Noa Violet

We gasped. Our eyes welled with tears. My own eyes had been glistening with tears for at least an hour before the moment. I had suppressed them with all of the will I could find, attempting to muster enough strength to put my own excitement and joy aside in calm and collected support of my sister and brother in law.

________

2:04 am. The phone rang. My hand flew toward the nightstand before I had even woken up. As I opened my phone, my heart began to beat faster and faster. Could it be? Had the moment finally arrived?

Hello?

Hi Molly, it's Bhadri.

Oh my gosh. Is it time?

We think Bethanie's water broke.

So... so I should come?

Yes. It's time.

Dammit. I knew I should have filled my tank with gas this evening. See you soon.

I clumsily moved my way about the dark Fairview house at 2 in the morning. I grabbed clothes without thinking, realizing two days later that I had only managed to take three gray colored shirts. Awesome. I made my way to the kitchen where I scribbled a note for my housemates that read, "Sister went into labor. I left at 2:15 am. Will be back Wed or Thurs. Whoa! Love you all." Then for some reason I believed it necessary to bring my turkey sandwich that I had made for the next day's lunch with me.

QuikTrip. 2:15 am. Gas. Coffee. And two large donuts? Why not. I have a long drive ahead of me and the man at the counter already thinks that I am high. Yes, two donuts please. My sister is giving birth right now. Not interested? Fine.

With the turkey sandwich, two large donuts and one terrible cup of coffee riding shot gun, I began the drive home. Wearily but with an excitement I had never known, I turned on the KC hip hop radio station that played music that I can only chalk up to divine inspiration. The smooth tunes of Kanye and Kelly and Avril roused me from my sleep as I drove to the midtown apartment that held my laboring sister.

____________

The pain was gone, though pure and beautiful in its difficulty. The struggle had ended, though worthwhile and deep in its meaning.

My mom collapsed onto a chair burying her hands in her face, not out of embarrassment of any kind but out of a sheer joy. Bhadri smiled and cried and wept as he beamed at his new daughter.

And then there was Beth, somehow even more gorgeous in her post-labor hue. She looked at the little wriggling child that had been such a mystery for nine months. Her baby. And it was love.

Noa Violet Verduzco entered our lives. She flopped onto the bed, gave a little cry and within a second, everyone had fallen in love with her. She was life in the purest form. She was our family.

Welcome, little one, to a world that is not as scary as others might warn you. Welcome to a world that needs you and your life and your beauty. Welcome to a family that, despite all of our flaws and dysfunctionality, will dote on you and will encourage you and frustrate you and convince you that organic foods are better and soccer is the best sport next to frisbee and girls who don't wear make-up are cooler. Welcome to the Verduzco-Bryant clan. Welcome, Noa Violet, we are in love with you and your beauty.

__________________

Amsterdealin'

Amsterdam was lovely. Words don't really do my experience justice, as usual, but the five weeks that I spent in that diverse, bustling city full of canals and art and Turkish pizza were incredible, to say the least. I had no idea what to expect, leaving the country once again to embark on my return to Amsterdam, the city that irrevocably changed my life five years ago. I knew that the month had the potential to be life-altering, but it also had the opportunity to simply be a nice experience with some friends. Thankfully, it was the former.

On my final day in Amsterdam, I had two goals: Eat a pancake and make it to the airport on time. Both were accomplished, one with greater enthusiasm than the other. We went to the bike barn, unlocked the bikes and realized that we had a minor problem. We had three bikes for four people. What to do? Ride like the Dutch, that's what. Calley boarded my navy blue Sparta bicycle with a rack on the back, and I hopped upon that rack and held on for dear life. We shakily flew down the narrow and, unfortunately for me, bumpy streets of Amsterdam toward the best pancake house in the world. Calley was a pro, lugging my around on her back wheel, and we felt very local. No one even batted an eye at us, assuming that we were just normal Dutch girls on our way to a business meeting or an outing with friends.

Then came the pancake. A flat doughy cake approximately two times the size of my head. It was everything that I should not eat. Sugar. Ice cream. Chocolate syrup. Whipped Cream. And of course, the healthy ingredient that made it all worthwhile, fresh pears. An elderly American couple saw this massive breakfast of mine, said to me "That is ridiculous!" and then asked if they could take a picture of it. I enthusiastically said, "Of course!" and posed with my final breakfast in Amsterdam. A picture that I will never see but will be passed around that family from person to person, everyone in awe of the size of that massive sugary pastry from a foreign land.

Amsterdam, in a nutshell, was lovely. It was simultaneously encouraging and discouraging, heartwarming and heartbreaking, pleasant and awful, beautiful and dark. It was everything that I could have hoped it to be.

And now I am back in the States, living in a house with four other girls, learning how to homeopathically rid our residence of masses of gnats, feeding Liberty regulars and hyping them up with espresso and coffee at their beckon call. Although I can reminisce about Amsterdam with fond memories, I still haven't dealt with the magnitude of our research or the enormity of emotions that follow such work. Tonight I am going to attempt to lock myself in my room, although only in spirit because my door does not lock, and possibly start the process of dealing with what I have seen and heard in the beautiful city of Amsterdam and the small towns of Hungary.

Goodnight and have a pleasant tomorrow.

Pocahontas is Hungary

Disney songs. Overused. Oversung. Over it.

Except Pocahontas. She will forever be my heroine. Not only because I am positive that somewhere in my ancestry we are related, but also because she is a princess who can swan dive off of waterfalls, cradle bear cubs, talk to racoons and single-handedly unite two waring groups out of her very own love for one blond haired, egotistical soldier. But most importantly, she sings songs of wisdom that have inspired me since 1995. I used to sing the ballad "Just Around the Riverbend" with gusto, assuming that some day I would face the same problems that she had. Such as, "Should I marry Kocoum? Is all my dreaming at an end... ooooooor should I still wait for you, Dream Giver?"


Fastfoward to 2009. I am twenty-two years old. I do not listen to the Pocahontas soundtrack on a regular basis; however, I do have it on my iTunes. And when I'm in need of some inspiration, I readily whip out some Native American folklore. Pocahontas sings to me. She tells me that anything is possible, that we shouldn't always follow traditions or expectations. She reminds me that to be safe we lose the chance of ever knowing what's around the riverbend.


What does this have to do with my current situation in Amsterdam? Honestly, not a whole lot. But if I can be so bold as to attempt to connect it, you really never know what's just around the riverbend. As Mother Willow so eloquently expresses in her solo, Listen with your heart. You will understand. And so we follow our hearts. To Hungary.

We have been given the amazing, once in a lifetime opportunity to work with an organization in Budapest, Hungary. And so we booked cheap flights and will cross the continent into the former Soviet bloc country that is still reeling from the devastation of a post-cold war culture and economy. It is a journey that may not immediately change our lives and we might not appreciate the significance of it this weekend... but it's big. 60% of the women trafficked into Amsterdam are from Hungary. It's a new phenomenon and no one has been able to figure out why so many Hungarians, over other Eastern European women, are ending up in the city. And so we pioneer. We pack our tiny bags and head to a country full of mystery.

Was the a roundabout way to inform you of the latest turn in our research? Yes. But was it interesting? Maybe. Embarassingly honest? Absolutely.

Korean Night

The aroma of soy sauce and excitement filled the air. Busy hands prepared a feast. Hearts thumped for joy. The nervous anticipation of the greatest night YWAM-Amsterdam has ever witnessed was evident in the demeanor of every individual that had signed up to participate. No one knew what to expect. No one could imagine just how incredible, and unfortunately for you, indescribable the night would turn out to be. We pitied those who signed up too late, and even more, those who had never even heard of tonight. Because tonight was…

Korean Night.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Korean Night. You think you know, but you have no idea…

First, I believe it is appropriate to give you some information to enhance this experience. I am living on a hall of Korean men. They are kind and polite and relatively quiet, save for the one Korean who sings Jason Mraz’s “Geek in Pink” at the top of his lungs on a semi-regular basis. On one of my first mornings as I was getting dressed, I noticed a large shadow appear on my window. Thankfully my curtains were closed but the window was, unfortunately, slightly open. My room is adjacent to the roof which can double as a pseudo-balcony when the mood strikes. And my dear neighbor, a Korean man aged approximately 20 years, had climbed onto the roof and began knocking on my window. I was taken aback. What is this Korean man doing on the roof trying to get into my room? As some of you know may know, I am not the best in situations that may lead to embarrassment of one or more parties, so I casually moved my hand toward the window, attempting to remain out of sight by flattening myself against the wall, and closed the window shut. I thought that this would be the end of our rooftop relationship, but the next day as I was taking a nap, he began knocking again, this time with more force. I pulled the blanket over my head and pretended not to be in the room. I promised after that day, if he knocked on my window again, I would answer it. I would attempt to not be awkward and I would say to him that either A) he has the wrong window or B) do you need to come inside? But he never came back, and so the mystery remains unsolved.

Other than those chance encounters, we say “Hello” and “Good morning!” as we walk past each others’ rooms. We chat about the internet and edit their English notes for them. Clearly, Floor 2 has bonded despite the language barrier, and thus, Calley, LT and I enthusiastically awaited Korean Night 2009.

As we entered the normally bland and undecorated dining room, we were astounded by the transformation that had taken place in honor of our Asian friends. Korean flags with something like origami birds and trees adorned the cloth laden tables in the dining room. Red and white balloons lined the entryway. Sushi, translucent noodles, rice balls filled with spice, and sautéed vegetables painted the blank canvases of our plastic plates. Music heavy with whistles and chimes serenaded our intimate dining experience. Those in charge, and those who got into the Asian sensation spirit, wore Korean flags as capes. The whole dining room was a tribute, an effigy, to the great country.

Immediately following dinner was the real program complete with traditional dancing, a band concert, some type of dance/fighting, and games eerily reminiscent of reality shows made famous by their neighbor to the south, Japan. One game even required all participants to wear aprons, kick a pompon three times in a row, throw a wooden stick into a bucket and then run and jump onto a mattress while blowing out four candles. A relay of relays.

At the end, they all sang a song in Korean and told us that they loved us.

It was and will forever be: Korean Night.

The Red Light District: A Glimpse

The Red Light District of Amsterdam. We walked down the main roads and narrow alleys, suppressing emotions of anger and deep disgust. Women, all trapped beyond their glass windows. Their bodies clad in next to nothing. Their faces caked in make-up to hide their tired eyes and beaten cheeks. Parents casually strolled hand in hand with their children, glancing at the women with little interest. Teenagers stopped to gawk. A young girl fixed her mascara in the reflection of an occupied window, seeing only herself and no one inside. Men briskly walked out of the rooms after paying 50 Euros for a body. For pleasure. For an insatiable and unattainable satisfaction.


Those women are laughed at by insensitive and oblivious tourists. Those women are perused and shopped like shoes and purses and light, summer dresses.

So what would I say to that woman in the window? I would tell her that although she may never meet them, she has advocates. Although she may never feel it, she is not alone. Although it may never be manifested in her liberation, there is hope. There is life beyond those windows. There is something more than either of us knows. We are both searching together. We are both looking for worth, value, meaning and, ultimately, love. She is not alone in her suffering. Look around! The whole world is crying out for liberation and redemption. We are all needy and broken. And so I will walk with her. Because I am her.


So join us in the abolition of men, women and children around the world who need you to be aware.

Educate yourself:

• http://www.notforsalecampaign.org/


• http://www.freetheslaves.net/


• http://www.hagarproject.org/


• http://www.polarisproject.org/

Cup-a-Soup: Euro Style

I am in Amsterdam; my favorite city in the world. It is just as striking and invigorating as I found it was the last time I was here, which just so happens to be a long five years ago. Back in 2004, I came to this city in search of greater understanding and knowledge. It was a trip all-together life changing for little, impressionable, 17-year old Molly. It was integral in my life, pushing me to take risks like leaving home at the age of 18 to live in Africa, and daring me to question beliefs and form my own ideology and thoughts on life. Amsterdam captured me. I fell in love with Amsterdam, fast and hard. For the past five years I have longed to return.
And somehow, someway, I am back. My emotions cannot be contained, my heart desires to delve into the culture and I can't wait to get lost among the canals and winding narrow alleyways. I would choose to be no other place in the world for the month of July 2009. Two of my closest friends and I will be living our dreams, together in Amsterdam.

Onto much more important news...

Cup-a-soup. To you, that image probably conjures up memories of broke college dinners or elementary school lunches. For me, it is glory in a little paper packet. Five years ago, at the age of 17, I sat in my one person room in this same building overlooking a lucious courtyard in a bustling city. I sat on my bed and ate soup. And not just any soup, Cup-A-Soup. Flavor: Kerrie (Curry). I sat on my bed with a mug full of that delicious liquid on the most life changing day of my life (exaggeration? I think not). It became my comfort food for the trip and when I returned, to my utmost horror, I found that Cup-a-Soup America did not in fact supply their customers with my all-time favorite flavor packet. So what's a girl to do when her preservative filled soup box is noticeably absent from the shelves of her local grocery store? Why email Cup-a-Soup, of course! Thus, I emailed those buggers and told them my concern. I knew that they had Kerrie, but where was it? Where could I find it? Could they mail it to me? Their response was kind and thoughtful but disappointing nonetheless. Kerrie is produced only in Europe because the demand is too low in the States. And no, they appreciated my enthusiasm for their product but they could not mail it to me.

And then yesterday we were shopping at Alber Hein- the grocery store- and to my surprise, atop the shelf next to the typical- and let's be honest, boring- soups like broccoli cheddar and chicken noodle sat one lone row of Kerrie. I am back. And it feels oh so nice.


Confession: It is quite likely that Kerrie Cup-a-Soup will taste slightly less incredible this time as my taste has improved and my love for real curry has only increased. That being said, I will update you immediately upon the finishing of my first mug of Kerrie Cup-a-Soup 2009.

Resurrection Fern

One month ago I was sipping Cuba Libres in Managua with twenty of my closest friends. We were celebrating the end of final presentations and soaking up the remaining hours of our grand adventure. I was deliberately procrastinating packing the big green backpack that would lead me toward a post-Central American life. Elizabeth and I were sneaking out to the park across from the President's house to play on the teeter totters and make fools of ourselves in front of the young ice cream vendors. Chelsea and I were making plans to bike across the country and have book clubs together and prolong the inevitable goodbyes that were to take place soon. Amy and I were probably pouting. One month ago I was living with the Sandovals. I felt alive.

One month from today, I will be meandering down the cobbled and bike filled streets of Amsterdam. I will view history and art and a brand new culture. I will attempt bits and pieces of the Dutch language from a soon to be bought phrase book. I will live in an Amsterdam all together different from the one I visited five long years ago. I have changed, my perspective on life has been drastically altered and the Molly from 2002 is not the same as today. In one month, I will be in Europe. The Spanish language will not be prevalent and I am sure that I will find myself lost in a culture and language and people that are deep and beautiful. My heart will be broken each day as I walk through the Red Light District. I am going to be immersing myself in brokenness and hurt unlike anything I have ever experienced. And yet... I wouldn't have it any other way.

So as I sit here in my dad's adobe house with lush vegetation and a new lavender plant at my side, I wonder how I got this life. I am living what I have dreamed to live. I am traveling the world, country by country, continent by continent. I get to read books about history and politics. I get to live in the homes of women and men who profoundly change my life. I get to eat tasty foods and drink local beers. I get be outside. I get to study. I get to learn languages. I get to talk with prostitutes and politicians and farmers. And as I do this, as I plunge myself into uncomfortable and all together intimidating situations, I am learning more about the richness of life, the beauty of love and the pain of humanness. How did this happen? I feel like I just might be growing up... maybe.