Football- Buduburam refugee camp, Ghana

I awoke at 5:15 this morning, just as the sun rises; as I arose I listened to the rhythmic brushing outside of my neighbors clearing their front step with a hand brush. Brush, scrape, brush. Brush, scrape, brush. I stretched and drank my morning bag of water as I waited for Alvin to "carry" me to the football pitch. We were two of the first players there.

"Let's go." he called as he started his lap near the goal. All the way around the field, "One." Again, "Two." Again, "Three, four. It's time for stretching."

After we warmed our bodies we started passing the ball around. I had quit soccer at age 9 because I no longer loved the sport. My coach had kept the game from being fun, and I no longer wanted to play. I can't imagine a better way to start again. Alvin and I ran the length of the field passing the ball. As we approached the goal, he lofted the ball into the air just in front of the goal. "Shoot it," he called as the ball neared me. Pank! The ball flew just over the top right corner. "Not bad, now again." We dribbled and shot a few more times and Victor joined our game. Victor was a young man that looked like the plastic Under Armour models you see at Dick's, the one's that you see and think, "No human looks like that. Nobody has a body that perfect."

We passed in a triangle, juggled, attackrd the goal, switched positions. My kicks were strong, but lacked the consistency and accuracy that Alvin and Victor's kicks had. We played and sweat and ran and laughed until the field was full of players. As I grew tired and watched the other players kick and juggle and run, they broke into a song. They all came together in a circle praising Jesus and God for their lives and their blessings. They sang and sang, as Alvin pulled my into the circle. We thanked God for our ability to be here and to have the ability to wake up, and eat, and run, and play. The people I played with have so little when compared to Americans; many survive on 2 dollars a day, many share football cleats. But they have so much more than Americans in their hearts; they know that it is a blessing just to be here alive. I'm thankful to be here and share their thanks. I'm thankful to have rice and stew and water each day. I'm thankful to be alive

Pictures are up!

Saving the best for last- Deland, FL

From the instant I bought my ticket to Ghana, I have been waiting for the moment when the magnitude of this momentous trip would hit me. I'm leaving the country for three months; that's way longer than any other trip I have taken. I'm leaving for Africa; never been there before, I'm definitely an outsider. I'm headed to a refugee camp with no running water, what a foreign thought. And for the past month and a half, I have been excited for my trip, but I have felt no anxiety. I have been unaffected by the idea that my life is about to be uprooted and radically changed. But tonight, it hit me.

I chopped fresh mangoes, bananas, and strawberries as I prepared a fruit salad for dinner. The tedious task of chopping and slicing had become a delight. I thought, "When will I get this chance again?" The after dinner shower I took still lies fresh in my memory. Nothing feels better than a shower when you know that it will be the last one of its kind in a home you love. I hope that I can remember that shower all summer. My last shave on American soil was absolutely a hack job. The dull blades scraped my cheeks as remaining facial hair stood up and flipped the razor a last defiant F you. It was still the best shave of my life. All of my lasts were all the bests, the best cool blast of air as I opened the refrigerator, the best moonlit night, the best mosquito bite, the best everything. 

Everything that I took for granted suddenly mattered. They suddenly were tied so strongly to my emotions that even as I write this stupid blog about a shower and a shitty shave, tears stream down my face. Not tears of joy, nor tears of pain or sadness. Just tears of raw emotion, tears created from the memories of chopping fruit and lathering my hair. Tears created from putting on aftershave and packing my pillow. Tears...

And still I don't fear the loss of these items; put me anywhere for 3 months, and I'll survive with or without a refrigerator. Better yet, put me anywhere for 3 months and give me an awesome group of friends to support me, and I'll do more than survive; I'll live. 

Thank you to everyone for your well wishes and support. I can't wait to get to Ghana, and I know I can't fail with you guys behind me.

Jump 39-Rick's Skydiving, Petersburg, OH

As I stepped out of the door of the plane at 10500 feet, I felt that sickening suck-pop in my left shoulder. It had been four years since the last dislocation, but I knew instantly my shoulder was out of the socket. Not a second into freefall from the Cesna 206 I recoiled my arms from Henry and Chris and tried to assess the situation. I knew it was bad, but I wasn't sure how bad.

The group that had I left disheveled and confused maneuvered towards me as we plummeted towards earth. I locked eyes with Paul and waved him away from me while feverishly motioning to my limp left arm; at this point, regrouping would cause me more pain.  Somehow my message made it through the howling wind and chaos of the skydive, and Paul retreated back into the group.

I turned and tracked away from the group to deal with my problem. I knew how to get my shoulder back into the socket while on the ground. It was simple, I just had to raise my arm high above my head and allow gravity to pop-suck the joint back into place. Three times I raised my arm up, three times I tumbled like a rag doll through the sky, three times I failed. I checked my altimeter...6000 feet. I winced at the thought of how my shoulder would feel when my parachute opened. I grimaced at the thought of the alternative to not opening my chute. 5000 feet. I drew in a deep breath and reached for my pilot chute.

My arm slammed down and folded towards my waist as my parachute opened and sat me upright in my harness. The muscles and tendons in my left shoulder stretched as the joint moved in ways not designed by God. I screamed out every ounce of my deep breath as I let everyone on the ground a mile below me know how bad it hurt. I drew in a deep breath and regained my composure. I was alive, I had a good parachute above my head, and I was close enough to the dropzone to make it to the landing area. On the other hand, I had one arm to pilot and land a parachute made for two arms. I approached the landing area circling the only way I could, with right hand turns. At 1000 feet I breathed deeply and calmed myself. I knew the worst was over; I had two things awaiting me on the ground--a group of good friends and a rough landing. I made the final right turn towards the landing area. 100 feet. I reached across my head and grasped both brakes in my right hand in preparation for landing. I bent my knees and brought my legs together, ready to dissipate the energy of the immanent hard landing by rolling. 10 feet. I pulled the brakes down with every bit of strength I had.

I felt the soft grass on my feet followed by the mushy earth beneath it. I had made much softer landings on my feet, but none had ever felt so nice. I immediately doubled over and held my shoulder. "What can we do?" Chris, Henry, and Paul all chimed in. "I need a packing weight. I need to get this back in the socket before all of the muscles freeze up." I grasped the 15 pound weight and let my arm hang limp above my head as I remained bent over. I drew in one more deep breath and relaxed each muscle in my shoulder one  by one. Pop-suck "It's in."