsure.

Now that April has arrived and I’m supposed to be figuring things out, I still don’t have any answers. And as hard as that is for my brain that likes so much to plan ahead, that’s all I have. I DON’T KNOW.

There are so many ways of looking at things. There is my family. Of course I don’t WANT to live this far away from my mama. And of course they want me to live close to them. I know it’s no picnic having your daughter living on the other side of the world. At the same time, they raised me to be independent and strong and to love others and to follow my heart, and so much of the time I feel like my heart is here.

There is also my family here. There are the little ones at Amani. There is Baraka, my little one at Amani who is now all grown up. It just so happens that he’s now attending secondary school down the street from my house. He lives at a hostel but sometimes comes by to get help with his homework or just to say hi. When the other kids at his hostel leave to greet their families on Saturdays, lots of times he comes by to greet me. It has given me such joy to continue to be a presence in his life, and it’s something I don’t feel like I can treat lightly.

Then there is the ever-present issue of readjusting to life in America. It’s just tough, no matter how you look at it. I know lots of people here who don’t have running water, who don’t have electricity. I know 9 year-olds who sleep on the streets, families who don’t have enough food to eat. I don’t know when the time will come again when I’ll want to think about home decoration or the results of The Bachelor or how the Vols football season is going. But that’s what people like to talk about in America, and I also don’t want to be the person who is always acting too good for everyone else because she’s been to Africa.

I DON’T KNOW.

I look to the Bible for answers.

“Honor your father and mother.” It’s right there in the Ten Commandments. “Come home,” my parents tell me. Well, there you go.

I keep reading. In Matthew, Jesus tells Peter that “everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or fields for my sake will receive a hundred times as much and will inherit eternal life.”

And in James: “Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.”

And things are complicated once again.

I pray for answers, and I feel at peace. “Don’t worry,” Jesus whispers to me. “Just love.”

And so, on this Easter weekend, I’ve decided try it. Not to worry, but to love. And to trust. Mostly because it’s all I can do. I don’t know, but He does. And so I trust that the right thing will appear. Trust that He will take care of me just like He always has. Because, regardless of where I am or what I’m doing, HE IS RISEN. And that is all that really matters.

This weekend I did one of the coolest things I've done this year in Tanzania, and maybe my whole life: I got to be a guest in a Masai village.

The Masai are perhaps the most famous of all the tribes in Africa, known for being tough warriors and living off the land. They are cattle herders who have maintained many of their customs even as people of other tribes have become more modern over the years.

My friend Christina (who is the special education volunteer at Amani/go-to person to get things done/all-around amazing gal) has been dating Isaya, a man who is Masai, for about 2 years. He is from a village that is about 5 hours from Moshi. They don't allow tourists to visit the village, but they make an exception for Christina since she is Isaya's girlfriend. One night a few months ago, Isaya and Christina were at our house when Isaya's mother called (although they do maintain most traditions, lots of Masai people have cell phones these days). I asked to greet her, and she invited me to the village! We were all shocked because Christina has never been allowed to bring any friends home.

So on Saturday morning, we set off. We took two buses and then walked for and hour through open grasslands. Isaya's family was so gracious and welcoming. We spent our time drinking milk tea (every free second it seemed like another cup was put in front of us), herding the cows, sheep and goats, visiting with different family members, holding babies, eating fresh goat meat, sleeping in a mud hut on a cow skin, watching the sun go down and being amazed by a million stars, and watching the men make fire by rubbing sticks together.

It was so amazing to get a glimpse of their way of life. Their village is made up of Isaya's father and his 4 wives and their children. They all live in circular mud huts that mainly consist of an open room for a cooking fire and two beds. There is no running water, so every few days they take jugs and donkeys to fetch it. There is also no electricity, so they use fire or flashlights to see at night. They are truly beautiful and loving people with such interesting traditions, and I feel so lucky to have gotten to see it.

Because children are needed to help graze the cattle (and the fact that education is not free here, and many people do not have money for school fees), many Masai children are not able to go to school. In the past, I've seen the children (even tiny ones) in the fields helping to graze the cattle. It's always made me think of the kids at Amani who are Masai, and in the back of my mind I think I've always been a little thankful that our kiddos are in school and not wandering around with cows all day.

But I've been realizing more and more lately that the most important thing a person can have is someone to take care of them. Whether it is a parent, grandparent, or foster parent, that connection seems to be crucial to the development of children. Although Isaya's family doesn't have many material possessions, they are very close and very loving and very happy and that is evident in the children.

And so, from now on, when I see those tiny kids herding their goats through the open plains, I will be thankful that they have families that they know they are a part of, living in a community in which they can be supported and help support. Because, although it's a tough life living on the land and walking miles to get water, if you don't have a family, it's even tougher.

As part of being a "guest" in the village and not a "tourist," I didn't take any pictures while I was there, but here are a few from our walk.

Isaya and Christina

Christina and me

The ridge you can see here is the Ngorongoro crater, a popular safari spot

A village in the distance

Lots of love and thanks to Christina and Isaya and Isaya's family. Ashe naleng!