I know my updates have been few lately. The silence hasn’t meant nothing is happening—just that I’ve been carrying a lot in the quiet. I’ve actually opened this note more times than I can count and just sat there—staring at a blinking cursor with a heart full of things I couldn’t find the strength to put into words. Truthfully, I’ve been walking through a season that feels more like survival than storytelling.

The grief has been layered. It has a way of swallowing your voice. Losing Mme Nene was like losing my right hand. She wasn’t just a staff member—she was family. Her passing stirred up more than sorrow—it reopened wounds I thought had scarred over. It pulled me back into the deep, quiet ache of losing my sister.

Then came the newer unspoken wounds that have seeped in and taken root—too tender, too complex to name aloud—and the relentless weight of holding space for so many broken stories… children whose pain clings to me long after camp ends.

It’s been like walking through a fog that keeps reshaping itself, just when I think I’ve found my way. And while part of me wants to disappear into the haze, I’m learning that sometimes, transparency is the most honest form of faith I can offer.

I’ve recently started ART therapy (Accelerated Resolution Therapy) as a way to work through some of the recurring trauma I’ve seen and carried for years. It’s helping me find room to replace some of those painful images with the beautiful, redemptive ones that have come from the ministry—the laughter of children at camp, the healing we’ve seen in the clinic, the quiet strength of our staff. It’s a process. But even in the heaviness, I’m remembering why I said yes to this work in the first place.

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And one of the main reasons I’m still here—still doing this—is because I know I’m called to help those who can’t help themselves. To be the voice for those desperate to be seen. To carry the ache for the ones who no longer believe anyone will show up for them. Because when hope starts to flicker, sometimes what people need most… is someone who will stay until the light returns.

So today I’m asking for your help with our annual shipping. This is the time of year when we fill barrels with food, medicine, formula, peanut butter, toiletries —anything and everything we can fit—to keep our clinic running, our community fed, and our programs functioning. We aren’t stockpiling. We’re surviving.

We’ve never been a humanitarian mission—we’re a Jesus mission. But Jesus fed people. He healed people. He sat with the broken. That’s why we open our clinic gates every morning and pray with every patient. That’s why we deliver rice to our neighbors. That’s why we host Princess Camps for girls who’ve forgotten how it feels to be safe or celebrated.

But we can’t do any of that unless we get these supplies in.

We need help covering the cost of the shipments – $18,000 total. This includes shipping fees, customs charges, and the supplies themselves. We’re sending medical peanut butter, medications, beans, vitamins, school supplies, hygiene kits, therapy materials, and food for families who have nowhere else to turn.

If you’ve ever wanted to do something tangible—to give a gift that doesn’t disappear when the lights go out or the storms roll in—this is that moment.

Whether it’s $20 or $2000, every gift matters. Every dollar becomes hope delivered in a box, compassion packed with care, and love that crosses oceans.

What you give will land in the hands of people who’ve been praying for a miracle—people who just need one sign that this isn’t how their story has to end. And if I can do that—if we can do that—then maybe what we place in their hands becomes the thread that stitches their story back together.

💛 GIVE WITH HEART:💛
🚢 To send love across the sea, mark your gift : Mole BOAT 

1. Checks Payable To:
NWHCM
PO Box 586
Lebanon, IN 46052

 2. Give Online By Clicking The Heart:  

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