The past few months have felt like a walk through memory lane. My husband and I took our annual Christmas holiday trip to Rwanda, my homeland, and it turned out to be more special than I ever imagined. While our visits always include spending time with my siblings and their families, the children and staff of Rising Above the Storms (RAS), and exploring Rwanda’s beauty, this trip held an extraordinary addition—my US parents joined us.

If you’ve followed my journey on this website, you know I lost my parents in the 1994 Genocide against Tutsi in Rwanda. But “my US parents”? Allow me to explain.

In 2008, shortly before I graduated from grad school in Rochester, NY, I met an incredible couple through a local church connection. They invited me into their home, and while most students they hosted came and went, I stayed. Over time, they unofficially adopted me as their daughter. They gave me the motherly and fatherly love I thought I’d never feel again. Their unconditional love helped heal the wounds inflicted by surviving relatives who had been abusive and heartless.

This trip marked my dad’s first visit to Rwanda, and my mom’s second. One highlight was visiting my parents’ land, just outside Kigali. As I stood there, I reflected on how, from the ashes of my deepest losses, God had blessed me with parents who love me fiercely, even if we don’t share the same blood or story.

Another special stop on our itinerary was my childhood Catholic Church—a short drive from my parents’ land but, in my childhood memories, a distant hike.

The moment I stepped onto the parish grounds, a flood of memories overwhelmed me. Standing tall and unchanged was the magnificent acacia tree that had witnessed so much of my family’s life.

The only photo I possess of my entire family together—taken during my Confirmation—was very near this tree, beneath another acacia tree.

As I stared at its sprawling branches, I couldn’t help but wonder: Does this tree remember my parents? Does it remember me? If only it could speak, I would have lingered longer beneath its shade.

This tree stood as a silent witness while the world around it changed—while neighbors turned into enemies, while innocence was lost. But the acacia remained steadfast, offering shade to churchgoers and a home to nesting birds. In its stillness, it felt like a keeper of memories.

Stepping inside the church, everything seemed smaller than I could remember. The once-grand sanctuary of my childhood felt humble now, though its spiritual significance had not diminished. I knelt in one of the rows—the one I believed we sat in during sacramental celebrations—and whispered prayers to the Savior my parents had taught me to worship.

Silently, I mourned the loss of my innocence and childhood, reflecting on how I was forced to grow up in a rush, denied the chance to be young. As I reminisced on cherished memories, I marveled at the journey that has brought me back to where it all began.

I couldn’t help but marvel at how deeply my parents had rooted us in faith. Amid unimaginable loss and pain, that foundation gave me strength and, eventually, hope.

Lastly, I wanted to see the eucalyptus forest behind the church— somehow a place of peace and meditation in my prayers, often appearing in my nightly dreams. To my disappointment, the trees had been cleared for construction. It felt like a part of my sanctuary had been taken, but the memories remain, vivid and unshaken. It will be interesting to see how my nightly dreams change as a result; this area was one of the reasons I longed to return here.

This church, and the acacia tree in its courtyard, is where my faith began. It is a place of cherished memories, not resentment or guilt. It is a reminder of my extraordinary parents, who continue to guide me even in their absence.

I survived—I made it. I am my parents’ wildest dream and their best wishes fulfilled, their pride, and the voice of my loved ones who perished. I carry their legacy, a beacon of their hopes, resilience, and the enduring love they left behind.

♥️♥️ In loving memory of my parents and two siblings who were taken from us in April 1994. May their memories forever be a blessing!♥️♥️