During the 1994 Rwandan genocide, the Benebikira Sisters sheltered hundreds of orphans and others who sought refuge in their convents. When a militia stormed their motherhouse and demanded that the sisters separate themselves by ethnic groups, the sisters said no--aware that at other convents 20 sisters had been killed for standing up to militants. The militia then took all their food, cut the water lines, and told the sisters they would come back to kill them.

After the genocide, the sisters found themselves caring for about 350 orphans. The children "had food and clothing," Sister M. Juvenal Mukamurama told Kathleen L. Sullivan of the National Catholic Reporter, "but it was no life for them. Family is very important in our country. They needed a family." So the sisters built 39 houses and grouped the orphans into "families" of six to eight children.

"Rwanda wants to move forward," said Sister Mukamurama, who is marking her 40th anniversary as a Benebikira sister (Benebikira means "Daughters of Mary" in Kinyarwanda, the native language of Rwanda). "We want to build our country, our relationships, a new life. We are no longer seen as Tutsi or Hutu. We live together. We are no longer separate. We are Rwandans."

"Blessed are the peacemakers," scripture tells us. "The Lord loves the just; the Lord protects the stranger."

Jenn stood on the sidelines, clipboard in hand, coaching the sixth-grade girls’ volleyball team. She encouraged, she cajoled, and she redirected as she moved the girls in and out of the game. After the game, she sat with her assistant coach as they planned their strategy for the next round of tournament play. Jenn is a former college volleyball player, now a wife and mother of three.

One year ago, Jenn was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. From the start Jenn told loved ones: “This is my cancer and I am not a number or a statistic. I need your support and prayers, but I don’t want or need your sense of doom.”

These past months have been filled with tests, scans, treatments, waiting for test results, consultations with doctors, a setback when a brain lesion was found, a reprieve when it was successfully treated. There has been a dying to what was expected from life. Jenn has maintained as much of a normal routine as possible. But the loss is not to be denied: Will she see her kids graduate high school? Will she live to see them marry? None of these things are presumed anymore. Jenn faces the unknown every day—with fear and with confidence, with hope and with dread. There is a death of a kind. But there is grace as well. Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.

Jenn stood on the sidelines, clipboard in hand, coaching the sixth-grade girls’ volleyball team. She encouraged, she cajoled, and she redirected as she moved the girls in and out of the game. Afterward, she sat with her assistant coach as they planned their strategy for the next round of tournament play. Jenn is a former college volleyball player, now a wife and mother of three.

One year ago, Jenn was diagnosed with stage four cancer. From the start Jenn told loved ones: “This is my cancer and I am not a number or a statistic. I need your support and prayers, but I don’t want or need your sense of doom.”

These past months have been filled with tests, scans, treatments, waiting for test results, consultations with doctors, a setback when a brain lesion was found, a reprieve when it was successfully treated. There has been a dying to what was expected from life. Jenn has maintained as much of a normal routine as possible. But the loss is not to be denied: Will she see her kids graduate high school? Will she live to see them marry? None of these things are presumed anymore. Jenn faces the unknown every day—with fear and with confidence, with hope and with dread. There is a death of a kind. But there is grace as well. Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.