It’s raining in Rwanda.
As much as I hate rain, I can’t help but huddle on this little porch, knees curled up against my chest and tucked under my fleece hoodie. With all the trees hugged by mist and fog, the effect is pretty damn magical.
I’m constantly filled with wonder that I am here. When I think of all the steps it took to get to this country, this place, this porch THIS VERY SECOND, it almost seems impossible. But here I am.
I marvel at how many people have welcomed me into their world: The women that I teach, the school that has become a home, the hostel that is my haven, the revolving door of friendly faces.
Even though I’m no good at gardening, I feel like I’m cultivating something here and watching it grow. And that’s worth a little rain.
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