Maddie

I met Maddie this summer while I was working on the wards. She had been admitted for her first does of chemotherapy after a diagnosis of Burkitt’s Lymphoma was made, and I was assigned to her that first night.

I still would argue to this day that I have never met a more strong-willed, stubborn, attitude-filled child in my life.

And she was only 2.

She is one of the 4 children I took care of that week who all had their newly diagnosed Burkitt’s and first dose of chemo down. I told you about Aime, how we didn’t catch it in time, how he went to be with Jesus.

And then there were three.

For months now we have trucked along, all meeting at the ship and heading to the local hospital for chemo treatments every three weeks. Ten days after each treatment, again all of the families and the three kids would head to the ship where they would take turns letting me:cough notmaddie cough: draw their blood and run it for routine tests. While we waited, we doled out stickers and all laughed about how Maddie would either yell or simply close her eyes if I went anywhere within two feet of her. After all, if she closed her eyes I wasn’t there.

Perfect logic, if you’re two.

On the weeks when they weren’t coming to the ship or getting their chemo, I visited them at their house. Even in the comfort of her home, Maddie never gave in and (openly) showed her love towards me. Actually, a few weeks ago she held my finger after I poked her for blood. Of course, when she realized it was my finger she was grasping, not her mothers, she promptly yelled about it.

She would always wave goodbye and say ‘Au revoir’ when we parted ways. I laugh thinking about it. The only thing she would say to us, ever, was goodbye. Typical Maddie.

Maddie is one of three reasons my heart carries so much hope, despite what I see here on a daily basis. Watching her cancer go into remission, praying like crazy for her little body, right down to her curly eyelashes, that is where so much of my joy comes from. My favorite day of the week is my ‘Burkitt’s day’, I just simply love it. I love those three kids so much it hurts. I wish there was a better way to explain how I feel, what’s in my heart, but there isn’t.

Yesterday Maddie was due to come to the ship for her lab work to be done. She fell a week behind the other two kids because her counts were off. Late last week she showed signs of an infection, but nothing to worry about. She looked good, wasn’t having any issues, and we sent her off with antibiotics. Yesterday when she came in it was evident something was seriously wrong. Through a series of events, which honestly was such a blur, she was diagnosed with bacterial meningitis, a much more serious, often fatal, infection. She didn’t fight us through the testing, she didn’t cry, although I wish for once she had. She had stopped walking the day before, she couldn’t see, and she was mostly non-responsive to any stimulation.

Her first seizure was so surreal. This little girl in such a big bed. Little Maddie.

This isn’t supposed to be happening. Not to her.

With the second seizure, I found my way into nurse mode and stayed there. We started treatment, and for hours I managed beeping pumps, a confused dad, and my heart which broke for the condition Maddie was in.

After eight hours of watching her decline, the moment came. As her heart started to race, mine followed, beating loudly in my ears. As her lungs started to fail, I held my breath. As I had the translator quickly tell the dad what was happening, I was trying to grasp what exactly was going on myself. The doctor who has known Maddie, and was treating her came in just before we encouraged her dad to hold her for her last minutes. We took of the monitors and for the first time in my life I watched a child die.

As we started to pray, her dad let out a wail that came from a place most parents pray they never have to go. We all cried as we prayed. There’s nothing else you can do.

I don’t even know if I should be trying to write this right now. I can’t hold it together for more than an hour without tears rolling off my cheeks. Sometimes the tears come slowly, other times they come and rip at my stomach, threatening to double me over. Ever since that moment, and the moments that followed, every time I picture Maddie in my mind I cringe, then everything inside of me falls apart.

Yesterday I quietly cried while I gave her a bath and dressed her in a soft, pink dress. I cried when it was safe to cry, inside the hug of a friend who knows all too well the pain I was feeling. Every step of the way, the walk up the stairs through the ship while carrying her, walking down the gangplank to the car to bring her home, I took one step in front of the other, and not one of them was by my own strength.

Ali and I drove Maddie and her father back to her house. We walked through their yard, the news of her death with us. We sat side by side through the wailing and women on their knees crying out to God. We watched them check to make sure Maddie was really gone, and then again sat with tears in our eyes as they sang worship to a mighty God, the names Jesus on each one of their tongues. We interrupted after some time to explain news that we actually, and yes, right then, had to give them all medication due to the infectious disease Maddie had died from. We were brought to another room where we finally saw Maddie’s mother and infant brother. Like I explained before when I talked about Aime, parents are not meant to bury their children. In the Western world, we say that, but here, they mean it literally. I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her wet cheek. I told her I was sorry, and the tears again fell.

Ali set up shop and one by one, while sitting on a sandy cement floor, with the sun setting in the sky, with our heads throbbing, the two of us gave shots to every child who had been in contact with Maddie over the last few days.

There’s so much more, but I’m tired. I barely slept last night, my mind desperately trying to run through the days events, over and over. As I prayed this morning on deck 8, I cried while I listened to my song.

Give thanks to the Lord for He is good. His love endures forever.

No it’s not easy, my heart is in a million pieces right now. I keep picking it up, making it a few steps, just to have it all fall again.

Yes, I will be ok. Yes, I believe God is faithful. I’ll talk to you later about just how amazing He actually is, how I stand firm in my belief that Maddie is with Him right now. For now though, I’m just too tired.

2 Corinthians 4:7-9

“But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.”

(Thanks for the verse, mom. And for being you.)

Go ahead

On Tuesday morning I went out to the dock and was greeted excitedly by little Luc. He ran into my arms, but before he got to me, I could see the increased swelling in his eye. The same eye that used to be swollen with a tumor, the one we have been watching shrink, celebrating each week. It was puffy last week, but Tuesday it was pressing his eye closed. His lymphoma is fighting back.

At the hospital that morning a nurse approached us and asked us to come see about a child with suspected NOMA. While walking through the hospital we were told the child was actually a 12 day old baby. We entered a muggy hallway, put on previously worn gowns and hats in an attempt to be 'sterile', only to turn around and find a dying baby in a plastic bassinet right there in the corridor. I kept it together long enough to ask if we could pray for the baby who we knew was hours away from dying. I held it together, that is, until I asked what her name was, did she have a name? A lump in my throat formed as I heard the answer I dreaded. This precious baby with ashen hands and feet had no name, a common practice in countries who have high infant mortality rates.
I prayed with tears dripping down my cheeks.
God, you know this baby's name. You love her. Surround her with your angels.
We got the call the next day letting us know she had died.

On Wednesday we went to see Maurice. Instead of a running leap into our arms, we found him crying and sick with a massive infection in his affected eye. Sarah and I (one of the nurses from the ship who also fell in love with this boy) looked at each other in despair. Its funny how you can see terrible things for years, how you can be exposed to some of the worst cases as a nurse, but when your heart is involved you fall apart. Your reasoning goes out the window, you become desperate to do something. Anything. We reeled back our emotions enough to think about getting him to the ship for some blood work and to see a doctor. I understand what palliative care is, I really do, but when its a 5 year old boy who is dirty and suffering there is no other option, there never will be as far as I'm concerned. While we waited for his results I cried while writing an email to my mom about my prayer requests. I couldn't hold it together when I talked about wanting to give Maurice a bath, dress him in clean cotton pajamas, and put him in a big soft bed with a movie playing.

I sat Wednesday afternoon with Pania. His mother stared off blankly as she recalled all two and a half years of her sons life being filled with suffering. How he has never known anything but pain.

Every day this week I drove by a cripple man on the side of the street. He crawls on his hands and feet, using flip flops on his hands to protect them, dragging mangled and deformed feet behind him as he begs for money to eat.

This week I started waking up early. In the past weeks I have been praying for God to reveal anything I needed to change in my life, in my walk here. I felt a pulling to spend time with Him. To sit in His presence and just 'be'. Every morning I take my tea to Deck 8 and sit with the sun rising on my face. I watch it glimmer and glisten on the silvery ocean like sparklers on the fourth of July.
Every morning, I listen to the song Psalm 118 by Shane and Shane at the beginning of my time and then again at the end.
Give thanks to the Lord for He is good
His love endures forever
He is my strength and He's my song
His love endures forever
I will proclaim what He has done
His love endures forever
this is the day the Lord has made
I will rejoice and be glad in it
this is the day the Lord has made

Go ahead and wonder how or why I believe in God, why I am trying desperately to give up all of myself to follow Him. Go ahead and ask me how I reconcile the horrific things I see daily here, why I keep believing, how I smile with hope and cry with sorrow so often without breaking. Go ahead and think "whats the point" (as some have said), in being in these countries, holding an eye dropper next to an ocean. Go ahead and think I shouldn't get so close to these patients, that I should protect myself from the pain of losing them.
Actually, I'll save you the time and just continue writing.

On Wednesday night I made a phone call to Luc's mom. The translator put the phone to my ear and I heard the sweet words "allo Suzanne!" followed by gibberish from my little friend. When I walked into Luc's room the next morning I was greeted again by my favorite four year old, this time noticing the swelling around his eye was nearly gone before I scooped him into my arms. His mom didn't stop smiling after I told her countless people were praying for her son. I couldn't stop kissing his soft brown cheek and hugging him close.
Oh Luc, I love you so much.

On Wednesday I did get to bathe Maurice. Before I brought him home, we snuck him in an empty ward and gave him a warm shower. Afterwards, I put cream on his body and dressed him in clean clothes. When we were done he smiled and kissed my cheek, letting me pick up his weak body to carry him down the corridor. When I went to my room to grab him some lifesavers, I saw a package laying on my bed with shiny new stickers tucked inside. Talk about perfect timing. I got more smiles as I stuck dinosaurs and sharks to his bandages and littered his arms with even more.

This week, Pania's mother and I talked about how there is no greater pain than losing a child. Then we talked about how Pania will have a brand new life soon. He will be free from suffering and living in the perfect love of Jesus. It seems impossibly hard, and perfectly peaceful all at once, this line of thinking.

I read the words of my beautiful friend Meg today after a long week, and while still crying, I was handed a baby boy with two front teeth. On the spot therapy for my aching heart.
I know a God who loves these people here unconditionally. He cries watching his children suffer, He hears the prayers of the desperate, and He comforts those who don't think they can go on. Go ahead and believe that, it will be the best thing you have ever done. I promise.

He is good. His loves endures forever. I will proclaim what He has done.

From dying to pepsid

A couple of weeks ago I was asked if I could do a session of teaching on Palliative care. Our mental health team was nearing the end of a course on counseling for local church leaders. I said yes (before being told I was meant to talk for 2-2 1/2 hours) to the date and naturally left the entire preparation to the day before. Things went smoothly (in that I didn't throw up) and at the end one of the pastors asked if I would accompany him to the house of a woman in his church who was dying. She has three children and he was clearly distraught thinking about putting all of the things I had just taught on into practice.
I had gone over ideas for wound care using fabric, help with meals, emotional support, etc... All things just about anyone can do for someone who is dying.
I was excited to see this pastor so intrigued (considering the guy next to him slept straight through the entire 2 + hours).

We got a phone call this week from the pastor asking if we could come.
"Sure, where do you live?"
The answer came as a surprise as we had met him in training down in the city. He was nearly 2 hours away, too far to manage as we try and keep new patients within an hours drive should something happen while we are out.
We asked if he would instead like us to meet him to review what had been taught, maybe print out some helpful points. He agreed to meeting us the next day after his training was complete in the city. We met late in the afternoon and learned this guy had already told the woman from his church about us. She was "so happy" to hear there were people who could come see her and share her burden.
I groaned inside, what to do.
"Do you think she is well enough to travel?"
"Yes, I think so"
"would you be willing, if we covered the cost of the taxi, to meet us somewhere and we can all meet?"
"As a matter of fact, (no, this is not a direct translation. Just go with it) I am coming to the ship tomorrow for a tour, can I bring her then?"
It was set, and I felt relieved as we drove home knowing we would at least be able to meet this lady.

On Friday we waited a little while for the pastor to come. We met a thin woman with bright eyes named Elizabeth and brought her down to an empty ward to talk with her. I asked her what her symptoms were because at this point no one had told us what she was actually dying from.
"My stomach burns, And then my heart burns too, like fire."
I'll spare you the litany of questions that followed to spare you the fun details. Just as a teaser though, and for your wondering minds, no, she does not have blood in her stool.

Basically, she has really bad indigestion. Gastro-Esophageal Reflux Disease to be exact. She's not dying, she has heartburn.
We brought her to meet the pastor who was still touring the ship. He gave me a bone-rattling handshake when we told him the news and off they went to finish the tour.
Honestly, I laugh at the circumstances surrounding this encounter. How can you not? A ridiculously complicated series of events I'm sure holds some sort of purpose, followed by a simple solution.
Berry flavor to boot.

Once upon a Landrover

Last Thursday was a good day.

It was also a hard day.

Thankfully all of my days seemingly pan out like yesterday, so I have grown accustomed to swinging back and forth emotionally and looking up when I'm afraid I won't make it another step.

Our first stop was to pick up little Anicette. With her surgery date on the horizon I thought it would be good to have her vaccinations done at a local hospital. Benin is good in that they have programs in place for this that are free of cost, so off we went.

As I carried her out to the car and handed to her mama who got settled in the backseat, I couldn't help but notice she felt heavy as I passed her up.

Heavy

All 9 pounds of her.

I quizzed mom about her age (this would take me too long to explain. Bottom line, they rarely know their age here).

She replied with the answer of 8 months. For some reason, in my head, she was still 5 months old. This, I realized, was only because I fail to recognize the fact that I met her 3 months ago on the wards, when she actually was 5 months.

I couldn't stop looking back at her every time we hit a red light or other random traffic jam.

Joy. Inexplicable joy. How else could I ever explain what I feel in my heart in words that fall dull on a screen once I place them there.

Next up was Pania. We left the city around 10 am, arriving at his house by 11. We had planned to help move him, his baby brother, and mother back down to the city where they would all live with his dad. We packed the car with two small bags, and a pop-up baby bed made of just netting. Pania was upset as they settled into the car. I climbed into the drivers seat, still holding his 3 month old brother I had grabbed during the 'move', and my eyes fell on Pania as I handed the baby back. His face was listless, his eyes set in a far off gaze. He was hot with fever and after a bit, finally found comfort in leaning into his mama.

While driving his mom mentioned he stopped drinking the ensure we give him weekly, the only thing he takes in for nutrition these days. My heart dropped hard. Dis-interest in food or drink, even the things used to be found enjoyable is a general sign of decline, that death is fairly immanent.
How do people ever face these things without you, God?
I could barely keep my mind focused on the road and the questions being asked by his parents. Questions that are so hard to answer honestly. He's only 2 years old.

After lunch the plan was to meet Antoinette, a little girl whose disease we have been trying to figure out for months. So many people were frustrated when she came back after treatment we though for sure was working with a face filled with sores again. The day before, our ship doctor came up to me and asked if I would be willing to follow her outpatient. I was so excited to hear the news she had Tuberculosis. This seems odd, but you see, TB is treatable. Antoinette is going to one of the ones who makes it. She's going to be treated and hopefully next year I will take care of her on the wards after reconstruction surgery returns her face to how it should be. A beautiful face to match a beautiful, sweet spirit.
She and her brother (who I have lovingly nicknamed monkey-butt for his hilarious attitude and undeniable mischievous way about him), along with their mom, climbed into the land rover, smiling from ear to ear.
We drove to the TB clinic and started with the registration process for Antoinette. On the way home I felt the joy of success, like butterflies in my stomach.

On the drive back to the ship I recalled how much the story of the starfish hit me before coming here.
Its easy to put all of Benin, all of Africa for that matter, into one big group. When I do this, I see as impossible task, and hopelessness starts creeping in. Then I smile and realize God in all of it.
I smile because He's got me driving a land rover around Africa, picking up his precious children, asking me to do nothing except love them with everything in me, with all that I am.

Forgetful

I was saying to a friend the other day I can't believe how forgetful I am. Everyday, or at least nearly every day, I forget how good God is. How faithful He is.

A week ago I struggled through days of feeling beat up. Mercy Ships is a boot camp of sorts. While here, I have been subjected to such emotional, mental, and spiritual stress. Its not as if I can escape it either. Its hard to sneak away for a cup of tea and a book, never mind a day away or a walk into town without being the center of every persons attention. I understand its all part of the package, I get that there are lessons to be learned, I acknowledge the fact God is at work. Sometimes I just want life to pause, or better yet, be able to press fast forward through some parts.
Everyone has been buzzing about how we only have 7 weeks left here in Benin. Those of us who have been here the whole time are tired, we are preparing for the end with still a chunk of time to go.
Last week I was ready, I was dreaming about how good it would feel to sleep without thoughts of patients, to relax and come out of over drive.
Then one phone call started a sequence of events that leaves me smiling, excited to get 7 more precious weeks here in this country I have called home since March.

I wanted to check in on Luc, one of our Burkitt's lymphoma patients. This type of cancer spreads quickly and claims children's lives at an alarming rate here in Africa. It is also treatable and 80% of kids respond really well to the chemotherapy. Luc is one of those kids.
We were going to be seeing him on Friday at the ship for some bloodwork so I figured a quick call would be fine early in the week to make sure he was doing ok. My translator made the call and hung up.
"I spoke to Luc's father. He is feeling fine, he started school today."
I could have cried. Little Luc, loving, sweet, shy, Luc. The image of him in a uniform on his first ever day of school made my heart ache. Its likely he would have died by now had he not come to the ship for treatment.
Wow, God. Thank you.

Baby Anicette, a sweet cleft lip/palate patient was on our feeding program for months without gaining enough weight. It looked like she wasn't going to have her surgery and with nothing less than a miracle my favorite baby in Benin gets to keep her appointment for the first week of November.
With only a month around Christmas time to be home and get everything done, I emailed my old boss to ask if she could put me in touch with our oncology floor. I am working on a project and it would be ideal for me to take a course in chemotherapy in order to best do my job next year. Within hours the nurse educator from a different floor had emailed me to tell me some dates of classes. I was touched by her effort, especially towards someone she had never met. I wrote back to say I wouldn't be home for the given dates, thanks anyways, and were there any other resources she could point me towards. Again, within hours, she wrote back asking "if we change the dates of the course would you be able to make it?"
Umm, yes?
I wasn't shocked, Children's Hospital Boston is unlike any other place I have ever been associated with. The people there are just plain good. They are kind, considerate, and ridiculously helpful (even to strangers, as evidenced by this woman). I wasn't shocked, but I was touched beyond what I can explain.
By Friday this week I was overwhelmed by God.
I Love you, Suzanne. I love you so much.

Today I joined in the fun of watching a world cup qualifying soccer match between Ghana and Benin. We didn't get attacked by an angry mob, or hit with the flying billy-clubs used by angry police. We didn't get stuck outside the gates because of the over-selling of seats, and we got to celebrate (loudly) when Benin won 1-0. I was truly happy walking through the frenzy of fans after the game, I got a glimpse of why I love Africa so much, how fun it is that this is home right now.
When I got back and checked my email I found an incredibly sweet note of encouragement from a friend I haven't talked to in ages. It made me smile realizing how God orchestrates every single detail in life. Not a moment goes by without Him knowing. He is so good.

All of it, the joy, the pain, I'm thankful for all of it. Some days (and weeks) I forget that God is in control. Then there are the weeks where God shows His unmistakable grace with me. He fills me with inexplicable joy and instances where I can't deny Him.
James 1:2-4
"Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything."

What are you waiting for?

So you think you may want to quit your job and go live on a ship off the coast of Africa? Let me tell you whats in store...

An house on the ocean...
with a lovely odor outside your door resembling raw sewage and garbage at different stages of rot. Oh wait, it is sewage and rotting garbage.


Its especially nice in the early morning hours...

(shout out to our dive team for basking in this glory)








A fully equipped hospital and staff ready to take care of your every symptom...
who then groups you with which virus you have along with the 400 other people you share germs with. You generally fit into one of three or so.

A manageable commute...
when you subtract the not-so-random-run-ins with a herd of cows

Oh, and sheep. Can't forget the sheep.










A comfortable bed...
that you have to climb into when you are far past the age of being limber enough to do so without absolute fear of hurting yourself. Not to mention the pivot-your-pelvis-maneuver you quickly master when you want to switch sides once in the bed.

Multiple marriage proposals a day...
when you learn your worth in goats. Invaluable information ladies, really.

Stress unlike any other. The kind that doesn't seem to let up...
until you hold a 5 month old baby with a cleft lip who smiles at you through her deformity. The baby whose mama holds a card for her life changing surgery just one month from today. The baby who shouldn't be alive and now is gaining ounces and grams daily, proving prayers work and actual miracles do exist.








Walking by faith, feeling blind and confused as to what your future holds...
then stopping to realize that God called you to be a part of an organization that brings literal sight to the blind. Color into the lives of children, the pairing of a mothers voice to her face for the first time ever.





Neighbors who wake you up on Saturday mornings just by having a simple conversation...
the same ones who throw an 80's party just for the fun of it and dance the night away with you on the top deck later on.

Feeling the emotional agony of seeing children die from treatable diseases...
and the extreme joy of being part of getting treatment for those with the same disease.








Aime

So if you are ready for a challenge that leaves you dirty, smelling like exhaust and sweat, frustrated, heartbroken, tired and weary, then also be ready for an experience that leaves you breathless, totally in love, fearless, faithful, and in awe.
So if you are able, if you have something to give, if you feel the unmistakable urge to get up and go...
what are you waiting for?

Can't you see me?

I've been having some good conversations recently. All of them have been with people who I consider 'real'. The people who are outright honest and blunt (gotta love those types).
A couple of nights ago it was about how exhausted I am/we are. I left our time together and before bed looked up Chambers 'My Utmost' for the day. I'm so past being surprised by his wise words:

(In talking about having a call on your life)
This call has nothing to do with personal sanctification, but with being made broken bread and poured-out wine. God can never make us wine if we object to the fingers He uses to crush us with. If God would only use His own fingers, and make me broken bread and poured-out wine in a special way! But when He uses someone whom we dislike, or some set of circumstances to which we said we would never submit, and makes those the crushers, we object. We must never choose the scene of our own martyrdom. If ever we are going to be made into wine, we will have to be crushed; you cannot drink grapes. Grapes become wine only when they have been squeezed.
I wonder what kind of finger and thumb God has been using to squeeze you, and you have been like a marble and escaped? You are not ripe yet, and if God had squeezed you, the wine would have been remarkably bitter. To be a sacramental personality means that the elements of the natural life are presenced by God as they are broken providentially in His service. We have to be adjusted into God before we can be broken bread in His hands. Keep right with God and let Him do what He likes, and you will find that He is producing the kind of bread and wine that will benefit His other children.

I laughed and sent my friend the link. She agreed the next day we were being "squeezed"
"Its a good thing when you think about it...
...really"
We tried to pretend we were excited about this revelation.
At lunch another girl and I sat long past the dishes were cleared and people had left.
"I'm tired"
"I'm angry"
"I'm weary"
"I'm fed up"
"I'm ready to go home"
"All this crap from the past is coming up"
"I've never been so frustrated in my life"
(Continue on this path clear through my large cup of tea)

We concluded that it is ok to feel these things. After suppressing emotions or trying to dismiss them it is so good to put it all out there. Its what we do with these emotions that counts. That's what God is waiting to see.
Will we respond the right way?
We also laughed and through smiles agreed that God always uses these crap times to help us grow, to mold us.
:sigh:
After all, he who has been given much, much will be asked of. Right?

Just now I talked again with my Wednesday night friend. We talked about the 'squeezing' and how true it was of our lives. She recalled another analogy of God using other people to grate us against, using them to refine us. Yes, grate like cheese. Then there's the refiners fire. Nice image, fire, melting, being stirred by a big spoon. Fantastic.

No, its not easy to feel crushed, grated, or maybe melted over fire from time to time. I'm tired to be honest. But, I always come around to what God is doing, wondering what He's up to.
Lately Ive been saying,
"I'm waving the white flag, God. Can't you see me? I surrender, I'm tired, I'm ready for this hard stuff to be over"

Its Friday afternoon at 4pm over here in Africa. My headphones are pushed as far as they'll go into my ears, a sign when you live in community that says DO NOT DISTURB. I'm finished with work for the week and I'm desperate to go upstairs, put on sweatpants after a shower, and stay in my room until sometime late tomorrow morning.
While sitting here, reconciling the week with God, getting ready to write a quick blog about waving my white flag and God not letting up, God chuckled (what? I believe it)

Suzanne. Now you are starting to see. When these things come up, when you are at your end, when you are done, surrender. Surrender fully, totally, to me. This is where you are supposed to be. Complete surrender. Of course I see you, you're just where I want you.

What was that I said earlier about God using these times to teach me things?
As the Africans would say, their eyebrows raised,
"Ah-huh"