I’m often brought back to a particular moment that to anyone else would seem rather insignificant. For me, it was a subtle, definitive instance that I’ll never forget. In 2006 I sat on a second floor veranda of a guest house, sipping a cup of steaming chai tea watching the African sun disappear beneath the tin, dust caked rooftops and towering palms of Nairobi, Kenya. I was seventeen-years-old and it was my first time on the continent. Something about me changed that night and in the moment I somehow for whatever reason felt closer to God than ever before. I felt like I could reach out and touch Him. It was an innate feeling of destiny and my first reaction was to shield myself from it, knowing the sacrifice, danger and unknown that accompanied it. I often wonder at that moment because in it I feel my heart was stolen and was left in Africa. It went down with the sun that night and ever since then I have been drawn back to the continent, over and over in search of finding it again. Each time, I do, but it never follows me back across the ocean. It’s found its home with or without me.