A sweet melody

I'm not sure how to start this post, besides by saying this sense of not having words is all too familiar. Or at least it was a few months ago, and now again today.
Since returning to Togo I have been meaning to call some of my patients from last year. Its funny, I want nothing more than to hear how they are doing and smile while a translator tells me they are well, playing, and happily enjoying life. Maybe that's why I haven't called until today, I know the translator won't say that. I know the news will not always be happy, but something deep inside is desperate to be protected from more bad news, more heartache, more hot tears running down my face.
The first call that went through was to Anicette's mama. Although the person on the other end was not her, he clearly knew us as evidenced by the loud "Ah!!" heard around the small office we were calling from. We didn't have to even ask, they are already planning their trip to see us here in Togo minutes after they answered the phone. Just hearing my friend ask how she was doing and seeing her response brought tears to my eyes. Chicken little. oh chicken. I can't wait to hold that little baby again.

We tried Luc's phone but the network told us again and again that our call, no matter how much we wanted it to, was not going to go through.
Then my eyes fell on Maurice's number.
When I was at home over Christmas I had a lot of nights when I woke up thinking about the kids from the Benin outreach. I never knew if I had been dreaming or just thinking about them, but for hours my mind would trace back over the moments with them. Those kids are still never far from my thoughts.
One night I woke up as if I had been hit in the stomach.
Maurice. He died, he's gone.
I quickly put my heart before God in prayer.
Yes, Suzanne. He is with me now. He is home, here, with Jesus.
I felt peace descend, I knew in my heart he was gone, and I knew it was ok.
I can't remember if I told anyone besides my family about the dream at home, at least not right away. I told people on the ship when I returned, people who knew him, but I think that dream was one of those sacred moments I kept between God and I for a while.

Today I knew it was time to call. I knew what his dad was going to say, but that self preservation in me was dying to just let a few more days pass, maybe another week.
"I'm sorry, my condolences", my friend said in french.
My eyes blurred, no use really in trying to hold back those kind of tears.
She told his father about my dream, how we believed he was in Heaven.
We are so sorry, she said.

Maurice was my first pediatric patient in Benin. It is clear to most that I live to work with kids. Last year I knew my role was meant to be in Palliative care, where I would be caring for adults, but I still longed for the little ones. I met Maurice close to the beginning and I admit, unashamed, that he was one of my favorite kids. ever. I loved him so deeply and felt his sweet love in return every time I held him. He taught me so much. He had seen and experienced more in 5 years than most of us will see in a lifetime, and he never failed to smile.
After I got the news this morning I walked down to deck 3 in search of my friend who also knew Maurice. As I neared the bottom of the stairs, the memories flooded my mind. I could see Maurice, feel his hand in mine as we ran up and down the halls, over and over again. I could see his face with tears in his eyes as he watched the needle I was holding get closer to his arm when I would draw blood. He never fought me, and always forgave quickly, showing his grace by slipping his hand into mine.
My mom joked last year saying; "I don't know what you two will do without each other when its time to leave".
Our last day with Maurice was hard. Juan, Sarah, and I went to his house. Each of us were captivated by this little boy.
"Maurice, do you know Jesus loves you?"
he nodded yes...
"Maurice, tell us something about Jesus"
"The Lord heals" He replied.

We prayed he would go gently, that he wouldn't suffer and longer. We cried while we prayed, and then we said goodbye.

My heart aches for Maurice, at first I was trying to justify the tears. I knew he was gone before we called, I knew it was better that he not suffer, why then should I cry? If I learned anything last year, it was that I don't have to have a reason. The tears make me feel alive, connected to the heart of my work here. They make me feel connected to God too, to His heart.
As I sat on deck 7 during lunch, overlooking the palms and warm beaches, I felt God in the breeze. I heard him whisper into my soul.
I'm here, Suzanne. I know you loved him.

I just came up from B ward. The benefit of having a hard day on the ship is that there is never a lack of 'therapy' babies just steps below wherever you happen to be. Today's best medicine is a toss up between Mako, an 8 year old little girl with an infectious giggle, and baby Pauline, the softest child I swear I have ever held.
I put my lips to Paulines ear, and kissed her quietly. Her hands found my face and rested there, her head grew heavy, her warm cheek pressed against mine. She cooed as I kissed her again and again.
Restoration of the heart is such a sweet, sweet melody.