A love letter

In the last weeks since I've been back on the ship I have had so much affirmation over why I am here, how I feel like long term missions is a perfectly logical answer for what I should do with my life.
Wednesday night I had the opportunity to give a little info session on the Burkitt's program we are working on. I was a bit nervous as I am not a fan of public speaking. When I got to the end of the presentation, to the slides about last year, I found myself looking at the one smiling picture of Maddie, the beautiful face of Rachelle, the sad eyes of Aime, and the reality of Luc's cancer coming back. I felt my throat tighten and the emotion stir in my stomach.
I don't always share with people the stories of these kids in great detail. I tried through this blog last year, but even that at times that felt like vain attempts to capture something too sacred to describe.
In my mind, no one would understand how much those kids mean to me. I would want to tell you about every day if I had to try. Like the afternoon Luc's mom and I were talking about infection control measures and I watched Luc drag m&m's across the cement walls in his house, decorating the drab gray with blue and red sugar, right before popping them into his mouth.
I can talk and type, cry over the stories, desperately trying to bring you right into that room with me, but its not enough. If I close my eyes, I can still feel Luc's hands on the backs of my arms and the weight of his body as I held him. I can feel his small, hot, dusty hand in mine. I can hear his voice on the other end of the phone, and I smile when I recall the day the translator and his mom laughed telling me Luc had said it would be a good idea for me to bring chocolate to him when he and I 'talked' the night before.
Part of me wants to share it all, and part of me wants to hold on tightly, keeping it all to myself.
I can feel the heaviness unlike any other of caring for a child with cancer. The fear you can physically feel when a parent holds out their only child to you that is so sick. More than that though, I know what true hope feels like. What trust really is. How joy is beautiful and oh so precious, especially when it comes in the form of playing with a child.
Before Wednesday, I struggled with sharing thinking no one would truly understand. Looking back (a whole two days, I know, I'm so mature. not.) I see a bit of stubbornness (totally unlike me, I swear...), mixed with some other not-so-pretty character flaws (pride, selfishness, fill in the other blanks), all causing me to stand directly in the way of something God wanted.

As I stood in front of my colleagues, friends, and supporters and talked about Burkitt's I started seeing it. When I got to the first slide about the kids, my eyes opened. When I fought back tears over Maddie, I finally understood. The story of those kids is not mine, I'm not the only one who understands.
Suzanne, look at them. See where I have brought you, look around you. Tell these people about them. I know how much you love these children, now its time to share them. Just let go.

How can I deny God of the glory He deserves? Last year a Burkitt's program all of its own wasn't even a figment of my imagination. He wrote every detail, mapped out everything He wanted me to do, and then showed me on Wednesday how He is bringing it all together. How He is turning even the worst tragedy into something good. He asked me to tell His story.
If we hold onto things too tightly, we can lose sight of the bigger picture.
Mother Theresa said;
"I am a little pencil in the hand of a writing God who is sending a love letter to the world"

I like that.