~A Day in the Life~

For the record

2012-01-21T09:56:00.006-05:00

Today is a big day for family vdV. This weekend is quite important to us as a whole as well.

Tomorrow is a special day as it marks the two year anniversary when I met the man who is now my beloved husband. I had just returned to Tenerife, Spain where the ship was docked in between the 2009 Benin field service and the 2010 Togo outreach. I walked on board the ship and passed a group of new faces on their way out. My roommate Sandra asked if I wanted to go directly out and meet some new friends she had acquired for us while I was back home. As I sat at the meter bar, a favorite place for all of us on the ship in Tenerife, I felt so out of place. Besides my roommate there were no familiar faces, and what was worse, all those unfamiliar faces knew each other and were having a grand old time.
There was a cast of characters at the table that night.
The cute Dutch guy caught my attention. He said his name but I knew from living with other Dutchies the past year that I would likely not get it right on the first day so I smiled once introduced and then just sat back and observed. He was loud, and his accent was strong. He had a thick, heavy laugh and everyone was entertained not necessarily by what he was saying, but in the manner he presented himself. The Dutch man with the striking blue eyes and name that was hard to pronounce had a captive audience, and I was part of it.

First impressions soon turned into budding friendships for all who were at the table that night. We went everywhere together, this new group of ours. We talked about the fun we would have once we got to Africa, dreaming of adventures to come. While we walked I often found myself paired with the blue eyed Dutchman, and I found myself not minding this at all. I had to look at the friendship with him as temporary though, with all of them actually. They all had plans to leave the ship within the first months of us arriving in Togo, only Sandra and I would remain through the whole year. An unfortunate reality of living on the ship is saying goodbye to friends all the time, a reality I wasn't a fan of.

Soon we started sailing and I got to see how the Dutchman came alive at sea. He was all business, walking around the swaying ship with a sure and steady gait. He had been asked before we ever left the port if he would stay on for the rest of the year. This happened to be a direct answer to his prayer the night before so during the sail now we talked even more about what was to come, seeing as we would be spending the whole year together. At night our group laid out on the top deck of the ship surrounded by the darkness of the sea being out done only by the brightness of the stars as we sailed to our new home.

I prayed and prayed those days for God to reveal his plan. I held what I wanted most as loosely as I could, knowing God would be faithful and show a way if this relationship was from Him.

I could keep going and going with this story, actually it's hard to stop because this flood of memories is overwhelming at best. The past two years are impossible to sum up or explain in words. What is amazing to me is how different life is now for me and my blue eyed man whom I now proudly refer to as my husband.

This weekend we also celebrate me still being pregnant. At 34 weeks today our unborn baby's lung and brain development have reached big milestones and if it were to be born now it would likely be able to put up a great fight to prove how big and developed it is and come home quickly. We know God orchestrates every circumstance, this one is just so special to us. The fact that we don't have a 29 week preemie right now is nothing short of a miracle.

This post is simply one for the record. Putting down on paper these thoughts helps me reflect on Gods goodness and the special two year anniversary of a night I will remember forever.

Psalm 34:8
"Taste and see that the LORD is good; blessed is the one who takes refuge in him."

An African state of mind

2011-12-29T15:24:00.003-05:00

Today marks day 14 of bed rest. 14 days ago my doctor was preparing me to meet my little 29 week baby, he said his hope was I would make it maybe 1 or 2 more weeks. The diagnosis was severe preeclampsia, and I was quickly admitted to the hospital and put on strict bed rest with the expectation that I would be there until they delivered my very little baby.

Many of you know the story, that after just 4 days I was so stable that my doctor had downgraded my diagnosis from severe to mild and I was being sent home. Maybe you didn't know that I wasn't surprised.
In the 4 days I spent in that hospital room I quite literally felt the prayers from around the world being lifted up on my behalf. We were covered by three continents, countless countries. Friends, family, and even people who don't know us personally rallied around in prayer and God heard each one.

Since those days in the hospital I have had a lot of time to think. A lot.

When faced with fear, and I mean not your average fear but rather that wild, terrifying, all consuming fear, we have an incredible opportunity. We are afforded the chance to die to that fear, to give it away. Looking back I am so thankful for those moments two weeks ago when I was by myself, wild eyed and crying on my knees. I am thankful because it took that fear for me to lay down my life and die to myself again and hand it all over to God. Sound extreme? Crazy? Ridiculous?

It is.
That's the point.

We don't have the ability to ease our own fear. No one can give us the right words or a fitting quote that will take away the terror. We can calm ourselves down, take deep breaths and concentrate on good things, but at night, before we go to sleep, the fear is still there. It lingers, it digs it's claws deep into our very being.

But I have the secret, I've known it now for over four and a half years. My fear and hurt, the pain and terror, all can be taken away with one whisper. It takes one deliberate decision, a handover of the torch, and it's gone.

When I became a Christian I almost immediately felt called over to Africa. This raw state I'm experiencing brings me back to those days in Africa when I was terrified. I was terrified to have to watch another child die, to carry the weight of a dead baby in my arms again, or to grieve those losses one more time. I constantly learned to die to my will. When I look back to my days there I envy what my relationship with God looked like. I missed the rawness and wild nature of how desperately I clung to Him. I never woke up and faced a single day by my own strength, it quite honestly would have been impossible to especially during that first year in Benin.

And now I'm back in that state. I'm back to having no control. All of our plans, or even just thoughts of how this first year of marriage and pregnancy would go are long gone. I hope you believe me when I say I am happy about it. It took some time and some grieving, but we wouldn't trade our situation for any other.

I don't know if at one of my bi-weekly checks they will find a problem and send me over for an emergency delivery. I don't know if we will be visiting a little premature baby for the first weeks or months of it's life in a neonatal ICU. I don't know if my body will hold out another 5-7 weeks of pregnancy until this baby growing inside of me is strong enough to be on the outside.
What I do know is that I've been given the gift of 2 extra weeks already. I know that I count each day that passes as a gift.

When I go to sleep, or wake up in the middle of the night with fear lurking in the darkness I turn to God and remember immediately that this little babe will not be born one minute before He plans for it to be. Whatever the situation is on that day, He will be in control. All I have to do is simply trust that. There is no fear in trust.

Now let me tell you, my love for this baby is fierce. The picture in my head when I think about this baby is also one that brings me back to Africa.
The elephant mama is known to be the most protective mothers of all of the animals. She protects her baby to such a degree that you are only warned of two things when you enter certain safari parks. You are to watch out for the male elephants in heat (they leak putrid smelling urine which is supposed to help indicate that they are near, We just went ahead and did our best to avoid close encounters with those big boys) and you watch out for mama elephants with their babies. We saw more than once a mama raise her trunk and charge at the slightest suggestion of someone looking at her baby. I fell in love with elephants while in Africa. They are so majestic and powerful yet gentle and so beautiful. Really though, I loved the mamas and their all out abandon when it came to protecting that which is most precious to them.

That is the essence of how I feel towards this baby who is currently kicking hard enough that my stomach is visibly jumping. I love my husband and my family something fierce right now too.

More than anything though, I am one step closer in all of this to understanding Gods intense love towards me, towards us.

Psalm 141:14-21

The Lord upholds all who fall and lifts up all who are bowed down. The eyes of all look to you, and you give them their food at the proper time. You open your hand and satisfy the desires of every living thing.The Lord is righteous in all his ways and faithful in all he does. The Lord is near to all who call on him, to all who call on him in truth. He fulfills the desires of those who fear him; he hears their cry and saves them. The Lord watches over all who love him, but all the wicked he will destroy. My mouth will speak in praise of the Lord. Let every creature praise his holy name for ever and ever.

A new day, a pretty different life

2011-09-24T19:40:00.000-04:00

Written back on July 7th...

This is a bizarre way to break news, I know.
As I type I know I won't be publishing this post for at least several weeks. The thing is, I can't hold back the writing, my stream of conciousness any longer.
I'm pregnant.
Yikes, I hope I don't accidently press 'publish post' rather than 'save' at the end of this.

After 7 weeks of being married, my loving husband and I found ourselves staring at a digital readout of the 'p' word

Then we laughed.

With one little word we laughed out of joy at the gift we have been given. We laughed despite the timing of the 'p' word in our lives, and we laughed because we had this incredible deepening of our relationship occur in a split second.

As a nurse I started reading everything I could find about what my body was about to go through. I started an immediate campaign for the girls name I want (my proposal is the girl in the relationship gets to pick the potential girls name and the guy the boys name. A gamble, I know, but one I am willing to take) and then I sat back in amazement of what is about to happen.

Honest truth: We trust God with this. We know His timing is perfect, and we know the weight of responsibility is about to fall heavily on us. Our situation isn't ideal, we aren't ready in a worldly sense for this, and we know that it will be perfect anyways. God is bigger, He is greater than all of that.

To our little one:
I already love you. I wonder what you will look like every day. I picture myself holding and kissing you all the time. I will endure any discomfort and pain for you. To think God is knitting you together inside of me right now is the most amazing miracle I know I will ever experience. Incredible. That's all I can say.

Weirdest symptom so far:
Right eyelid fluttering for the last 3 weeks straight. Strange.

So there it is, I imagine I will publish for you all to see sometime in August, but until then I will keep the vomiting and other joys to myself (bet you're glad you read this last part)

Today

2011-04-05T07:18:00.002-04:00

Transitioning out of Africa has been hard.

Emotional ties, friendships that change, a new place, a different language, planning a wedding, uncertainty about the future, longing to go back to where things seemed to make sense (and not make any sense at the same time), distance from family while being incorporated into a different family and lifestyle, a fight for what is right and no clue in how to do it for the people who I left behind, a desire to hear God, to know Him again, to fall in love and see the world through His eyes, they all swirl around inside of me, coming out in the physical.

The most painful manifestation has been the headaches. Since coming to Holland my once a month pain has turned into almost daily, debilitating headaches. Sometimes they pierce through mornings and threaten my whole day. Other times they creep in with the afternoon, dull and steady. Some last for 4 days accompanied by absolute innability to process sunshine and music or the smell of good food because I can't tolerate the stimulation.
Joy stealers, these headaches.

The nurse in me has diagnosed at least a dozen physical contributers that could lead to this. The little girl inside wants to crawl into bed and pull the covers safely over her head and wait for the pain to go away. The brave woman pours a cup of tea and presses on, trying to deny the pain while she makes invitations and favors for her wedding. The wife-to-be tries hard to be the supporter and rock but then has a short temper when her husband-to-be doesn't seem to do exactly what she needs, even though she doesn't know what that need is.

Until last Friday this is how I have been living from day to day. I read the New Testament each night, feeling a hunger for something that until now lacked a bit. I want to understand more, I don't know where to start, so I go to Jesus. I prayed for the pain to go away. I prayed quickly before bed, as usual, and nothing changed. I wasn't surprised considering the canyon I felt between myself and God.
Last Friday a book came that I ordered. I saw it on someones blog, one of a woman who inspires me. I knew her recomendation would be a good one.

Until last Friday I was reading books about Africa, about the 'Hole in our Gospel', reading them like a person who hasn't seen food for days. The binging on these books fueled my "this is what I know" fire with more burdens for Africa, for her people. The books then were just right, I needed that connection, to read about people who 'got it' and wanted to change it.

What I didn't realize is that huge part I was leaving out. MY connection to God. MY half of the deal. I wanted Him to come and make sense of it all, to speak in a powerful way, to lift me up.
But I wasn't doing anything about it.
And then last Friday the book came and I stopped everything I was doing and sunk into the couch, cup of tea by my side.
'One Thousand Gifts, a dare to live fully right where you are.' (Ann Voskamp)
Was I up to this challenge? Was this another self help book that I would read and be inspired by for 5 minutes?
I thank God that it isn't, that in just a few days my life, my connection to Him, feels familiar again, all while being brand new.

I won't go into a full synopsis of this book, but suffice to say it is good. Like good for the soul good. The basis is thanksgiving, how to do this in all things. I started with my headaches and then promptly cried about it because the pain that day was especially bad. I lay in bed that night and out loud, started listing the things I was thankful for. The next morning I smiled before I even lifted my head from the pillow. I can't remember the last time I did that. I realized how much I had missed that feeling. When I grew frustrated over menial things that day, I thanked God. I continued my list through the day, sometimes repeating the things that I was really really thankful for. It is so simple, this list, but it is working. My attitude is lighter and less critical. The pain and guilt and sorrow, the longing to go back and hesitation about my future still lingering from the last two years and since then is lifiting as I thank God for it all.

I am learning that the burden for Africa is engraved on my heart, it isn't going anywhere, but it doesn't mean I have to live in the past. My joy won't come from things of the past or looking into the future, it will come in being present, with God, today.
So today I am thankful because my headaches the last 3 days have been much less intense. I thank God that these headaches are what He used to spark me back into action. I'm thankful that God renews my burdens for things of His heart and promises me He has a good and perfect plan for my life, that He will see it through until completion.
I'm thankful my joy is coing back fully restored and with a vengence.

Today I'm thankful that I can show Michiel love by making him a grilled cheese sandwich just the way he likes it for breakfast, because thats what he wanted and it made me smile to see him enjoy it this morning, sweet chille sauce and all. I'm thankful I have the ability to spend hours making favors look pretty but mostly that I will have friends and family who come all the way here just to share in this very special day with us.

Today I will continue my list and feel myself entering Gods presence each time I do. I will smile and grow warm with the love of my savior who knows my pain. I will rest in the comfort that I am a child, a nurse, a woman and a wife of the King who loves me.

Today I am thankful I have this outlet, this comfort of writing down my life to share it with others. I have a record of Gods love for me, written down in black and white. Yeah, I'm really thankful for that one today.

The Flying Dutchman

2011-03-24T12:50:00.000-04:00

I've been formulating this post in my head for months. The inspiration comes from over 1 year of knowing and loving one of the best men I have ever known.

Our story isn't typical, and is far from normal, but that works for us quite well. We met the night I got back from my time at home last year for Christmas, and proceeded to spend every meal, every evening, and basically every waking moment seeing each other while we worked on the ship this past year in Togo.

We drank tea every night and talked while watching the container ships unload thier goods while rats and cockroaches ran around on our little dirty dock in Lome, Togo. For us it was strangely romantic, the dance of the rats and cockroaches. It became familiar, it was our thing.
We sailed for a total of nearly a month, eating our lunch on the bow every day and watching for whales (which he always saw before anyone else. The man loved those whales)

We saw sides of each other in every circmstance imaginable. We rode for 500Km on motorcycles to remote waterfalls, ate picknics and drank cold coka cola out of the bottle in every small city we passed. We drank coffee on deserted beaches on Sundays and played with the local kids who couldn't stifle their curiosity at the two yovos on an electric blue chineese motorcycle rolling up. When I asked him quite honestly if he had seen me violently throwing up during a hike (refer back to my last post about not hiking following a three week African stomach bug) he answered honestly, as he always does, with"No, but I heard you".

A friend wrote in her blog once about having a relationship start and spending the first months in Africa together. She said that having a relationship in Africa should be considered in dog years. I like that one, and anyone who has experienced this knows exactly what it means.

In South Africa we spent four months working hard in our seperate environments, coming together each weekend to spend hour upon hour talking about our week. He stayed with me on my 12 hour night shifts every Sunday and always gently held the babies as if they'd break when they would give us those 'I need some lovin' eyes' (or when they screamed, but I want this to sound poetic and that scenario doesn't fit).
We enjoyed life to the fullest African-style, all while letting our hearts break and also be mended for those who surrounded us.

Michiel has a heart bigger than the ocean he loves so much. To watch him interact with others makes me want to be a better person. He is patient, kind, loving, giving, and much more in a fruits-of-the-spirit-kinda way.
We came to Holland in February so I could get a chance to live with his family and get to know him in his own environment. Its proving to be a great decision in that we are learning, growing, and I am able to appreciate Holland beyond its tulips, windmills, and clogs (although those are all great things too)

Had it not been for God, Michiel would have left the ship when he was supposed to, 8 weeks after arriving. Without having met Jesus, he would have gone home, went back to work, and would be carrying on the same as before. Most of us who have had an encounter with such a being(Jesus) knows that life is seldom ever the same after that. It makes us do things like sell our cars, give up our jobs, baffle our friends (and many others for that matter). Michiel did all those things with a few phone calls and 14 months after arriving he finished on the Africa Mercy.

I could go on and on, but I'm not sure where to stop quite honestly. I could talk about his hours and hours of work to teach 5 local African volunteers from the ship each week the art of electronics. How he is still in touch with every one of them and reads me each email he gets from them with a smile on his face.

His simplicity in faith, love for people, and energetic personality make him irresistable. He is simply one of those great guys who people can't help but be drawn to.

So to wrap this up I will announce the news that as of May this year I will officially be Mrs. Flying Dutchman after a small wedding here in Holland. This seems silly, and I suppose is just more of a record for myself seeing as though this is old news in the social-network, but hey, I get to write what I like. And I like my Dutchie.

Mighty flip flops and other tales from Africa

2011-02-08T13:46:00.004-05:00

Its a funny thing, this blogging. I sit to write, but can't find words despite the noise that all of them are making while flying around my head.
As with most of my time in Africa, I feel conflicted in some way tonight. Today is different though, today while I still struggle with how life is for Africans, I also struggle with the thought of leaving tomorrow.
It snuck up on me, I wasn't thinking about it. And then it happened. The travel agent dude re-booked our tickets and the date stared back at me in black and white. I realized we leave tomorrow. Tomorrow night I will load my over-stuffed two bags onto the scale which will surely diplay a digital number far greater then my allowance. Tomorrow night I will suck in my last breaths of the crisp cool air here in South Africa. Tomorrow I will still be trying to process what the HECK just happened and how two years went by so so fast.

There is so much I want to say, but how does one wrap up an experience so extensive, so life altering, so intense?

On the lighter side, first a lesson in how to be a missionary, as told by Suzanne Zickell.

-When you pack your anti-malarials, go ahead and pack the sunscreen next to it. The only thing worse then being in the extreme heat of the African sun is to do so with a chemically-induced sunburn.
-Those nalgene water bottles are cool and trendy and all, but they are worthless when driving anywhere in Africa. Plan to go thirsty or get wet. Still bring it though, but remember to only put water in it. It seems like a good idea to put in tea or coffee, but if you forget about it and the milk goes funky you will never, I mean never, be able to forget the stench that once came out of that plastic bottle.
-Bring your nailpolish ladies, having fresh paint on your fingers and toes can lift those 'I feel sweaty, disgusting, and just plain gross' days
-Buy old navy flip flops and forget about any other pair you are thinking of bringing. No other article of clothing in my life has ever impressed me the way those baby's do. They're cheap, comfortable (once you convince your feet to get used to them as they will be in them everyday), and can be de-skunked by simply giving them a good scrub after an especially sweaty-footed day.
-Also bring a nail brush. Even after a horrible, painful hike made 100 times worse due to intense vomitting and near black outs, clean nails and a washed face can make it all melt away.
-Oh, and don't go for horrible, painful hikes while trying to recover from a 3 week stomach bug, your body will go into full revolt. But then at least you'll have your nailbrush to make you feel better...
-If you have to pee and you are approaching a border check point, don't hold it and fool yourself into thinking going there will be your best option. It never is. I promise.
-Take note of all signs that make you laugh, they'll keep on doing it everytime you're reminded of them. There's a place down the street selling life chickens, as an example.
-Look around always, take it all in. Be overwhelmed, don't avoid frustration, and always try something new. These will be the things you always carry with you, memories that get stored up and will someday be reflected back upon in scenarios such as....'this traffic is nothing, I remember the time I was in a hatchback taxi with 6 other adults and a child on the hottest day ever in the history of the world. And I had to pee. And we were at a border control point'

haha, oh this is kinda fun.

While driving these past weeks, I kept thinking about how hard it is to explain Africa. It doesn't matter how many different words or stories I use to describe this place, I'll never capture Africa and her beauty the way I see it. The red earth and green bush are so vivid and brilliant, even the sight of that never ceases to amaze me.
The skies here go on forever with no lights to interfere with your vision. The people, oh, the people. They can make you furious and hot with anger, and in a minutes time you are in awe of the potential and strength of Africans. Their capacity to love and have joy in the face of despair is beyond description. While picking apart their flaws, you eventually come back to yourself and see how imperfect you are too. It unites you and makes you strive to be a better person. Africa pushes you to the extreme limits in every way, and then calls you back for more.

I came to Africa and like many was shocked at the human condition here. The shock turned into understanding, the understanding led to me realizing I actually know almost nothing and understand even less, that led to appreciation for the incredible culture here, and lastly Africa became a state of mind, part of who I am. It influences every fiber of your being, how you think and feel and your desire for what you want to change in the world.

To say I will miss it here is a silly understatement. My life is about to radically change in the sense that what I have known as home, a place so foreign to me just 2 years ago, is no longer going to be where I lay my head. To be honest, I'm a little freaked out. Yes, yes, I know it will be ok, its time, [insert other words of comfort], but it doesn't cut it tonight. I want to go outside and dig my fingers into the dirt. I want to do more here, although if you asked me what exactly I would do, I couldn't tell you. God has the next steps planned out and I am desperate to figure out what they are, but knowing God, I don't get to know quite yet. So back to my freak out and slightly juvenile way of dealing with this transition...for now at least.

So please excuse me if I continue to process via the internet. I have a feeling there will be a slight backlash of emotion in the weeks to come. It's all part of the healing and reconciliation from what I've learned.

Tomorrow and in the days to come I'm sure my heart will ache to see the dusty bare feet of children as they walk down the road. My eyes will burn with tears when the memories flood back of all the lives who have touched mine. My heart will screem at the injustice I know happens here everyday. My arms will long for the beautiful brown babies who now consume my every thought. My mind will swim with ideas and ideals, frustrations and triumphs, love and hate, for all of the things I have seen here.

My hair will lose its humidity frizz, my old navy flip flops will be packed away tightly, and the fresh un-stained pages of a new journal will be filled as I start this next transition tomorrow.
That is, if they can get me onto the plane...

Maybe I'll go get the half slab of chocolate sitting in the fridge and watch Out of Africa or something cliché like that.

(the spelling and grammar within this post are purely my own. I am typing on a laptop programmed in Dutch and therefore every word I have written has red squiggly lines underneath it. The truth is out, I am an average speller)

Christmas in July

2010-12-22T13:13:00.005-05:00

Today's forecast: hot.

Its hard to believe Christmas is this week. It doesn't in the least bit feel like it to me. Maybe my mind is blocking it out because the reality that this is the first year away from family I will ever spend is too harsh. But that's dramatic, and I like to think I'm not dramatic...so I will go on thinking its probably a host of other small things. Like the fact I have a tan from going on a safari last weekend. Or that I had to take a cold shower today after sweeping the floor because I was sweating. profusely. (aren't you glad you know that?)

Maybe its because I am busy, or it doesn't feel like a year has gone by yet since I was last celebrating.

Its nice actually, no commercials (no tv), no crazy mall traffic or tension to buy gifts. No holiday binge eating...although MAN I have been craving one of those huge cheapo tins of popcorn with the three flavors in it lately.

The things I miss get weirder and weirder, I swear.

There is no real point, I am realizing, to this post. I have less then 2 weeks left here at the orphanage and I am actually happy I will spend Christmas with them here. If I can't be with my family at home, this is where I would choose to be. In 4 short months I have fully and completely fallen in love with a great family and learned a lot about what it is to give of yourself for others. Christmas isn't 'just a day', it marks one of the most important days there is in a year. Its about the greatest love, in the form of the greatest gift.

I will surely miss Christmas morning at home. I will miss 24 hours of a Christmas Story on TV (although I have a copy and may just put it on repeat starting Christmas eve). I will miss the Chinese food after church on the 24th and then our lazy Christmas morning. I'll miss the eggs benedict and couch time in my pjs. And my family. Ugh, I will miss them most of all. But really and truly, I will be happy on Saturday. I will hold the babies and enjoy the kids. We'll go to church and eat lunch outside in our summer clothes. It won't be the tradition I'm used to, but I'm ok with that. I'll be surrounded by the people I love (one in particular comes to mind) and I'll celebrate the reason I am here, on His birthday.

Merry Christmas!

Just one last note. I am not at all opposed to eating the popcorn from the tin months after Christmas, say like...in May. By January the ugly ones and overstock that never sold should be on sale for a bargain of like 5 or 10 bucks. Just sayin'

The long and 'short' of it

2010-12-08T15:05:00.006-05:00

Lately I have been soaking up every ounce of what surrounds me. I think there is an internal pressure applied every time I realize the date (which is about once a week) and count quickly the weeks left before I leave this place. I can feel my heart start to ache and I can almost predict how I will feel when the time comes to move on. This isn't the first time I have had to tear my heart away from bonds that give me a reason to wake up in the morning, bonds that seem to make my heart beat.
4 months seemed like enough time, this was just a 'filler' until the next thing.
Or so I thought.

For those of you who don't know (sorry bout' that) I left Mercy Ships in September. I originally was going to be on a leave of absence, but the ship sailing and arriving at the next port was almost exactly the same as my end-date of my two year commitment so rather then sail to a country that costs lots and lots of money to get out of only to leave right away, I am staying put for an extra month in South Africa (not too hard a place to be stuck...I promise)
It was actually easier then I thought it would be. I simply was meant to serve for two full outreaches and that's what I did. I won't go into a host of emotions that accompanied this year...ugh, work for another day, I say.

Anyways, it wasn't so hard to leave because I was on to the next thing, something I was so excited for, something I knew God had picked out for me months before.

Here I am. And now I've lost the direction of what I wanted to say...wonder if that will ever change.
Oh, here we go:
I've been thinking about ministry in relations to missions in general, especially now with the upcoming departure from both Sinakekele in January and Africa as a whole as well (don't have to rip off that band aid until February, thankfully). My last day of 'work' (as in the paying kind) was January 1st 2009. I will end this season of ministry on, take a guess...January 1st 2011. Two years. Wow, two years.

What I want to say is that on January 1st 2009 I wasn't totally ready. I wasn't spiritually 'matured' I wasn't well versed in the bible, I hadn't been doing the Christian 'thing' for very long, I wasn't a likely candidate for missions. The list goes on.
And today? I'm still not. Maybe I'm more mature, or I suppose weathered/seasoned/ground up/spit out/trampled on and put through the emotional ringer would be better terms to use.
The point of all of this that I am struggling to make is that none of us are ever 'ready'. Not financially, not physically, not emotionally, not mentally, not spiritually, for what God has in store for us. We may think we are in good shape, we may feel 'ready', but that doesn't actually matter. God looks for our trust in Him to complete us. He looks at our hearts and sees humility of lack thereof. He waits for us, all of us, to say "Here am I, send me", knowing that may mean we need to care for the homeless or the broken in our own community or, go to a foreign land.

We screw it up with our stipulations, friends. We close our eyes and ears to that still small voice, the news around us. We don't respond, we don't listen, we don't act. We say "I'll go this far, I'll do this, but not that" but its only to put our own minds at ease, I think
I've had one prominent thought on my mind for weeks now. I can't stop thinking about how short life is. You see it every where, we are inundated by the world's view of how our lives should look, what it is to be successful. We feel that pressure to succeed, save money, and create a picture of what we think is a good Christian life. Its not enough.
Life is too short.
It is too short not to give until we relieve the burdens of other people. Its too short not to give our time, resources, money, and most importantly our hearts to those in need of it.
Its too short not to consider adopting an orphan. Not you, you say? Why?
What is stopping you?
Why do we hesitate with needs that seem to have such an obvious answer?
There are people hurting everywhere and to you Christians, this is our calling. As long as there are people in need, we are called to help them.
We don't get to decide who is most deserving, we don't get to judge the hearts of men. We simply, plainly, need to just get on with it.
Its not supposed to be comfortable, its not supposed to be easy. And it won't be.

In regards to being ready, I have been thinking this week about just how un-ready (like that new word?) I actually was for these last two years. And my conclusion? God uses the mission He has for our lives to complete us. He "sets eternity in the hearts of men" and oh, its so beautiful. He uses the ones who have nothing to cement bonds to Him in our hearts. He uses the orphaned and abused, the poor and the weak to illustrate His love, His compassion, His joy, His unfailing love.
My soul feels good. Its the kind of good that has no other source. It can't be taught, it isn't found in a book. It comes from a range of things.
Today is was a baby finally calming down from a hysterical cry and sucking in short, quick breaths through his nose in the aftermath of the wailing while he fell asleep in my arms.
Other days its spontaneous dance parties with 7 year old Mary and nearly-2 Thembeka, the little girl who couldn't sit on her own 3 months ago and now wiggles her bum and twirls in circles to the music while squealing out of sheer joy...those kind of dance parties.
Its hearing the soft breathing and sleepy murmers of four of the most beautiful children I have ever seen sleeping in the next room from where I type.
Its crying over them just now as I watched them sleep.

Our lives are too short not to experience God's heart. They are too short not to welcome a baby in His name, one who won't get a chance without us. Why are they less worthy of a loving home then one who hasn't been born yet, or one who biologically belongs to someone? (You can see clearly my current burden)

Maybe we can start by changing our view of people, that seems simple enough (again, I am talking as much to myself as I am to anyone else)
Rather then judge the man asking for money on the corner you go past everyday, or avoid eye contact, lets start a relationship. I'm not telling you to invite him for dinner, but give him a chance to see how God feels towards him. Be the light He won't see unless you are there to bring it. Help him a little everyday, food, a few cents. Build up to a 1 minute conversation. Repeat. Maybe in two weeks, two months, two years, you'll invite him for church, or that dinner.
Go and volunteer at a nursing home or veterans hospital and imagine yourself there with no one to come and see you, let it break your heart and motivate you to show love to those there who are so deserving.
Instead of one time gifts to organizations, commit monthly to them. I know one at the moment who could use regular support, and I could tell you as well exactly where it would go.
Pray about adoption or fostering, and ask God why there is fear or hesitation surrounding a decision like that.
Lets be a physical presence to people in need, wherever we are. Let the burden and weight of the need be just that, a burden on our hearts to help them.

I'm still not well versed in the bible. I still doubt and stumble and lose motivation and wonder what I am doing. I still say "send me...but not there".
At the end of the day I am willing. I trust God, and now I know that I can only find contentment in being in the center of His will for my life.
I don't know it all, I don't know if helping the homeless dude on the corner will work. I just know not trying definitely won't, so we have to at least try.

We all have the capability to do these things inside of us, just please don't wait until you feel 'ready', life is too short to wait.

I can't help myself

2010-11-16T16:53:00.002-05:00

More quotables from the week:

While watching a married couple join hands and walk into the mall after we dropped them off:
"Why are they holding hands"-Mary
"So they don't get seperated. Like, you know, so one doesn't go one way and the other the other way"-Jake

While handing jake his ARV meds to take in the back of the car
"Will I die if I don't take this medicine"-Jake
"You can get sick if you don't, Jake"-Me
"You'll be fine"-Mary
"No, my mom and dad didn't take this medicine and they died"-Jake

ouch. my heart.

While driving past a few women...
"Look at that girls bum with the long pants. Her bum is going chi-chaw-chi-chaw chi-chaw"-Jake

A first time for everything

2010-11-11T11:31:00.000-05:00

As you know (or may not know, I suppose), I rarely raise my voice too loud about how I feel regarding the politics surrounding the poverty I see on a daily basis. I'm not the most informed person in the world, I've been fed the same statistics as you on just how poor the people on the continent of Africa are. I've steadied myself trying to focus on the people, the ones right in front of me, but I can't lie and say I feel a bit sad [read:mad, outraged, etc...] when I hear comments about how people in America suffer too, or the question that requires a lot of personal restraint; "Why don't you help the people in your own country instead of going to Africa?"

If that's you, if that's what you think, please come here. Please take a glimpse of the day to day reality of how these people live. Don't watch it on a TV that you can change stations and forget about it by the time the next commercial ends, don't google it and try to relate to some obscure figure of numbers aimed at horrifying its audience, numbers that get thrown on a growing pile of information that doesn't actually impact anyone.
You don't even have to come here, read a book, a blog, something a tad more personal then a 30 second clip.
Then let it lead you into action.

Here's another idea, help those people who need it right in your own backyard rather then wonder why people leave to go serve elsewhere. Whatever it takes to bring action, do that. If we all do something, we may actually have an impact on the world. If we just talk about it, well, thats plain silly.

People in the church, you will be held even more responsible. I read somewhere that God's call, His will, isn't something you hear. Its His word, its there for everyone in black and white. His will for your life is for you to serve. Period. It doesn't matter where it is, that part He'll tell you. But listen, and act. Please. Yes there are people in America and all over the world who need help, is this something that actually causes a burden on your heart? Do you cry for them? Do you help them? Or do we post another random set of numbers as our facebook status and get 20 reactions agreeing with us, leading us all to....??

I am not accusing anyone of anything, which is why I never take this stance when I post. I don't like to feel argumentative, and I suppose I could give you some background as to what is fuelling this little flame of mine. In his book, Race Against Time, Stephen Lewis gives statistics aimed at actually opening our eyes to the problem in Africa. I can't stop thinking about one in particular. I read it 3 days ago, and still, for some reason, it is my answer to the question and comments I listed above in regards to serving in Africa.

(written in 2005) "At present, the European Union and United States together subsidize their farmers to the tune of $350 billion (U.S. dollars) a year; it equals five times the amount that is ploughed into foreign aid. If I may offer an evocative juxtaposition: Every cow in the European Union is subsidized to the tune of $2 dollars a day, while between 400 million and 500 million Africans live on less than a dollar per day."
And that's families living on less then a dollar per day, by the way.

Oh, how I wish I could organize my thoughts right now, there is just too much though. I want to tell you what living on 1 dollar a day looks like. Worried about our politics? How about not having a way to even prove your identity because you don't get birth certificates when you're born in the bush. Without an identity card, you have no rights to vote. Not that it matters in a lot of the countries that are corrupt.
Worried about health care? How about waiting on the floor of a dirty emergency room with a broken arm, bone sticking out through your skin, and dying three days later because you couldn't find anyone to bring you the 10 or 20 dollars it would take to be seen by a doctor. The same doctor who walked past as your body was ravaged with infection, painfully taking your life over those three days.
Against the war? Upset for our soldiers? What about the children who are being kidnapped, drugged, forced to kill each other, all in order to desensitize them and make them into 7, 8, 9 year old killing machines. That's not just for the movies, Blood Diamond didn't make that worse then it really is. It is happening today, right now as you read.
We've all heard about the AIDS problem. Some have even been known to say its their own fault, some of us here blame traditions and unsafe sex and a host of other human conditions that lead to this crisis. As I stood in an AIDS clinic yesterday, my heart registered a whole new emotion. Yes, many peoples bad decisions led them to becoming infected, but that's not what I saw. I saw the little toddlers with their mamas waiting in the yellow chairs, the chairs in the queue designated to pediatric patients. There is an entire generation who did not choose badly, who do not deserve to inherit this growing problem. But they did.

I'm not anti-America. I'm not trying to de-merit our soldiers or make it seem like I am against my own country. If anything, honestly, I can appreciate now more than ever my country and all the good things we have. Why does it have to be one or the other, I wonder? There is corruption on both sides of the ocean. There is pain, there is joy, there is unjust death and unfair politics. The point of all of this is, regardless of anything else, is there is a need. Whether its in the Middle East, Africa, or on Boston Common, we need to answer the call that is already written. Mother Theresa said 'If you can't feed one hundred people then just feed one'. We can all do that. If you have access to a computer and you are reading this, you are better off then millions upon millions of people in this world. Find an organization who is trustworthy and already doing something you believe in. Support them, talk about them, lets inspire action instead of a few minutes of pity for people. Actually give up one of your 5 dollar coffees a day and put the money aside for a greater good. Don't just read the statistics, research them and then put yourself into the shoes of the people and ponder what it would actually be like to live a different life.

What I have learned here, and what I hope resonates in my actions in words, is that we should be thankful for what we do have. When you sit in the doctors office and flip through magazines, be thankful you have the access to health care you do. Not because there are people who don't, but just because you should be thankful for something like that. If we change our attitudes to ones of gratefulness, our actions will reflect it. Only then will we change anything.

Quotables

2010-10-27T17:08:00.003-04:00

I hear fairly hilarious, and sometimes outrageous comments on a daily basis. Such is a life working with kids, I guess.

Not all are funny, though, and some threaten to break my heart if not for the innocence in which a question may be asked, but then for the cruelty of this world.

So here is a few of the good, bad, and somewhat sad quotes I have jotted down during the last week.

Between Jake and myself-
Me: "Jake, you have to finish your dinner, just a few more bites and you'll be done"
Jake: "My tummy hurts, I'm full"
Me: "Jake, come one, I know you're not full, you have to eat at leat a little more of that food on your plate"
Jake: "I'm fasting"

Between Simon and Tazz-

Tazz: "Simon, you must finish your dinner, don't you know there are starving people right outside?"

Myself and Mary:
Mary: "Suzy, where were you born?"
Me: "In Winchester Hospital"
Mary: "Who found you?"
This is the one that breaks my heart, if you didn't already figure it out. Sweet little Mary.

Some random guy who pulled up next to us in a gas station when we were lost, apparently in a rough area (?)

Random guy: "You two ok?"
Michiel and I: "yup!"
Random guy: "Where are you going?"
Michiel and I answered
Random guy: "Where are you from?"
Another answer...
Random guy: "you sure you're ok?"
Michiel "yes, why?"
Random guy: "Usually whites don't come out this way unless they have guns"
Michiel: "oh, ok. Thanks!"

Same trip at the gas station and I was let in behind a locked gate where the register wass to use the bathroom (after getting slightly harrassed by the public toilets outside and deciding not to invite more by actually waiting outside of them) Just before this stop I had been directing us, unsucessfully, on our way to where we were going (no map, bad street names, and a list of other perfectly good excuses as to why we got lost. Certainly none of them had anything to do with me and my great navigation skills). Michiel naturally took the stance that his (lengthy) directions that took him a lot of time weren't to blame either. I'm sure no one reading can relate, right? This wasn't the first time we were lost together. Its Africa, afterall. A continent bent on proving Murphy's Law when one is trying to travel through.
As I came out of the bathroom and waited for the woman at the register to get the right key, Michiel waited for me on the other side with an old man who had limited teeth and seemingly even more limited understanding of Michiel's humor.
Michiel: "You want her? I'll give you a good price"(Don't forget I am standing next to the register)
*confused look*
Michiel: "Really, she is a good woman, and she can cook"
*smile*
Michiel: "And she's great at reading directions!"

Grandpa Len: "They put up new pillars near the new building"
Mary: "No, they're bricks"
G. Len: "No, Pillars"
Mary: "No, bricks"
Jake: "Grandpa Len is right, they're pills"

Me: "Jake, you have to take a bath, you're first on the list tonight"
Jake: "But I don't want to go first, why di I have to go first?"
Me: "You were last yesterday so its only fair. Come on, bath time"
Jake: "You know, I'm just not a bathing man"

"What soap is to the body, laughter is to the soul" -Yiddish Proverb

Unexpected reconciliation

2010-10-19T15:22:00.003-04:00

While thinking about writing this post I decided to do a quick google search for headlines related
to abandoned babies in South Africa. The first two stories made me feel worse then I would have thought. I'm no more immune to pain having seen and heard these stories up close than someone reading from home, so I can't share much, it hurts far too much. The first story was moderately good in that the baby had survived, that is, after being put in a 6 foot pit which served as a toilet for 12 hours, being bitten by ants everywhere, found nearly freezing to death.

The second didn't share the same fate, he was found already dead, suffocated by the plastic bag still over his head.
I'm afraid if I let the tears start I won't gain control. And already I'm too late for that.
My heart aches in such a way just writing these things down that I can't imagine what God thinks, what He feels for these babies. They're just babies...

I don't think this post will go the direction I had intended. I can't think past the pain of these stories. The statistic given was that 3 babies are abandoned every 48 hours in this region of South Africa alone.
Oh God, what are we supposed to think? How can humanity be so disgusting? What are you thinking?

Oh Suzanne, I love every baby that is born into this world. I know each hair on their head, I see their little fingers and toes and admire them more than you can imagine. I am a Father to the Fatherless, I love them all dearly.
This is a fallen world, but someday, someday, it will all be ok. Those babies are with me, fully restored and loved in my perfect way. They don't know pain, the world failed them, but I promise never to let them go.
There will be a day when there is no more suffering, a day in which the whole world will cease to contain such violence and pain.
For now, work for those I place in front of you. Love them with the heart I have given you. Hold them and let their stories of hope dwell deep in your soul. Trust that this time is for your healing, for the sadness you carry from the others whom I have called home.
You will never understand it all, my ways, or the ways of the world. You don't have to. You're not supposed to. Trust. Trust in Me, that I love you and will never forsake you. You also are my child, and my love for you is more than you can imagine.

So kiss S'bu and enjoy his smiles...

Hug Thembeka and show her how much you delight in her...

Do these things in My name.

"Whoever welcomes one of these little children in my name welcomes me; and whoever welcomes me does not welcome me, but the one who sent me"-Jesus, Mark 9:37

Simon

2010-10-05T15:44:00.006-04:00

Its my pleasure to introduce another member of this family here at Sinakekele. Simon was adopted by Ruth when he was just a baby, and is now 9 years old. She knew he was unlike other children right from the start. He didn't throw fits or cry over spilled milk (pun intended). He calmly watched the world around him and looked cute doing it (I've seen pictures, the kid was cute)

Although he has never officially been diagnosed, Simon is likely on the high functioning end of the autism scale. He isn't the first one in his class, learning and word recognition doesn't come easily to him, and reading is almost visibly painful.

But who cares about those things, really. I mean it, from the things I have seen, this doesn't seem relevant in this world. In a place where babies are left for dead or abused later, I see a light shining in Simon's story. The boy is loved, his strengths are nurtured, and everyone who meets him has a fierce and overwhelming urge to protect the innocence in him.

One night his brother was telling stories of robbers and thieves who follow you home and break into your house in the middle of the night. I noted each kids reaction. Mary was scared, asking Siya (who was telling the story) to stop. Jake teased a little more, but looked a little worried. Simon was off in his world, physically sitting next to me, but mentally light-years away. A few minutes passed and Simon finally looked up and asked;

"But aren't the robbers tired at night?"

We all looked at him, puzzled, but in agreement that yes, robbers may be tired at night. A few more moments passed and then he asked a second question;

"Siya, do you think the robbers sleep during the day and that's why they aren't tired at night?"

"Yeah, probably" was the answer he got, which seemed to satisfy him as he went off back to his world.

Side note: this was one of my first 'how did I get here moments' of my time here. It was just too funny to be sitting there right then.

That's my best example of Simon. He hates crowds of people and the business that surrounds certain events (like meal times). If he isn't in sight, you can bet he is off doing what I think looks like conducting an orchestra. In space (the sound effects make for this assessment).

He is sweet and funny and so polite. I love that little boy just a little extra because he is different and because he is special.

Simon is great at the drums, and I watched him as he closed his eyes, listening to the beat as his instructor played a new series for him to learn the other weekend. You can see the pride on his face when you give him even a small compliment, and his shy smile makes my heart swell when I see it everyday.

Simon is another example of a baby picked up out of a sad story and given a new lease on life. He is thriving in a world where he feels love and I pray his innocence will remain with him for as long as possible. I pray God will protect him and surround him with people who see how amazing he is. I hope I never forget that feeling in my chest when I see him smile, and that I am reminded of how blessed I am to be surrounded by these kids for this time.

And now for an update from the nursery downstairs, but first a couple of questions...

Who designs baby clothes? I mean, I can handle the basic onesies and tiny outfits, but some of those clothes are just plain crazy. Has anyone who has actually held a baby, never mind tried to dress one while it squirms/cries/poops everywhere, tried to also button 65 snaps in all different directions? With one hand? I didn't think so.

How many times do you think a toddler can poop while only being few a set amount of food per day? Can you imagine its seemingly 10x more then what goes in?

Its good in the nursery. I love my work and enjoy those little babes, even when they poop and it gets on me, or they stick their finger in it and wipe it on their face before I can intervene....Even then.

"I can hear your heart beating"

2010-09-29T14:10:00.004-04:00

If I could only sum up Mary in short stories and small snapshots, I would. You would love her, as I do, in such a way that would make you feel alive. You would laugh a lot, if you knew Mary, but at the very least maybe you can read about her and know this girl is very special, very special indeed.

Mary is 7 years old. She was abandoned at birth and has never known the touch of her natural mother. I was told her story, but for privacy's sake I am choosing not to share any of the children's details here. Suffice to say, its heartbreaking.
What Mary does know are the arms who cuddled her as an infant, who held her when she got hurt as she grew, and who work hard every day to provide for her. Ruth adopted Mary and her 3 brothers from her very own ministry. She provides a safe place for abandoned babies in her home (which is where I am currently working). The little I had gathered from the internet and Ruth prepared me to meet her four kids, Mary and Jake who are 7, and Siya and Simon who are 9.
The first night I met Mary, she promptly told me:
"There are no secrets in this house", after emptying Michiel and I's pockets.
How do I start to tell you about this kid?
She runs full out for hugs and squeals in excitement over the littlest things. Her brown eyes beam when she recounts a story from the day and she frequently taps and pinches people bums, which is then followed by her excaliming "I pinched your bum!" and little girl giggles.
She sings and dances in public without a care for who is watching, but instantly turns shy if you put her on the spot, requesting a tune. Her eyes dance when she is excited and her whole body wiggles when she is delighted in something.
Two night ago I was up watching the 'big' kids while we waited for Ruth to come home. I pulled out my hard drive and we agreed that Kung-Fu Panda was a good fit for a Monday night. Mary climbed on my lap with her pillow and stretched her legs out over mine. She pointed her toes out towards mine before intertwining her legs with my own and settling into the movie.

She boasts of having 'healing hands' and loves to give out back massages. She's good at it too. She comes down to the nursery nearly every day and entertains the babies with her silly faces and uninhibited nature. Tonight she came down and was singing to a fussy S'bu. Once he settled I asked her to do the same for Thembeka who was shouting at us from her crib in a protest over bedtime. Mary, in her little way, sang and tapped Thembeak with her palm gently on the chest for over 15 minutes while I gathered the laundry and bottles to clean up. She sang to her about Jesus, and how someday she will have a home and someone will come to take care of her.

After she slowly backed away from Thembeka's crib and sported her winning smile (minus a front tooth) she came over to me and wrapped her arms around my neck as I burped a little one. She then put her ear up to my chest and listened for nearly a minute.
"I can hear your heart beating. Its going ba-boom, ba-boom", she said with a cheeky smile.
"Its saying 'I love you, Mary" I replied.
To that, Mary scrunched up her shoulders and stuck her tongue through the gap where a tooth once was. She kissed my cheek and like a little wisp, she was off to boss around her brothers.

Why talk so much about a 7 year old? Why think that its even worth putting down on paper (or screen...whatever)? Because she is beautiful. Because she is a miracle. Because she was chosen to be saved and redeemed, and taken care of. Because she shouldn't be alive, but she is. Oh, she is so alive. Because I love her and I needed a Mary in my life right when she entered. I needed good laughs, and neck rubs, and kisses, and reminders that life is so big and that if we don't let the small things invade our hearts, we will simply live day to day without the joy of God which waits for us.
Again I feel energized by being around kids all day long. I look forward to the leaping hugs and silly banter. I remember what complete abandon looks like and how I should apply it to my walk with God. I look at these kids and precious little babies through eyes that aren't my own. I plainly see how I have no idea the measure of God's love for his children. I ask Him to give me His heart for them, and a heart like theirs. For Him.

Teddie Bears, Dolls, and Rock n' Roll

2010-09-23T13:01:00.014-04:00

Well, I don't know where to start. So many things to tell, and so many of them absolutely ridiculous unless you are a complete baby fanatic...
I have been at the orphanage for almost a month. The time has gone by quickly, actually, and I am feeling quite at home.
Life once again has brought me to a place where at times everything seems to stop while I sit and wonder to myself
'what series of events led me to this place?'
There are so many new friends to introduce, each one as different as they come. I'll stick to the babies for now, there's more than enough to be said about these tiny humans.

The day I arrived was the same day as Thembeka (the 'h' is silent). The social worker who dropped her off apparently said she doubted she was the reported 17 months old due to the fact this little girl could barely sit on her own. I was shown the nursery long after the sun set, and when I saw this little one my heart broke. Her skin was dry, spotted with fungal infections. She looked as if she had been left in a diaper for days and days, her skin puckered and oozing with sores. Worse than all of that though, were her eyes. Void of life, her small liquid black eyes stared back at us tentatively. Abandoned by her mother to a neighbor who finally couldn't take any more responsibility, this abused little baby was brought in and left at the hands of a social worker.
Thembeka cried and cried every morning when we would even start the bath, a supposed mixture of pain from her wounds and some emotional trauma. She would sit quietly for hours, uninterested in toys or even much food. She took the medicines prescribed to her without a fight, staring back at us with those empty eyes. On the third day, she smiled. It was small, and tenuous, but she smiled. We knew then that love would win in the fight for this precious one. She was chosen, out from the dirt and hands of abuse, right into arms that wanted nothing than to give her reason for that smile. What a beautiful girl.
Now, well, now nothing can stop her, as it should be for a toddler. She plays in the bath, splashing and giggling at us, licking the soap and water when I wash her face. She puts up a stink at naptime, and talks to herself in non-coherent jibber-jabber all day long. She loves to cuddle and crawls around the nursery endlessly. I love her in a way that is beyond words. So beautiful.
She's my favorite.

The other little girl is Thulile (too-lee-lay). A fat, round, big-cheeked, 3 month old. She loves attention and none of us can help but dress her in every pink onesie we can find, afterwards we wrap her in pink blankets, too. Its quite fun. She is certainly the princess of the group.
She's also my favorite.

And then there are the S'bu's, number one and two. Big S'bu is a 5 month old with a big gummy smile, (assuming you are paying all of your attention to only him) and a constant drip of drool hanging from his bottom lip. He is awake every morning when I start my day at 6am, and I am always greeted by him in his footy pajama's and little fro of hair. Oh footie pajama's, you rock.
He's my favorite.
Little S'bu is likely one of the most beautiful babies I have ever seen. He is two months old and the littlest one of the bunch. He only cries for food, otherwise you will usually catch him taking a nap while being rocked in a chair, he loves his little chair. And naps.
Totally my favorite.

So that's the crew, I'll tell more about them, but for now I will leave you with the introductions.

I'm happy here, really and truly. I needed the peace and quiet of being off the ship and away from busy port cities almost as much as I needed constant hugs and cuddles. My heart is overwhelmed with how perfect this new place is for me. I wake each morning at 5:30 to the sun rising over the sliver of the Indian ocean I can see past the hills and valleys my little cottage overlooks. I fall asleep to the sound of crickets at night and I am smothered with hugs and children looking for a lap to sit on when the older kids get home from school (more on them later). I am blessed, once again, by my wonderful God who knew this is right where I am supposed to be. I can't stop smiling.

Oh, and the reason for the title, I feel weird not tying this all together (and pictures are taking for-ev-er to laod with my limited internet here). There is a shirt I put Thembeka in whenever it is clean that says 'Teddies, dolls, and rock n' roll'. I laugh at it as I find myself relating it to my life. One night before I was getting ready to leave I had one of those 'how did I get here' moments. I was sitting down next to Thembeka and she was shaking a little red toy tambourine (her favorite toy since the first days she was here). She indicated she wanted me to clap while she shook it, and then we passed the red plastic tambourine back and forth, the other clapping to the (off) beat. You guessed it, she was wearing the shirt. My life used to look a lot different, but I still have my share of rock n' roll. Baby style.

Let the adventure begin...again

2010-09-01T16:59:00.005-04:00

Well, we're here. Safe and soundly docked in Durban, my new home for the next 5 months.

It feels good. I had butterflies pulling into the harbor, a mix of anticipation of many sorts. Of course, after being at sea for 15 days, anticipation just to walk on solid ground is enough in itself.

Tonight I will spend my final night on the Africa Mercy, the place I have called home for the last 18 months. Tomorrow Michiel will drop me off at the orphanage, something I have been excited for since the first email correspondence with the woman there several months ago. We will successfully navigate through the city while staying safely on the 'wrong' side of the road (driving on the RIGHT side of the road is called the RIGHT for a reason, Therefore left, is wrong. Its simple(for any of those who are rolling your eyes). See how optimistic I am?

Many people have asked if I will miss it here. "Sure" I respond. I miss home too, you know. I miss my family, my friends, I miss my church, I miss a lot, but it doesn't mean I am sad, or have bad feelings about leaving and being away. I know I am in the right place. I know this life was hand picked for me. I didn't run from anything, I'm not on a quest to find myself, I am simply living by faith (and having a grand old time doing it, if I may say so).

I try and think sometimes about how many may view my life. "When will you settle down?" "Yes, this is great, but when you're done with it.....what will you do?"
I imagine these are legitimate questions, I even ask myself them, like, once a year. Maybe.

I have learned a lot on this ship. I have learned a lot about myself, about people, about a little culture I learned to love with all of my heart, and most of all a whole bunch about God. I learned that life isn't always safe, we don't always know where we will go, or what we will be called to do. I have also learned that through God anything, a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g, is possible.
Raising enough support money for a whole year in just 3 weeks? No problem.
Leaving home, saying goodbye to the people who have loved me my whole life? Not easy, but the right decision.
Finding strength to hold a mother while she clutches her baby and watches him take his lasts breaths? Yes, by His grace.
Carrying burdens that left me on the floor gasping for breaths through tears? I made it.
Packing everything I own to move off to another unknown place? Well, I have one last bag that needs to be packed, but basically, I've got it.
As if that even skims the surface.

So yes, I will miss parts of this life on board the Africa Mercy, but I am ready to go. Its time for the next chapter, time for another change. My departure notice read : Suzanne Zickell- Palliative Care Nurse/Pediatric Ward Nurse/Burkitt's Lymphoma Program Coordinator/Cook.
It was funny to me to see it all laid out like that. It makes me think of Dr. Seuss and "Oh, The Places You'll Go". I've worn a few hats, all bringing unique and different experiences. I even have calluses on my hands from scrubbing the Galley floor today!

I can't thank you all enough for making this time possible, and those of you who continue to support me while I go on with some more volunteer work. For those of you job hunting, I will let you in on a little secret. If you don't care about salary, try missions. The market is really good right now.
Really though, I truly couldn't be here without my wonderful supporters and those of you who pour out love, prayers, and your time in encouraging me.
My next place of residence and salary-free employment will be at Sinakekele Ministry. I will be working with the babies there. For those of you who know me, this will be a huge stretch. Can you imagine me day in and day out surrounded by babies?! I'll make it though, I will. For those of you who don't know me, well, hopefully you're quick in picking up my sarcasm.

From there I go to Holland for a bit, but that's another story for another day. I'll be popping in from time to time to tell you more tales. Of babies. In Africa. Clearly my favorite variety.

For now though, I will leave you with the verse my mom has prayed over my life since she knew she was pregnant with me. Yeah, she's awesome, I know.

"For I know the plans I have for you", declares the Lord. "Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you a hope and a future".
-Jeremiah 29:11
(and mom, I packed away every magnet except the one that has this verse. I will sleep with it next to my pillow one last night here on the ship. Tomorrow I will put it somewhere new, where I can see it every day again during this next adventure)

Africa

2010-08-17T05:49:00.004-04:00

We crossed the equator sometime in the middle of the night two nights ago. We are heading south, and the next land I set foot on will be in Durban, South Africa (assuming my visa waiver is all set).

I started making mental notes int he last few weeks in Togo. I tried to capture the cultural nuances and pieces of West Africa that I love so dearly and tuck them away somewhere inside of me so I can revisit anytime I grow homesick for the area of the world I have considered home for almost one and a half years.
One explanation I have been using while trying to explain to people, in hopes of getting them to understand why I will miss my beloved West Africa, is related to the culture. When you walk through the streets, dust being stirred beneath each step you take, you can feel it. You breath in the smells, feel the heat of the African sun surrounding you and enveloping you as if you've just laid in a warm bath. The culture of West Africa is beautiful, exceptional, and quite honestly, baffling at times.
I will miss it, the pain of the loss will certainly come with me to my next assignment. More importantly, the joy of the experience will never be far from my conscious mind, and that is what I am so happy for.
Oh Africa, you are good for the soul.

Where else in the world can you...
Pay a stranger on a motorcycle 40 cents to go 15 minutes out of his way to bring you in the right direction when you find yourself lost.

Take a baby from its mothers arms and cuddle it as long as you see fit while at the market/gas station/hospital/street corner/restaraunt/church.

Watch a family of 6 hop on one motorcycle and ride away, all looking seemingly comfortable and without a second thought to whether or not their actions are 'normal'

Drink fresh squeezed pineapple juice on a deserted beach lined with palm trees. Every weekend if you wanted.

Find a market where you can buy all of the following:
Fresh vegetables
Chickens (alive or dead)
Snails the size of your head (who don't look like they are alive, but then shock you by moving when you get closer. Not like I'm speaking from experience or anything)
"Street Meat"-enough said
Fake gold jewelry by the case
"Authentic" all star converse sneakers for 6 bucks
Wooden sticks to chew on as an alternative to tooth brushes
Some clothes you gave away to salvation army years ago.
2 dollar DVD's such as "Leo vs. Matt" containing upwards of 20-30 movies, staring either, and sometimes both, actors. Chinese subtitles included. Quality questionable. Definitely illegal.
Watches, belts, purses, shoes, kitchen appliances, brightly colored fabric, toy cars and bugs made from soda cans, you name it, its there my friends.

There is always a cold treat to be found in the form of a walking Fan Ice vending machine. The vendors may even be savvy enough to own a horn, which you would think they would stop squeezing once you've stopped them to buy a 20 cent bag of frozen ice cream, but you would be wrong.

Craving a coke while you shop? They have the really cool 'vintage' bottles, you just have to stand with the vendor while you drink it because you buy the soda inside, not the bottle. This in turn makes you a sitting target for the others selling the watches, belts, purses, shoes, kitchen appliances, brightly colored fabric, toy cars and bugs made from soda cans, and other wonderful crafts. Consider yourself warned.

I love that people exclaim 'ah!' when you say something they think is just plain crazy. I like that few of the local dialects have a word for 'yes' but rather use the same 'ah'(with a different tone, of course), or a more easliy interpreted 'ah-huh'. I smile when I hear a West African clicking his or her tongue in the back of their throat while nodding their head in disagreement.

The other day we were looking (unsuccessfully) for an electronics shop that sold voltage transformers. Michiel flagged down two guys on a motorcycle and got the driver to agree to help us find the shop. His reason for asking these two men in particular? One was holding a drill, of course.
Turns out his logic was spot on, our trusty friend was an electrician and proceeded to spend the next 3 hours with us shopping for the items on our list. His friend and the bike disappeared after our first stop so he hitched a ride with us, perfectly natural here.
Each different salesman who didn't have what we were looking for walked us to the next place, some even crossing the street to retrieve something that may be close to what we were looking for.

Our last Sunday in Togo we went to a local church with two of the day workers from this field service. My favorite part of the morning was our visit to the different Sunday school rooms. The littlest children sang a song for us. It was about how is Jesus was there with them, they would put Him on their backs.
Huh?
Here in West Africa, the mama's put their babies on their backs to carry them. Their bodies are next to each other nearly all day. The song is saying that a baby is put on its mama's back because it is precious. Ergo, if Jesus was there, who is precious to them, they would put Him on their backs.

When you greet someone here, you snap each others fingers as you pull away from the handshake. It takes practice.

Taxi's are filled to the max, 7 adults and a child in 1 was my record. The car was car built for 4 passengers.
Everything is loud. Everything.
Directions are different depending on the person you ask, prices are never fixed, and the people will almost always return your smile with an even bigger one.

Watching people worship at church leaves me wondering if there is anything we, or I, get that excited about. Does anything make us jump, sing, shout, or dance anymore? Is anything really worth that much to us? To these people, its simply God. They allow themselves to be moved by the spirit and don't think twice about being the first one to stand up. They aren't shy when they jump into the conga line heading straight for the front of the church. They don't look around to see if anyone is watching when they shake their hips past the pastor.
The babies nod off after being bounced on those shaking hips of their mama's and are placed on the floor, (we wouldn't want babies falling of church pews now) a thin piece of brightly covered fabric put down under them.

I could go on, and maybe I'll revisit these precious memories and write more down again for you as I think of them.
This is Africa as I see it. I love it in a way that is indescribable, and feel sad knowing I can never fully capture all of it and bring it home to you. There is no way to neatly wrap up and present a culture so rich and so stunning. I close my eyes and can feel the jewelry between my fingers, carved out by hand from a single piece of wood. I can feel the goosebumps, a reaction to the extreme heat of the afternoon sun. I can smell the dirt, and see the red clouds of it painted against the green bush of the country as we speed past. I can hear them calling out, "My sister, come here, just looking. Come look at my store. Looking for free!"
I try desperately to hold on to the memory of warm babies who drool and giggle, entertained for hours by a small piece of cloth.

I feel good now, like I've had a strong dose of medicine whose effects have washed over me. I want West Africa to remain real to not only myself, but somehow for you reading this too. Its strange not knowing when, and if I will ever return to that home. I can't imagine my life thinking I won't ever go back, yet years ago I would have told you I couldn't imagine my life bringing me there either.
The next stories will be beautiful too, I'm sure. I'm not afraid that this new place will be any less amazing. For now though, for now when I lay out on the top deck of the ship, sleepily looking at the stars and listening to the engines working to bring us closer to my next home, I'll remember West Africa and all of her beauty.

A day in the life of a 28 year old

2010-07-29T06:35:00.003-04:00

Its a strange thing to ask on ones birthday; "How does it feel to be a year older?". I'm only a day older than yesterday, really. There wasn't some fast-forward button pressed which brought me to today, all of a sudden somehow feeling a year older.
I thought of that while walking down the hall today. Nothing too profound, just thought I would share.

Birthdays are a good time to reflect on the past year, I suppose. One day when you feel like you should at least do something concerning yourself.
For some reason this year I am feeling more of an urge to think forward, though. I am excited for South Africa, I can't wait to see another corner of the world, all while feeling the familiar weight of a little baby in my arms with my work in an orphanage there. I am excited for the joy, the stress, the hard work, the tears, the frustrations, and the overwhelming contentment of living for God, watching Him fulfill my hearts desire.

Then I look back, and I feel such a mixture of emotions. It was still only a year ago that I was holding baby Anicette on my birthday, her tiny body so small in my hands, her hair so soft on my neck. We were still celebrating little Maddie and her successful treatment for Burkitt's. Life felt so good. The stress was incredible, but it was so so good. Sailing out of Benin left a hole that still needs a patch from time to time, even to this day.
Tenerife, Togo, a stop in the Netherlands, a wedding in the states, back to Togo, and 6 months of working back in the culture I have grown to love immensely, here I am. Its hard to believe all that has happened in one year. Sometimes it feel like a lifetime of experiences all crammed into just 365 days. Not in a bad way, just in the sense that it takes longer to process all that has happened in those days, in just that small window of time.

I think I'm talking in circles. Or my mind has already raced ahead of itself 4 times over and now is coming back to this point. There's this song called 'The beast in me" by Matrin Sexton. One line says; 'The beast in me is the best in me'. Sometimes I think my ADD is the beast in me, and at the same time one of the best things I have going for me.
Point proven, wouldn't you say?

Moving on.
Here I sit, still trying to work through what I still have to work through (try and follow), yet feeling at total peace with where I am. To say I have been blessed sounds terribly cliche, but what the heck, I'll go for it. My life since 25 has been incredible. I am on a journey with the creator of the Heavens and Earth as my guide. Not too shabby.
So today, when I look back, I don't feel a year older, per se. I feel like I have experienced in the last year enough for 10 years, and more than ready to see what this next year holds, already excited to see what I will have to reflect on when I turn 29.

Thanks for the birthday wishes, everyone!

Preperation

2010-07-19T09:39:00.005-04:00

I've tried, I really have. I sit down or sometimes just start thinking about what to write about here, but clearly I struggle. Whether the battle is between not thinking I have anything to say, or just not knowing how to articulate what I think or feel, is yet to be determined.

My dad mentioned something on the phone last night that made quite a bit of sense (to me at least). We were talking about the ever constant debate men and women have. Women want men to know how they feel, they want them to understand their inner angst, whatever it may be that day, week, month... we all know what road this discussion can go down...
I've never been one to be offended by my dad or his opinion of women (and friends, he does NOT claim to know the inner workings of a woman's mind). But what he said has stuck, and maybe even spurred this post.
He said women often don't know themselves what they are feeling until they start verbalizing it. "They process as they talk" he said.

To be honest, it doesn't matter if you agree with this thought because for me its true (I was the intended audience, after all). And helpful. Thanks Bob, another pearl to add to my collection. :smile:

As life on board a floating hospital, docked in a third world country, surrounded by amazing stories, astounding people, and life changing moments becomes normal, what is there to write about?
I feel like such a jerk even saying that now because that's not how I feel anymore, its just a sum up of the last few months. You see, I started talking about these things, and I'm figuring out what in the world is going on in my heart.

Last week Alex died. Our little wide-eyed, prone-to-streaking-naked through the hospital ward, Alex. His Leukemia won in the end, but not before he touched the hearts of both myself and my dear friend Becca.
Africa proved itself again with a story of extreme joy coming right on the tail of losing little Alex.

Gerald is going home, and so is Joseph. They are going to be ok, at least medicine is saying so at the moment. Some people heard me talk about the Burkitt's program this year as I worked trying to learn every detail I could about the disease. I broke my own stereotype of being utterly incapable of concentrating for more than a few hours by logging hundreds on the subject.
I told people I would do it all again, even if all the work was for one kid. Just one.

Maybe its because the challenge wasn't as big as last year. Maybe the hospitals were too independent in the care of the kids, already following strict protocols. Maybe I didn't feel needed. Maybe I thought all that work had to count for something. Maybe that's why I couldn't string together words worthy of a blog post.
Maybe God was thinking;
Suzanne, when will you figure it out? Will you turn to me for the answer today?

Now, God. Now I see. It was about just a handful of your children. All of that work was just for those few boys. I'm sorry I let it become about me.

"Painless or painful, enjoyable or distasteful, God always works to prepare us to serve Him, but He rarely prepares us in ways we expect"- Beth Moore

My smile after reading that line felt beautifully familiar. My precious intimacy with the Maker of the Universe was returning. We talked, I processed. He listened patiently, and He spoke in a way only I could hear.
He made me see my life, my situation, this floating hunk of steel, the people, the stories, are all far from normal. There is immeasurable beauty and wonder in every day, we just screw it up most days by not opening our eyes.
I'm not trying to be poetic, I am not trying to tell you life is wonderful and you should stop to smell the roses. I'm saying, well, I'm still processing actually (can of worms dad, a big fat can of worms). I'll let the end of the quote from Beth Moore bring it home today.

"...Why must we experience such preparation? Because any work we've grown accustomed to is usually a work completed. As soon as we've learned one lesson, He brings another. He will continue to work until we see His face, because that's the ultimate moment for which He's preparing"
From the study "David, A Heart Like His"

A simple touch

2010-06-23T04:55:00.009-04:00

Upon successful outcomes of surgery, our VVF women here dance. They are clothed in new, vibrant dresses and their heads are wrapped like you would expect if you came across African royalty.
I hesitate to re-tell their stories here. The only thing I can guarantee is that I won't come close to recapturing the emotion in the room last Sunday. With a lot of these posts, the resounding theme seems to be found in glimpses of perspective.

The ceremony starts with all of the women proudly walking into our crowded wards. The women still healing, and those struggling with complications, are all there watching from their plastic chairs or freshly made beds with hopeful expressions.
They are introduced one at a time and asked to share their story.
"This came upon me 4 years ago"
"I have had this sickness for 10 years"
"I have been wet for 20 years"

Here's where it gets hard for me. I don't come close to fully understanding how horrible life is for these women. My thoughts in trying to understand barely skim the surface, I imagine. After laboring in pain, trauma being inflicted on so many levels, these women are left leaking urine. All of the time, day and night, they are wet.
Many dehydrate themselves intentionally to try and fix the problem. The result is even more putrid smelling urine.
They don't have sanitary solutions here. Just like babies wear diapers made from scraps of cloth and black garbage bags, these women have limited options.

One started her story, captivating her audience at once.
"They told me the baby was dead."
All around the room I looked at the faces of women who shared this part of her story. They lowered their heads, some nodding in agreement.
"After 4 years I realized my sickness wasn't going away. My husband left me, my village made me leave because of the smell."
More nods.
"In my tenth year I read in the bible about a woman who suffered from disease for 12 years. Jesus healed her. I told God this will be my story too. If I am not healed in my 12th year, I will throw my bible away"
Myself and a few others raised our eyebrows in reaction to her bold statement.

"It was the 12th year, in the 3rd month. A man from my church came to me and said he felt God telling him to help carry my burden. He said he would like to do my laundry for me. All of it."

I wasn't expecting what happened next. In that instant, I watched the women around her fix their gazes. Some gripped the corners of their dress with all their might. Others immediately stained their cheeks with tears.
The woman continued her story, and as each detail unfolded, I watched the shoulders of the other women tighten, pulling forward. It wasn't the shared pain they cried about, or maybe not entirely. From what I could tell, it was the simple display of compassion from this one man in the story that they cried for.
"He covered my bed in plastic so it could be washed more easily. Sometimes though, sometimes it was just too hot and I chose the floor instead."
My stomach twisted in knots watching these women react with such emotion. My own eyes blurred with tears thinking about this woman in front of me sleeping on the dirt ground, soaked in urine, with one person in 10 years to help her. My heart screamed inside of me for the others, all the others who know this same pain so intimately.

Please, for one minute, scratch the surface with me. We complain about heat waves while these people live in constant high temperatures, the humidity always at an uncomfortable level. We have a million products and commercials to match for things that make us look, smell, and appear more attractive. These women are soaked in their own urine. We try and plan our weekends and complain about having nothing to do while these women lie by themselves somewhere on the outskirts of society, the lowest of the low even in the eyes of the people who are supposed to love them no matter what. They reek of stale urine, a smell stronger and more rancid than ammonia for those of you who have never encountered it. They are full of shame, and the world has failed them in the worst way.
My bet is that I wouldn't last a day in their shoes. What about you?

It was in the 10th month of her 12th year when she heard about a ship that was doing surgery. She found a way down to the city and to a screening. She faced a long line, twisting down the dirt streets. She waited, she talked to God, she boldly stood her ground. She was one of the chosen women that day. As she spoke, we saw a redeemed woman. The parts of her covered for a long time with shame were uncovered.
She looked beautiful.

She spoke to us, proclaiming her healing, in the 12th month of her 12th year. She approached Jesus and in faith reached out her hand to touch Him. She knew He would heal her.
Hebrews 4:16
"Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need."

Oh my, how many lessons can be learned in this one example (if I can speak for myself). The first being that it doesn't have to be someone literally compared to a leper, an untouchable person, to appreciate a gesture of kindness. Regardless of what you believe, or if you think there is only one source of love, reach out to someone. The second, for those of us who do believe, is to be confident. Be bold, be courageous. Ask and be in a posture of expectation that your prayer will be answered. If you don't believe, ask simply for God to reveal Himself to you. There is nothing to lose, but there is so much to gain. So much.

Simply reaching out to touch a person, or stretching your arm out towards Jesus has profound implications. Someones life, maybe even you own, will never be the same.

Joy Restored

2010-06-09T14:17:00.001-04:00

Any outsider may see our daily life here on the ship as strange. I observe the occasional overwhelmed looks on the faces of new arrivals as they try to take it all in that first week on board. I try to think back to when I first arrived, how I felt, how things looked. I was so filled with joy watching the Africans, working among them. The energy of the children and the sleepy gaze of a baby never failed to make me smile, they still don’t.
I have been working through a lot of things in the past couple of weeks in regards to where I am in my relationship with God. Over the last two or three days I finally feel that contentment of not only being in the right state of mind, but all is well in my heart, my soul feels good.
And now I’ll tell you about it…

I came to work on Monday evening, my shift started at 2pm. Shortly after we all gathered our reports and set off for our tasks, the music started.
The drums and shakers were only overtaken by the voices of all involved. The songs are all familiar, a result of being in West Africa for over a year. The women were dancing as they marched up and down the halls of deck 3. Many carried their catheter bags, the plastic clip dangling from their extended fingers.
Most appropriately a 3 year old was leading the pack of women. The son of one of thepatients, he marched with purpose, clapping off-beat, drool saturating the front of his shirt. He has a classic look, one I have seen many times as a pediatric nurse. His head is disproportionally small, his movements, although subtle, are spastic at times. He doesn’t speak despite his age, and his muscles are clearly underdeveloped. He almost certainly has high functioning cerebral palsy, a condition which can be the result of interruption of oxygen during birth.
He is a walking miracle. An off-beat, slightly spastic, miracle (which happens to be one of my favorite varieties).

Many of these women with VVF (vaginal fistulas caused by traumatic, prolonged births) don’t have a child to claim as their own. Most women come through our doors with stories of stillborn babies. As if constant leaking of urine, being an outcast, and losing everything at once isn’t enough for one person to endure…
Seeing this little boy march, knowing his mama was behind him somewhere in the parade was enough to carry me for months, I only had to recognize it and accept it as the gift it was.
Walking back into A ward, I was greeted by the face of Akossiwa’s mama, they were visiting after a post-op appointment. My eyes fell on little Akoss, her fro of black hair now neatly divided into tight braids. Her fat baby brother had that look I talked about, the one where you would think he was a little drunk, if he were old enough to hold his own cup, that is. I lifted Akoss in her small purple dress into my arms. We sat for a while, her legs crossed at the ankles, and I silently thanked God for the afternoon, for my life.

Yes we look strange, dancing up and down the halls amongst women in hospital gowns yielding full catheter bags. Yes, it’s overwhelming at first trying to take it all in. If you let it though, this experience will change your life. It will bring you joy, or restore the joy which has been elusive for a little while.

Its Time

2010-05-29T07:49:00.002-04:00

I haven't been totally honest with all of you this year. When I look back at last years posts here, I can feel the emotions rise up again inside of me. I desperately clung to God and poured my heart out to all of you in the times when I felt utterly hopeless. I faced giant bouts of heartache and was miraculously lifted again and again from the despair that threatened to swallow me. This year though, it feels different. I don't feel as connected, I'm missing the sense of realness I had last year, even if that connectedness came with the cost of tears.

The glimpses I have had into true emotion have been over the kids from last year. Maurice, Luc, Anicette, Maomi... The problem with that, is that all of these stories have ended with them dying. Without God, the human heart cannot take this pain. With only a little God, the heart can bear it for a time, but not remain open, never mind free to love, and certainly not with the abandon required to live here and be effective. I thought I had a good handle on it, I thought I knew how to deal with all of this weight. Turns out I don't think I do. I haven't been as desperate for God like I was last year. I haven't given Him the chance to weave these children's stories, which now include theirs deaths, into beautiful lessons. I won't think about Anicette. I can't. It physically hurts me to think about her. I was thankful I missed the community meeting when they showed footage from last year of her in her village. It was from the day I was there right at the end of Benin. What I call the best day of my life.
I can't stop crying thinking about it, yet I still don't want to deal with it, or at least I didn't until now. These tears, as I type, confirm what God has been whispering to me lately.

Its time, Suzanne. You have to face it. If you don't see the beauty in the lives and deaths of those you loved, you will deny Me the power to heal your heart. You won't be able to love like I know you can.

My old self used to go into self-protection mode when my heart was broken. I shut people out, quietly and politely, all while building up walls. I let God in and everything changed. Something changed though, this year it hasn't been the same, except for the brief moments I let myself feel again for those precious ones from Benin.
I go through the actions, I still show love, yet I am so scared when I feel my heart open to Kossi, our Burkitt's patient whose tumor is refusing to grow smaller.
To be honest, I am so tired of experiencing the death of children. Anicette wasn't supposed to die, she was my joy, her mama was so good, I loved her so much. Luc was so funny, his brother and sister loved him so much. His parents wanted him to be president, I wanted to hug him again.
Writing it down makes me realize so many things. Unless I let go, unless I call on God to consume my thoughts and lift my soul, this will never end. I will never move on. This all manifests itself in a variety of ways, for me its been blatantly obvious. Leave it to God to use a little girl to help me.

Akossiwa was badly burned as a baby and now she is around 2 and a half years old. She only has one full arm, her right one lost above the elbow to injuries from the fire. She has a little fro of hair, interrupted only by a burn scar on her scalp. She has another small mark on her left cheek, a smooth, black scar. We released contractures in her hips and her side where the burn was the worst. Over the last weeks this little girl has found her way into the parts of my heart I was trying to protect. I laughed at her genuinely when she would scoot her way into my lap after vein attempts to put her back into bed. I marveled at the way she smiled, and how cute her little feet were when she crossed her legs at her ankles anytime she was sitting down. I held her close when she would rest her head on my chest while I sat at the computer. When I would walk into A ward I was greeted by little Akossiwa lifting her good arm and small stump up in anticipation for a cuddle. I couldn't resist the curly eyelashes, raised eyebrows, and nodding head for more than a moment. I realized quickly that I loved her. I didn't just show her love, I loved her deeply and truly. I kissed her cheek over and over again, the smoothness of her scars beneath my lips. I sang to her and listened to her babble, lost in her own world at times. Her discharge was yesterday and I went in to tell her mama I was praying for her, that I saw something special in her, and I knew God would use her to do great things.

He already had.

I don't try to figure out why He chose her, but even if I did I know it would make perfect sense. After weeks of feeling defeated by how people are forced to live here, sending off a dying boy to sit in a long, hot bus ride north, and dwelling on sad news from Benin, I know God intended for this little girl to break down the walls that started to grow again.

Lets go, God. I'm ready.

The battle line is drawn, it's all in black and white.
Hope is pulling forward, can feel it from behind, it's time.
It's time to make a move, so what will you decide?
The clock is ticking on, don't let it pass you by, it's time.
It's time.

The time is now, for lifting souls.
The time is now, for letting go.
From your skin, to your core.
Let light, and love, come rushing through the door.
Oh, come rushing through the door.

It's time to hold your shield,
It's time to draw your sword,
Let's lead the resistance,
Oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord, it's time.
Yeah it's time.

It's time to make a stand, to put your heart in greater hands,
From your skin, to your core,
Let light, and love, come rushing through the door.

Sisters, Brothers, thieves, and lovers,
Come on, come on, eternity
Turn your faces, with fine eyed places,
Heaven's grace will set you free.

The time is now, for lifting souls.
The time is now, for letting go.
From your skin, to your core.
Let light, and love, come rushing through the door.

-The Time is Now, Phil Wickham

Hallelujah

2010-05-24T12:57:00.000-04:00

If toddlers could talk (or at least in a language I understand)

Suzanne:
"Samuel! Hallelujah"
Samuel:
"Amen!"
Samuel:
"Hey, watch me. I just dumped this huge bucket of random goodies out all over the floor. You want this dirty sticker?"
Suzanne:
"No, I'm good. I'm going to keep on working. You keep playing with it, I know, its amazing."
Samuel:
"Ok, I'm going to eat it then, and I know you will naturally take it away from me, but then I'm gonna put this paint brush in my mouth. The red handle leads me to believe it will taste delicious"
Suzanne:
"Its your prerogative kiddo"
Samuel:
"Now watch me prove my manliness while I fix this bed with a blue wooden wrench."
Suzanne:
"Genius, really. But Samuel, you just walked away from a huge mess. Don't worry, I'll clean it up, I love you that much. You're a typical boy though, you know."
Samuel:
"Why would you put all that stuff away, its much better here on the floor. Watch, I am so strong and clever I'll dump it out again so you can hear the fantastic splash of toys, pencils, and beads against the floor"
Suzanne:
"Give me the bead, Samuel. Spit it out sweetie. There's no choking allowed on A ward"
Samuel:
"I'll beat you, silly Yovo. And look, you took the white bead, but I had a green one in my hand too. Try and pry THIS one out of my mouth."
Suzanne:
"The jokes on you, little man. I am a master at getting slimy beads out of toddler’s mouths"
Samuel:
"Whatever, I'm going to take my Jenga block tied to this green yarn and walk it like a dog around the ward. See you later"
Suzanne:
"Hallelujah"
Samuel
"Amen"

The Boys

2010-05-19T08:21:00.020-04:00

Every week, my friend Becca and I visit the local hospital. The two boys with Burkitt's we diagnosed on the ship are there, along with a handful of other boys with one of two diagnoses, Burkitt's Lymphoma, or Nephroblastoma. They are at different stages of treatment, and some would say, from appearances, different stages of dying.
Their parents eyes were filled with skepticism at first, they asked for money nearly every time we came. They resented Kossi and Gerald's mamas for the perceived special treatment we were giving. It was frustrating, we didn't know quite what to do, but we continued going. At first we would visit for a while and then end with a group prayer. Sometimes Becca or I would pray and have Dodgi, our faithful translator, interpret. Other times we would just let him pray in their language.

Each week we take photos as a way of playing with, and interacting with the kids. They howl and grab at the camera when we show them the picture, one of them in the mob always managing to place a dirty finger directly on the lens(welcome to Africa). One day I printed out all of the pictures taken in the weeks prior and brought them for the families. As it has before, this simple act softened them. I don't think I can tell you how much it means for them to have pictures of themselves. Often times here, pictures are very formal and from a wedding even, you may only see several in total, proudly displayed or carefully placed in a book. When they pose for our pictures they have solemn looking faces, that is, until we force them to smile.
Apparently a yovo saying "Konu", meaning smile, is actually quite funny and produces the desired smile more than the command itself does.

That same week I had felt convicted to pray for the boys at different times. While sitting and visiting I decided to pray with each family individually. My heart broke when each and every boy prayed to be well enough to play again. Every one of them.

They're just little boys who want to play. How simple.
How profound.

Last week Becca and I went and stuck with the same plan of praying with each family alone. The first boy was so sick, paralyzed by his illness and what seemed to be days away from death.
Please, Lord, let him know you as God. Ease this suffering, be with him. We know you love him. Come and comfort him.

Other prayers were fairly standard that followed, but two certainly stuck out and left Becca and I wondering if we could ever do any work besides this, if we could ever possibly love kids more than we currently do.
Mark and Gerald are both 4. Both sport complexions free from the tumors that once disfigured them. They are a real pair, Frick and Frack, if I may.
They sat on Gerald's bed, their IV's acting as a leash, keeping them contained to a 4 foot area. They giggled and called for us to come over. They sported sly smiles as we sat down with them, their own personal yovo's, I'm sure they thought.
Dodgi asked Mark for us;
"Mark, we will pray now, what would you like us to pray for?"
Dodgi turned to us with a straight face and told us Marks reply;
"Pasta"
I still laugh now thinking about it.
"And what else, Mark?"
"That he can go home, he has been here too long"

On to Gerald
Dodgi told us he wanted to be healed, to be able to return home.
My heart ached again,
Gerald, that's all I want for you too, I thought to myself.
"No pasta?" we inquired.
"Yes" Dodgi answered, "To be healed and for pasta as well"
Naturally, we concluded.

So we prayed for healing, to be able to go home and to eat all the pasta they wanted. In my heart, I know God heard and loved those requests as much as we did. I picture him chuckling at Gerald and Mark as they dream and pray for nice oily noodles. I also picture Him flinching when He hears the other boys pray for the ability to play again, be restored to perfect health. I know He longs for them to know how much He loves them. He wants them to know that when they come home to Him, they will know no disease. They won't be intoxicated by the stench of stale urine or blood soaked mattresses. The tests and drugs and tears will be a distant memory. They will run, and play, and...
eat pasta.

Without further ado, the boys:

When you ask him his name, he replies
"Edoh, Gregoir". To answer politely, children always give their surname followed by their first. For some reason when this one does it I can't help but smile.

Gregoire's tumor rests squarely on his right Kidney. When I held him I could feel it, hard and pressing harshly against his soft belly. He was pretty wiped out last week, yet he can't contain that smile even on the worst of days.

There are far too many cute photos of Alex to pick just two. Here are the ones I can't help but show you:

Pray for little Alex, please. He is quite malnourished and each time we visit his energy can range from playful to being barely able to lift his head. Treatment is clearly taking a toll on him, and we often question how much is too much with this system.

Do you recognize this one? Gerald is kicking Burkitt's butt. He looks fantastic and his attitude only gets better as the weeks go on.
These pictures were taken as the whole ward was in the middle of taking their baths. As you can tell there is no lack of powder to go around.

Sweet Kossi. He told me when we sat down to pray that he didn't know how to. I told him it was ok and explained to him simply what he could do. He has a more advanced stage of Burkitt's meaning they found tumors not only on his face but in his abdomen as well. His treatment is more complex and we haven't seen the immediate results indicative of successful treatment. Pray for him and his mama, they are both so thankful for everything that is done for them, and I know they would covet your prayers.

I know this sounds awful, but our little Mark is incredibly non-photogenic.

This one isn't so bad, but it only came after me searching for several minutes through all of them to find one that did his cuteness any justice. We love him just the same, especially when he scrunches up his shoulders when you go near him, expectant, and practically begging for a tickle. He is a rascal and is always in our bags when we aren't looking. He would never take anything, but is just chronically curious. That is, until his mama gives him a good smack which quickly deters him from snooping.

This is Joseph (prounouced yo-zeph) We learned last week that he had a 'crisis' and was in the emergency department of the hospital. Please pray for him and his mama who loves him so dearly. He is quite sick and also malnourished, yet joy seeps out of him and his smile makes you believe that joy rests deeply and safely inside of him.
So there they are. The boys. Good looking group, don't you agree?

Philippians 2:1-5
"Therefore if there is any encouragement in Christ, if there is any consolation of love, if there is any fellowship of the Spirit, if any affection and compassion, make my joy complete by being of the same mind, maintaining the same love, united in spirit, intent on one purpose.
Do nothing from selfishness or empty conceit, but with humility of mind regard one another as more important than yourselves;
Do not merely look out for your own personal interests, but also for the interests of others.
Have this attitude in yourselves which was also in Christ Jesus"

A blog post named Desire

2010-05-03T07:18:00.002-04:00

As promised, here is the post I have been formulating for a few weeks. It started when I was having a bit of a tough week. Since coming here I have always done my best to find the best in Africa. I don't ever want to portray this beautiful place in a bad light. I don't want to give those of you reading an image that would for a second make you think that wherever you live is somehow better than here, that you should somehow pity these people. In balancing that, however, it is hard because what I see on a daily basis IS different. Parts of this place ARE much worse than in other regions of the world. Of all the places I've been, not one has it just right. There are positives and negatives regarding every inch of inhabited earth.

I was driving to the local hospital a couple of weeks ago and while stopped at a light I caught the familiar scene of a child, no older than 5, walking up to my window. She held in her hand a dusty rag no cleaner than the rags covering her own body. She had the intention of wiping down the window of the land rover. She couldn't even reach it she was so small.
I looked her in the eye and shook my head 'no'. She twisted her wrist, turning her palm up, a gesture for money, and again I shook my head. I glance up and not 10 feet in front of me I saw who I assumed to be her father. He was just sitting there, staring back at me with his empty eyes.

How could you sit there while your daughter begs right in front of you? I wanted to yell. Get out here yourself and do it, don't send your little girl. What does she think, does she even realize that this isn't how life is supposed to be? Does she know that she should be in school worrying about which color to paint her picture, not asking strangers for a few cents?

I caught myself in this line of thinking and forced myself to stop. All week I had been letting the conditions here get to me. I am sick of seeing malnourished/exploited/abandoned/the list goes on- kids. I am tired of not having answers for patients who are dying only because there isn't basic interventions in their health care available. I hate that parents here are resolved to the fact that their kids die. Regularly.

Suzanne, I hate it too. This wasn't My plan. It's normal to want more for these people, I do too.

I got to the hospital, still trying to shed my crap attitude. The thing is, I'm not any help to anyone if I don't keep going. If I succumb to the despair that so easily could envelope me here, the enemy would win.
And that's not going to happen.
I have the answer too, which is my only comfort. When I feel the devastation of watching a baby die and crying with a mama as she washes him one last time, I know. When I see children barefoot in the street and wonder about their future, I remind myself of one thing.

This isn't it. We were written into an eternal story. CS Lewis got it right;

"If I discover within myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world"

So I stay in Africa. I continue to follow the calling to live here, clinging to the promise that one day there will be no suffering. These children will know love someday. Its what I desire, and its what God desires, too.

Go

2010-04-28T10:42:00.004-04:00

Desire
Watch out
The boys

Above, you see the titles of the different posts I have swimming about in my head. No, I haven't written in a while. You'll find out part of the reason in the body of the aforementioned blogs. (That I will eventually write). For now though, I have to write in order of importance, and that happens to be something that happened today.
Rewind to last Wednesday with me first. I went to the local hospital to see the kids we are working with. The doctor asked me to come and see a little boy in the ICU. Fidele was emaciated, clearly struggling to breath, and being carefully watched by his worried mama. All eyes were on me as I walked into the 40-something bed unit. Children at different stages of acute illness were sprawled across blood and fluid-stained beds, only separated from the dirty mattress's with a colorful lappa of bright African material. Fidele shared a bed with another patient, I don't find it necessary to elaborate on that image.
I felt the eyes of desperation staring at me. My presence, my attention to just one of them undoubtedly sends the others thoughts into wondering why this boy in the corner is special.

Fidele had been seen at one of our screenings and given an appointment card to come tot he ship for a biopsy. He clearly had cancer, growing so fast it was claiming his ability to breath by pressing on his airway. It didn't look like Burkitt's, but the doctor asked if he could come to the ship for the biopsy just so they could know what they were dealing with. I knew in my heart Fidele was too sick to transport, but I arranged with the ship for the doctors at the local hospital to collect the sample, which I then brought back to put through our process. We planned to meet the next morning at 8.
In typical fashion, the doctor arrived around 10:30 and the biopsy began by 11. Right on time... (On the positive side, I learned a lot about the translator working with me. Turns out 3 hours of sitting on a bench lends to lots of diverse discussion)

I took in the sights of the treatment room where they brought Fidele. As many times as I have walked into an African hospital, I still feel my mind reject the conditions. I suppose its normal, really.
They laid him on a dirty table, graciously slipping the material he was covered with under him. He cried out in pain as they held him down. I found his hand and held it firmly. I tried to calm him by rubbing the back of his hand, feeling the bones sticking out under his dry skin. Once finished, we walked behind him and his mama, splitting up when we passed the pediatric ward so I could go see the other kids.
On the way out I felt a quick conviction that we should go and pray for Fidele.
I'll pray for him the next time we see him.
Go now

I'll pray for him when I get to the car
Go now

We've already walked nearly to the parking lot (my defense: its a long way from the car to the ward!)
Go. Now.

I've had a headache for a week, I'm so hot, this 10 minute procedure has now cost me 5 hours, this is my day off.
Suzanne, go pray for Fidele. Be an example of Me, tell him that I care for him. Show all of those people in that ICU who you serve, who you believe in.

At this point I was already driving towards the gate.
I put the car in park and began the walk back to the ICU. I felt the burden of the situation lifting with each step. I walked back into the ICU and straight to the corner bed where Fidele lay. I felt the eyes on me again, and without a translator, I gestured to the mom that I wanted to pray. A small smile greeted my actions and she bowed her head with me over her sleeping son.

God, I know you have the power to heal this boy. I know you love him. If your will is to take him home to you, please do it swiftly, end his suffering. Amen.
I said my goodbyes and left, wondering if I would see Fidele again.

When I got to the hospital today and asked about Fidele, the doctor told me he had died on Monday evening. I felt such peace in my heart. I knew God was pushing me last Thursday. I fought it with all of the pathetic energy I had that day, there are no words to describe how grateful I am that I listened in the end. I remember when people used to talk about the Holy Spirit, such an abstract thought for me to wrap my head around at the time. Maybe it is for those of you reading too. All I can say, is that when the Holy Spirit moves, you know it. It is an undeniable force when you actually shut yourself up for a second and listen.
God knew He would be calling Fidele home days after I saw him, and maybe the lesson in going to pray for him was just for me. If I know God at all though, I have a feeling He had a very specific purpose to push me that day.

Lesson #1089- When god is telling you to 'go', don't bother arguing, He knows what He's doing. It might cost you 5 minutes, or it might cost you your life as you know it. Its the right choice either way.

A lesson in love

2010-04-13T07:36:00.008-04:00

I'm tired of starting these posts, the ones where I have to find the words to explain that another child has died. I don't want to tell of another story of hope that ends in tragedy. I don't want to try and describe that again my heart is broken, shattered into tiny pieces that I am trying to hold gently together so I can continue working here. I don't want to think about the parents of this child, how I could just cry for hours just for the pain of their loss.
I don't want to have to say that I am writing this all about Luc.

We left Benin last year as his cancer started to rear its ugly head again. The swelling was coming back, making his eyelids puffy at first. We left him in the hands of a doctor who is one of the best I have ever met, a true gift from God. I have been in touch since leaving, hearing updates about how Luc and Rachelle were doing. While away last week I got the email that I hated to read about Luc's cancer which they suspected had spread to his brain. The pain of that thought alone makes me ill.
There was talk of coming to Togo, I even talked to the oncologist we are working with here about treating Luc as Benin had run out of options. I was so afraid to be the one to make the call. Potential false hope verses the pain of accepting there is nothing else that can be done for a 4 year old is not a decision anyone should have to face. I thought I would let the doctors talk, and made contact with the one in Benin.He responded by telling me he thought Luc and his family was already on their way to Togo, on their way to the ship in order to seek help.
My mind raced as I tried again and again to contact them as I have been trying to do since getting to Togo. I prayed for the phone to work.The next calls went through.
The translator reached Luc's dad.Where are you?
Benin?, Good, and Luc and his mother as well?
The look on the translators face was all too familiar. Again, my heart fell.
"I'm sorry, Luc died Monday"
The rest of the conversation was the usual. Tell them I am so sorry, tell them I am praying for them. etc, etc, etc... It feels so fake when you have to say it over the phone through a translator. But then the dad said something that made me wince.
"He wants to come see you, here in Togo"
We arranged for the whole family to come for dinner and church in 2 weeks. I told them to take a taxi, we would pay for the ride.This grieving family, who probably just finished burying their son, wants to come see me. I don't think I will ever be able to put the emotion that evokes into words.
In talking about all of this to people, I think I figured out why certain kids and their deaths affect me more than others. Its amazing, each one has a different significance all its own. I narrowed it down to the lessons learned through each child. The way God used them each individually to speak into my heart.
Luc's lesson was the sweetest, which also makes his death one of the hardest. He taught me to love with abandon, when I saw his cancer come back I was filled with fear.
Not him, God. Please, not him. Spare him. I love him too much.

The day of that lesson, we had several hours to kill waiting for one of the doctors. All morning we played. Open the car door, close it. Figure out the keys, lock and unlock. Open the window, play peek-a-boo, close the window.
I had reservations the whole morning. It would hurt too much when I had to leave, I wanted to retreat, not face the inevitable pain of possibly loving him even and ounce more than I already did. Maybe if I didn't have any more fond memories it would be easier.
Closing off ones heart is a slippery slope, and I think this was the closest I had ever come to it.

When we left the appointment, Luc grabbed my hand joyfully and skipped beside me. He snatched the blooming flowers off their buds and threw them in the air like confetti. We jumped over the cracks in the sidewalk, and he beamed at me with his sly smile.
Right then, in His perfect timing, God spoke to me."Be like Luc. Live in this moment"
I didn't think it was possible to love someone anymore than I did Luc right then. My heart was so full. To love like that means you can't fear the consequences, you love as if you will never lose, like there isn't a threat of heartache. It is divine love with a source that is not of this world. Only God can enable us to love like that, otherwise how could you reasonably pour everything you have into a child that may likely die.
My last visit with Luc...

Luc's and his family lived an hour from the hospital. His dad was one of the sweetest men I have met here. He came to every appointment, followed us in the car with his bike each time we drove to the hospital, and visited Luc and his mama during their stays every evening. In the car, Luc always turned around multiple times to check if his 'papa' was behind us. He would wave frantically, and always find a wave and a smile in return from his dad. He never took his eyes off that little boy.

Luc and his mama...Every time, without fail, when I saw Luc, he would run at me with all of his might. He didn't hesitate or slow down when he got near to me. He wasn't afraid of hitting too hard. He ran, full out, with everything in him.
One evening when I had called to check on him, he asked to speak directly to me. All I understood was
"allo, Suzanne!"
When I inquired the following day about what he said, his mom laughed and retold the story of Luc telling me it was a good idea to bring him chocolate the next day. I brought him m&m's every day I saw him after that.
I loved Luc. My heart does ache, the pain comes like a stab in the side at times. A memory of him will flash through my mind and nothing will stop the tears from coming. My comfort in this is knowing where he is, playfully laughing in a place where this is no pain, no fear, and where he is loved by the one who created love. The one who is love, knows nothing but love.
God used that little boy to speak to me, knowing I would never listen any other way. I am thankful for his life and the privilege it was to be a part of it in the short time I knew him.

Because of Luc, I am not afraid to love, regardless of the circumstance.

Diagnosis:Burkitt's

2010-04-09T04:27:00.013-04:00

It does seem a bit screwed up to celebrate a child having cancer. I honestly feel the need to explain myself every time I smile when I hear the word Burkitt's.
Sometimes it just feels good to know there may be a chance. That little thing called hope.
I mentioned Kossi the other day, the 11 year old who has a tumor pushing out his left cheek. They confirmed him as a Burkitt's patient after we had already brought him to the hospital and promised results via email to the doctor there.
While there, when I saw Gerald's face, I melted. Well, not right away, at first he was sleeping with his face wedged firmly between the mattress and the wall, but when his mom pulled him out of his slumber by his arm, I saw it, then the said melting occurred. His tumor is drastically smaller. His right eye is now open and fixes on you as he tries to decide if he remembers if you are on hugging terms or not (for 4 years olds this can change from week to week for the first month or so)

I said during all of the preparation that if God only brought us one kid, just one, I would know that it was all worth it. I am not trying to add more weight to Geralds story than necessary. I mean, he's awesome (clearly) but please understand I am just trying to show you the significance of having this unfold in front of my eyes. On the days when life here is beyond frustrating, I think of how we found Gerald. After a long, drawn out afternoon of hitting every wall possible, the weight of it all is shed when I chase Geralds little brother Denni, a naked 2 year old running for his life from the yovo, all while screaming in delight, mixed with just a hint of terror (You know that feeling when you're bring chased, even playfully)
When the task of doing this job seems overwhelming (read: my brain is smoking), I let myself dream of the hugs from Luc I loved so much. When I think there is no way it will all work, I remember how Rachelle used to slip her hand into mine at every opportunity and tuck her face sweetly into each hug. Oh, how her spirit touched my soul.

I have the best job in the world, in my opinion. These kids teach me more than any book ever could. I gain more insight into life in one afternoon spent with them than any theologian could offer.
So yes, you cold say this one picture affects my life in astonishing ways. This one picture, this one disease, has changed me forever.
And that is cause to smile.

Remember Gerald before?

Well, here he is after just one dose of chemotherapy. What a difference a week can make...

And most importantly (again, in my opinion) Gerald and I are on hugging terms.

1 Corinthians 13:13
"And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love"

The journey

2010-04-07T05:18:00.007-04:00

I've been trying to search the distance from Togo-Amsterdam-Boston-West Palm beach Florida...and back, but even Wikipedia is coming up short this morning.
Last week I had the absolute privilege of traveling back to the states for my best friends wedding. I had agreed to be one of her bridesmaids well before I knew I would be staying long term in Africa, and instead of trying to split my time between her destination wedding and home, my family came down to Florida and we had a week together before her wedding and our flight back to Africa the following day.
Whew. Deep breath.

My second brush with transitioning to the 'first world' was easier, I think. I knew what to appreciate and what not to get hung up on, at least.
The first news from Africa was of Anicette. I felt so far away, my emotions seemed misplaced sitting at the table of my parents time share.
The following day I heard from Becca about our Burkitt's patient, Michael. His mama took him from the hospital and they were nowhere to be found. Even if they are found, we will have a fight ahead of us to get him back into the program at the local hospital, which we'll do...if we find him.

Earlier in the week I had received a vague email, in French, from the doctor in Benin I have stayed in touch with regarding Luc and Rachelle, my Burkitt's patients from last year. In response I asked him what exactly he was asking me.
I hated his reply;
"Luc is no longer responding to the Doxirubicin. We believe his cancer has spread to his brain. Is it possible for him to come to the ship?"
Again, my heart fought for ground as my arms rested on the cool glass of the dining room table.

I felt so guilty earlier this year saying to someone that being home brought further affirmation that I am supposed to be in Africa. I felt like that was betraying my family, that maybe I am supposed to hate being away, but willing to sacrifice, but that's not the truth.
I do miss them terribly. Seeing them, then saying goodbye, hurts quite badly. I had such a sweet week with them, and honestly I have to fight at times to have the proper perspective about being away because I love them so much, I love being around them. However, that doesn't mean I don't belong here in Africa.
When we landed in Ghana, still hours from the ship, I felt contentment settle in. I sighed when I felt the warm air surround me. I marveled at the stars, their simplicity and beauty never cease to amaze me. I slept as the taxi driver sped through the winding roads, waking occasionally to bright lights belonging to the customs officials shining into the car at the various checkpoints on the road.

I went downstairs this morning to check on a potential new Burkitt's Patient, Kossi. He is 11 and has a smile that makes my heart leap. His mama's smile is equally big, just minus several teeth. Last night we had a big dinner with all of the doctors we are working with at the hospital in town. We brainstormed with them on ways we can help improve their current system and conditions on the ward. I am back and life is in full swing again.

This morning as I tried to tame a wild 4 year old in the corner of B ward who was set on clamoring past me for a chance at something to eat when all I wanted was a hug, I wished I could find words to describe what I felt.
True joy. Unexplainable, undeniable, unfathomable joy, is found here. In this place, at this time, Africa is where my heart is. When I pick up a little boy with severely clubbed feet who wraps his legs around my waist and squeals with delight, I feel it. When I wake up in the morning, only able to hope we can help little Kossi in bed 6, I know I am supposed to be here, living steps away from where he lies.
Seeing a picture of Gerald (coming soon! promise!) after only 1 dose of chemo, his face drastically improved, I gain a glimpse of understanding into God's plan for my life.
My sister loves the phrase;
"There is joy in the journey". After the past week, and now after 2 full days back, that statement seems to be coming to mind over and over today. And I can't stop smiling.

There is a joy in the journey
There's a light we can love on the way
There is a wonder and wildness to life
And freedom for those who obey
And all those who seek it shall find it
A pardon for all who believe
Hope for the hopeless and sight for the blind
To all who've been born in the Spirit
And who share incarnation with Him
Who belong to eternity stranded in time
And weary of struggling with sin
Forget not the hope that's before you
And never stop counting the cost
Remember the hopelessness when you were lost
There is a joy in the journey
There's a light we can love on the way
There is a wonder and wildness to
And freedom for those who obey...
-Joy in the Journey, Michael Card

The most beautiful

2010-03-30T11:24:00.004-04:00

Last year you heard the stories of Anicette. Chicken little, our feeding program baby who gained the weight she needed to before our skilled surgeon mended her cleft lip. She was one of the ones who made it. We saw physical transformations, but more than that we saw spiritual life breathed into that small family. Her mama loved that precious baby so much, and we all loved them with such excitement. Their story brought joy in the face of despair, especially with the work that brought so much heartache last year.

I saw Anicette and her mom on Friday. I walked past the sign on the infant feeding room, a poster that has a picture of Anicette smiling and fat on it taken right before her surgery last November. My heart jumped as I saw her mama, but so quickly that feeling turned to sickness when my eyes caught sight of Anicette. 4.2 kg at 14 months. She was the most malnourished child I have ever seen, that I have ever touched. Her smile was gone, her eyes didn't shine the way I remembered. Her cry made me nauseous. It was clear she was near death, and we all felt the pain of the situation.

All the nurses who knew her could hardly believe what we were seeing.

We suspected last year that she had some sort of metabolic disorder. We knew she wasn't absorbing nutrients, not gaining weight despite regular feedings. Whatever the case, it doesn't seem important now as I think of her story.

Anicette died yesterday. She was on our little A ward, surrounded by a ship with people who loved her. Her mama I'm sure wept in the arms of my friends who are carrying a burden too heavy to describe. I got the news from Ali who knew I should hear about the details while I am traveling this week.

Its so surreal, too much to understand right now. In these cases you have to switch from extreme joy, pure hope, to death. Its not something I will ever get used to, I pray I never do.

My mind keeps wandering to Ani and her mama. I know in the deepest corner of my heart that she is with Jesus, restored to perfection, crowned with beauty, and peacefully laying in His arms. She doesn't know hunger anymore, she will never again feel the sting of pain.

For us though, for us its hard.

Please pray for her mama. She is 4 months pregnant and we learned she lost another baby before Anicette who also 'couldn't eat'.

I read through some of my blogs about Anicette as I reflected on how such a tiny baby can impact my life in such astounding ways. This pretty much sums it up:

"She cooed and smiled, giggling as I kissed her belly and her cheeks over and over. That baby is seriously the most amazing gift of joy I have ever been given. She has been my comfort on so many days this year. She is one of the most beautiful children of Jesus I have ever seen and I love her with everything in me. My chicken little." Dec 4, 2009

Her full story is here.

This face

2010-03-24T12:01:00.006-04:00

This face makes everything worth it.
The pain, the tears, the stress, I will endure it for this little boy. I wish I could accurately describe the magnitude of the joy in my heart as I sit here and type.
We walked into the small ward at the hospital this morning to see Gerald receiving his first dose of chemotherapy. Michael got his right after.

In the moment Gerald sleepily reached out his hand in greeting and smiled shyly in response to a kiss on the forehead, I knew I was right where I was supposed to be.
This face represents why my life looks different than some peoples, why I stay here in Africa. This smile lessens the pain of only seeing my family once a year. This face speaks of Gods goodness and His beautiful plan. I find comfort, solace, peace, affirmation, love, and raw, true joy in this face.

This little boy has just as much worth as any of us. He should receive the results of our best efforts. He is deserving of every ounce of stress and heartache. He is worth the work, the hours of research. He is more than enough of a reason to give up the world and follow Jesus. I gladly die to my own will, to my own comforts, all for this smile.

"Each one of them is Jesus in disguise" - Mother Theresa

Isaiah 41
9 I took you from the ends of the earth,
from its farthest corners I called you.
I said, 'You are my servant';
I have chosen you and have not rejected you.

¹⁰ So do not fear, for I am with you;
do not be dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you;
I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

17 The poor and needy search for water,
but there is none;
their tongues are parched with thirst.
But I the LORD will answer them;
I, the God of Israel, will not forsake them.

Oh, hey God

2010-03-22T11:45:00.005-04:00

Last week I prayed about my time here in Togo. It seems awful to say I was bored, maybe a more appropriate term would be I was in a 'quiet' season. Who am I kidding, I used the word bored.
I had worked for a few hundred hours preparing for the Burkitt's program. My excitement grew, I knew the kids would show up, there was no way God would prepare us and not deliver.
Or maybe I was wrong...
Last week there were no kids. I got an email that the chemotherapy had arrived on board. Great, but we have no kids, no contact at the hospital (I'll spare you of those incredibly annoying details. Basically we were trying to set up an appointment with a 'director' who doesn't exist. Moving on)
Last Monday I had a day where I put it all out there.
Ok, God. If all that wasn't for this year, if the inpatient aspect of treating the kids on the ward isn't meant to be, its ok. I trust your plan. Just show me though, because I'm slightly confused about why I am all the way in Africa, sitting and having some 'quiet' time.
Although I didn't use the 'b' word I have a feeling God already knew that one.

Wednesday I get a page to call the dental clinic. A little boy had accompanied his uncle who needed some fillings for his cavities. The dentist (who happens to be my friend and has heard my spiel on Burkitt's) saw the boy and assumed he was the patient. When he didn't sit in her chair she investigated further, thank God she did. Within hours the boy and his uncle were on the way to the ship with a biopsy scheduled for Thursday. I grabbed a translator and we set off for the gate to meet them and bring them through the secured gates. The boy arrived and a random man called him over.
"Why has this boy not gotten treatment?" He implied
Who are you? (I said in my head)
"We're working on it, we are doing a biopsy tomorrow" I politely responded.
Turns out he was a local surgeon. Thankfully I had kept my earlier question to myself
"Do you treat Burkitt's in your hospital. If we diagnose him tomorrow can we bring him to you?"
"Yes, you should be our partner"
Ah, yup. I think that would work.
The conversation was slightly different, but I will keep it short for your sake.

And so the story of Gerald was born, and our relationship with the local government hospital as well.
Gerald is a grown man in a little boys body, and yes, I already love him for those of you who may be wondering. I saw his slide in the lab with my own eyes. When I peered into into the microscope, hundreds of round purple lymphoma cells appeared.
We got him, our first Burkitt's patient.
It seems sick to be excited about a child having cancer, and its not that I am excited for that fact, but I am excited it is something we get to treat. I believe I am here, right now, at this very moment, for Gerald and any other child who comes through with Burkitt's. So yes, I am happy about this little boy with cancer.

We set off for the hospital on Friday morning with high hopes. Gerald sat in the car with us and warmed up within a few minutes. It may have been us dancing to the black eyed peas ( I asked him his favorite music and he said 'dance') or the sheer fact he was out of the sometimes-intimidating ship.
When we arrived we began the typical back and forth with how treatment would go. Things were predictably vague with how they would go about doing it, but we felt ok. When we got to the ward where we would leave Gerald things turned a bit. The children occupying the scarcely covered beds were malnourished and sick. When I leaned over to hand one particularly sick boy a sticker, the stench of stale urine filled my nostrils. They brought in a mattress for Gerald, stained and dirty, with no offer for a bed sheet. We decided to go out and buy some sheets. Here, you don't look for the nearest bed bath and beyond, you simply go to the corner and find a woman selling used bedding. 3 bucks for a top and bottom sheet, even a pillow case thrown in as well. We chose white, figuring if it was dirty we would know more readily. The 'top sheet' was a table cloth with embroidered flowers in the center. Very nice, really.

We returned, made his bed, and left feeling pretty good that Gerald would begin treatment. We were tired, but felt good about our progress. In desperate need of some food and a shower, Becca and I split and decided to join forces after a quick nap.
Those plans went down faster than we could get to the dining room. I got a call from the OR. Another little boy we were sure had some form of cancer causing his eye to bulge away from his face, had just gotten out of his biopsy. Diagnosis: probable Burkitt's.
I had been thinking it, and at that moment I realized something. A note to the wise:

Don't tell god you're bored if you don't want Him to answer.

Thankfully, both Becca and I were happy He answered, and ready to go. We made our back through the dusty streets, walked over the cracked and wobbling drain covers, and into the office where we hoped to enroll little 1 and a half year old Michael in our assumed protocol.
Not so.
Turns out no one planned on starting treatment on Friday. They ordered a litany of tests, some of which we had already done, and sent us away feeling totally defeated. Becca returned Saturday on her day off and she saw more of the same, except now, the urgent treatment wasn't going to begin until Wednesday.

I woke up this morning with puffy eyes, a result of the tears cried last night over the injustice of this whole situation. I hated it, I wanted it to be different. I am willing to carry this burden, I am, but its a different story when the kids are right in front of you. Its easy to plan and to talk, but when you have giggled along with a 4 year old and watched how a mama cares for her only son who has yet to see his second birthday, things change. Objectivity becomes a distant memory. Your heart breaks in ways you couldn't imagine, and taking one more step seems not only impossible, but pointless.
So I prayed, and my mom prayed from more than a thousand miles away while I quietly cried in my room, not the first time this scene has unfolded while I have been in Africa.

This morning we were greeted by the stern face of the head doctor of pediatrics in the local hospital. He didn't appear terribly pleased to meet us, and both Becca and I could have thrown up on command at that point over the dread we had in our stomachs.
I smile right now writing this. I told my mom I liked being surprised by God, but at the same time I can't believe its possible to still manage to be surprised by Him.
Halfway through our meeting, a weight was lifted. All of a sudden we were talking about parnership, about how we could help each other. We all were agreeing and chatting about how we could work together.
We left, physically, emotionally, and mentally feeling lighter.
Thank you, God. You did it again.
He never fails.

Last Wednesday, the day I met Gerald, I wouldn't have normally been outside of the car. We were just waiting, expecting to see them and have them immediatly follow us into the port. They were late though, and a man knocked on our window while we waited. Turns out he had come from Benin and had some complications from his surgery nearly a year ago. When Gerald and his uncle arrived, I was trying over and over again to get a call to go through to the ship in order to ask what to do with the man from Benin. Had we not been delayed, and outside of the car, the Dr. wouldn't have seen Gerald and asked us about him. I would still be trying to get through to a director that doesn't exist.
That morning when I had heard of the possibility of a Burkitt's patient I immediatly prayed because although I was excited, without a hospital I wouldn't have anywhere to bring him.
Before that, if the dentist hadn't thought to take a closer look at Gerald, he would have walked right through without us ever knowing.
Why did the uncle even bring him to the dental clinic with him?

Do you see yet that this isn't coincidence, that there is a greater power working out every detail of every day? Should I go on? Because I could. I could type for hours about every instance I have seen God in, just over the last 5 days.

Gods plan is perfect. His timing is impeccable. His love is extravagant.

And here he is. Gerald. In charge and ready for business.

Little Michael. Today when we walked through the courtyard of the hospital his smiling mama ran up and wrapped her strong arms around us. Michael was sporting a matching wide smile. Until I kissed him. Too soon. Too soon.

A sweet melody

2010-03-10T06:32:00.007-05:00

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.

Both Sides

2010-03-07T10:35:00.000-05:00

Thursday was quite the day on B ward. I walked in to see a ward that only two days before was sparsely decorated with patients, nearly full with an noticeably increased noise level. The two little boys in beds 1 and 2 caught my eye first. At two and five years old their cleft lips are a large, very obvious disfigurement which send their teeth jutting out in different directions. Still, no cleft lip can stifle the smile of a child. When they break through the initial uncertainty of having a yovo as a friend, the smile that comes next makes everything ok. All is truly well in the world when you have a child smiling widely at you.
Now you have met Kodjovi and Kokouvi.

In the corner Pascale was already wiggling around at the early hour of 7am. I saw his name on the list days ago and was excited. A three year old getting orthopedic surgery=casts from hips to toes=cute. And there he was in front of me. He stopped wiggling when I (too quickly) approached him. He fought the fear and gave in with a small smile, suspicion still lurking in his black eyes.

The morning progressed, we rounded with the doctors, and then I spotted an excited looking boy tip-toeing around the ward. Koffi has the sweetest little face. He is shy but friendly and if one thing is true it is that he loves his dad. He tip-toes around because his achilles tendons are too short. He is in the OR now getting them fixed.
Then there is little bow legged Bobo. On Tuesday, before his surgery, I played soccer up on the deck with him and another bow-legged patient awaiting surgery. We were teaching them moves to get past each other, but they always resorted to kicking the ball through each others legs. I guess its fair if both play off the other's handicap. Bobo was not too thrilled with us when I was getting ready to leave. Before I left, you could hear him behind a curtain pleading with oooooo oooo, eeee, eeeee's while his nurse tried to help him go the bathroom. He initially smiled at me when I went to him in the morning, until I touched his exposed toes. The look of horror that crossed his face, shocked that I would touch his injured extremity, was too much for me to handle without smiling. Those casts are not fun when you're 6 either.

Next door, A ward is housing our feeding program babies. Francois, the little one I mentioned here before we even arrived, is now big enough to have surgery. He is a bit over 3 kilos and looks like a giant compared to the 4 other babies currently working to get fat. Anne and Anna are 12 day old twins who brought tears to my eyes when I uncovered their tucked-in bodies from the soft blanket they were carefully wrapped in. The night nurse was an advocate for bonnets on all of the babies, and I instantly appreciated her persistence in finding them when I laid my eyes on 5 tiny babies wrapped up with knitted caps on their heads. Anne has bowed legs and now weighs in at 1.9 kilos wearing the smallest casts I have ever seen in my life. Before that she was 1.7kg. God bless that little baby.
The other two are boys, Romeo and Marius. Need I say more? I think not.

It was one of those mornings. Ali and I were teamed up again, this time with my trusty friend orienting me to the world of charge nursing on the good Mercy Ship. We were busy but happy. We had heard news earlier in the morning that one of the little 8 year old girls had an inconclusive SIS test. Here on the ship, we use the term 'SIS' rather then HIV in an effort to protect the patient from the whole ward of listening ears. They were still going to do surgery, and re-test in a few months. The woman a few beds down was not so fortunate. Her test results weren't inconclusive, they were positive. We set up for the counselor to meet with her. Shes only 34, a victim to an unfaithful husband and now a lifelong disease.
Across, in another bed, we got the news that the 14 year old awaiting surgery was pregnant, and only in her first trimester. The counselor was getting her workout, carrying the burden of the news that this little girl had miscarried the year before, at only 13 years old.

After the two women left we sighed the kind of sigh that I have only experienced here. Kodjovi and Koukovi were still giggling in the corner, Koffi was tiptoeing around, shrieking in excitement over the bubbles being blown by a nurse. The babies in A ward were bundled up, safe and secure in the big beds with their mamas.

Life is about balance. I like the up close look I have to life in Africa. Its hard, and sometimes your heart aches a little extra, but that also can make the good moments shine even brighter. Little Koffi came back Friday after his surgery held by his dad with light blue casts on his legs, He slept sweetly for the first few hours back. Kodjovi screamed like only a 2 year old can who is hungry, and mad at everyone involved with doing the surgery on his little face.
Life B ward continues, and we continue to dwell on both sides of joy and heartache.
Thank you, God. Thank you for letting us be a part of this.

Community

2010-02-28T09:13:00.000-05:00

Oh community life...
For those of you not aware of my current living situation, let me bring you up to date. I live on a 500 ft. ship with roughly 400 other people. We are currently docked off the coast of West Africa in a country called Togo. That number of 400 is slightly deceiving though, because over 1200 people are known to come through the doors of the Africa Mercy in any given 10 month to 1 year period.
I see my dentist, my doctor, my banker, my friends, my hairdresser, and handfuls of near-strangers at every meal, two breaks a day, and randomly throughout the day.
I work on the 3rd deck of the ship where the hospital is, exactly 13 stairs away from my bedroom.
I live with three other girls in what they call a 4 berth cabin and we are totally blessed because we have a small common 'pod' as I would like to call it, with a window (that looks out onto shipping containers on a dusty dock) which is more than a lot of people can say.
We are a fully functioning ship with a captain, officers, 'deckies', engineers and electricians.
We are also a fully functioning hospital with full time surgeons, nurses, lab techs, and pharmacists.
The kitchen is the 'galley', I live on the 'aft' end of the ship and the ceiling is the 'bulkhead' (or deckhead. Shoot, I can never remember that one)
We have fire drills where we 'abandon ship' and stand pirate watch when we sail.
Oh, and we all come from around 40 different countries.

If that isn't bizarre enough, don't forget, we are parked in Africa.

I eat dinner every night with friends who have become my adopted family. We sit and talk about our days, pick up on those whose mood seems off, laugh over our differences and at ourselves in general. A couple times a week we go to our respective departmental devotionals, community meetings, and church. We sit and play card games in the evenings, do a group bible study on Wednesdays, and pull together every pillow and blanket we have and sprawl out on the floor for movie nights.
When one person goes for a Rooibos, (our choice South African tea here on the ship) they never have to ask if anyone wants one, but rather get a show of hands for how many they need to make, we already know how the others take theirs.
(Joanna-half hot water, half cold water, straight up. JB-straight tea. Michiel-one and a half sugars. Suzanne-one sugar. Paul-honey. Amy-straight. Anouchka-no tea, but a glass of water. Sandra-no tea, but fill nalgene with water)

Outside of the steel walls, several hundred thousand West Africans are living their lives in the small city of Lome, showing us the true definition of what community lived out looks like. They care for each other, cook with each other, spend Sunday afternoons after church dancing and socializing (and even include the random yovo's who happened upon their local spot in their meal plans).
When one is sick, the others pull together for the hospital bill. They care for each other's children, and help carry heavy loads.

At home so many of us have social boundries that cause unspoken divides. At home, if I held one of my patients for more than a minute or two, most parents would not be impressed.
Here, I kiss the little boy who needs an IV, and cuddle crying babies for hours. I get running hugs when I walk down the hallway, and I talk for hours with people and nurses from all over the world who happen to know exactly what draws me to this place and keeps me here. I have an overwhelming sense when I am in Africa that God intended us to live in community, that Africa has a lot to teach us.
When a child is hurting, it is natural to kiss them, to comfort them in any way you can. If your neighbor is in trouble, you should help them. If someone is struggling, you should have no regard for time if it means you can help them.
Yesterday one of our pateints was being discharged and we knew he would have trouble making it to the gate on his new crutches.
"I wish we could drive him to the gate" his nurse said.
"Then lets do that" I replied.
I told the other nurses that I would be right back, I grabbed an available car, loaded up the patient and his mama, and off we went. Destination: Port gate. When we got there the translator casually mentioned they would have difficulty finding a taxi, that we should drive to the nearest roundabout.
Sure I thought, totally appropropriate to be driving around the city in the middle of my shift. When I watched the patient and his mama safely pull away in the taxi I thought to myself how silly it was that I would even hesitate for a second to drive the exta 1 km so that a fellow human would have an easier time getting home.
Stupid unspoken rules.
Right now all of B ward is finishing a movie. Our tv's aren't working down here so two of us nurses collaborated and put together a laptop and Madagascar. I came back from dinner to see everyone, including the traslators, laughing during the credits watching the characters dance. Before that, the other charge nurse called me to see if anyone spoke Fon, the local dialect from Benin. None of our translators did, so I set off for the laundry room. Our volunteer in Housekeeping happens to speak Fon, and so we pulled her from the washing machines and turned her towards the gangway to go help whoever was there to communicate with us.
Life here flows differently. Relationship is the top priority. Helping people, making life more comfortable for others is the rule, not the exception.
Its not about feeding the poor, well, it is, but this point is slightly different. I don't pity the people here, thats the last thing they need. I try and keep my eyes open and learn from them, attempting to adopt thier outlook on life as it relates to others as best I can.

God asks us to 'pour out our souls'(Isaiah 58:10), that 'faith without deeds is dead' (James 2:14), that 'whatever we do for the least of these, we do to Him'(Matthew 25:40). What I almost missed while focusing on those requests was what I am learning in the process, and that is that life is better when lived alongside others. No boundries, no divides.
Thats community.

A love letter

2010-02-25T06:28:00.012-05:00

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.

Treasures

2010-02-22T03:26:00.022-05:00

Someone asked me the other day if I was blogging while sitting here in the cafe on the ship. Blogging? Whats that? I replied.
Its not that nothing has happened that is noteworthy in the last two weeks. Actually, the opposite is true. I have had an incredible, exciting, breathtaking, and rewarding couple of weeks. If that sounds good, it's because it has been. I'll let the pictures speak for today as I actually have a bit of work to do, and although my intense ADD is trying to sway me towards writing some profound account of how amazing the last couple of weeks have been, I must hyper-focus on my work today.

Spent every possible moment on the bow during the sail.

Arrival in Togo

Welcomed by not just one, but two bands. In typical fashion they hadn't collaborated on what they would be playing, so we had two wonderful (albeit loud) receptions. It was perfect.

Day 2 in Togo- Time to pick up the Rovers that a church graciously stored for us while we sailed.

They really had to beg me to help pick them up.

One of 3 small screening last week

I swear they were excited about the bubbles, although this picture isn't helping my case.

At it again in a new country!

2010 Africa Mercy Nurses

Ward Nurses

My 'Mercy Ships Dad' and I. God used Gary and his wife in 2008 as the foundation for the idea of long term missions. He is the first person in Africa I ever met from Mercy Ships, and seeing him here was a pretty big deal to me. This is the third country in two years where our paths have crossed.

First good storm of the year here. Fun for us, and the 4 car loads of new arrivals racing through the puddles (well, definitely for us at least. I'll ask the arrivals once they've dried off).

Hospital open house. Go ahead and hope you don't require stitches with me as your only go-to. You'll live, but it won't be pretty.

New friends and old.

Best Sunday afternoon ever.

Luke 12:32-34
"Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom. Sell your possessions and give to the poor. Provide purses for yourselves that will not wear out, a treasure in heaven that will not be exhausted, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys.
For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

It calls you back

2010-02-10T03:12:00.003-05:00

Africa.
In less than two hours I will again fix my eyes on Africa. I can feel the engines running below where I sit, we are getting closer. This morning I woke up to the sun rising for the 8th morning in a row. I knew when I felt the sun, already burning warm at 6am, that today was the day.
Before I closed my eyes to pray last night I realized that we were only hours away from seeing the very first glimpses of God's plan for us in Togo. He knows every single person we are going to see and touch. He knows who He will call home while we struggle again with letting go. He knows who will go home victorious, carrying His name on their lips. He loves every baby that this society has cast away, He knows their name, He knows the number of hairs on their heads. They are so precious in His sight.

That familiar excitement, unlike any other, is back. My eyes are wide, my heart is ready.
In one and a half months I have been on three continents, sailed for a total of 22 days, and now I have returned. I can't believe my story was written like this, I am so honored to have this life.
I opened my email this morning to read this;

"Measure thy life by loss and not by gain,
not by the wine drunk but by the wine poured forth.
For loves strength standeth in loves sacrifice
and he that suffereth most hath most to give."
-Ugo Bassi, priest in Italy in 1848

There is word going around that there are some cleft lip babies and their mamas waiting on the docks for us already. They were in tough enough shape that the advance team has arranged in advance for the nurses in our infant feeding program to have formula ready to hand out right when we get there.
And there are those familiar tears threatening to fall.

'They' say; "Africa calls you back".
That makes me smile. It stirs something deep inside of me. Since the day I left, it has been calling me back.
And now, I'm here.

For those who have been given much

2010-02-08T06:36:00.007-05:00

Last year I walked into the office of the hospital Manager. I held in my hands a proposal for a Burkitt's Lymphoma program, to start in Togo 2010. I had just made the decision to stay based on prayer during a 1 week period when I had met 4 children with Burkitt's on the ward.
God used soft kisses on my cheek from Luc to make my heart soar. He used the glares from stubborn Maddie as I hooked up her IV, or anything else for that matter, to make me smile and laugh about how much I love every child I have ever seen. He showed me through tears from eyes filled with gratitude from sweet Rachelle, that holding a hand, and having a gentle touch, all in the name of Jesus, is worth more than any medicine.
He used yovo-phobic Aime to challenge me, and again, make me appreciate kids all the more.
He started a story about this pediatric nurse, bent on never doing oncology, working with his little ones in Africa (where Burkitt's is primarily found in the world).

I passed in a proposal last year that in no way was written by words of my own. I had no idea what I was doing, I was completely naive about how to go about doing it, but God had my heart in His hands, He knew what to say, and as always, I just wrote as it came to me.
Last year the little proposal-that-could was passed.
My next job- to write the policies, procedures, and basically everything else to do with the program.
Did I mention I had no idea what I was doing? Cause that's a kind of important part to this story. I know how to love kids, I even know a thing or two about being their nurse. Pediatric oncology? Nope. Policy writing? Nope. How to start a program from scratch? Nada.

I told you about emailing my boss to at least talk with someone who knew a thing or two. One small entire course date change for the whole hospital to suite my small window of time at home later...I was certified to administer chemotherapy to kids.
Check.
Back to the ship and time to write some stuff. By stuff, I mean everything to do with anything related to Burkitt's. (Still with no clue as to what I am doing at this point)
My ADD kicked into overdrive. My mind raced as I went through (several) notebooks of everything I have ever learned on the subject, plus last years experience in working with these kids. I started with a presentation, a platform to spill out everything I know and mop it back up into something another human being might understand.

God, show me what to do. I know this is your will. Help me though, because I don't know what to do.
First the pharmacist approached me. The same one who sat with me for hours last year at the ministry of health in Benin, waiting to buy the same medication we were desperate to get this year. We had no donations, no order was placed, we've never officially done chemo on the ship, we have limited supplies, how do we dispose of the cytotoxic drug (the one we don't have anyways) can we get it here on time...You catching where this is going?
I was overwhelmed by the end of the day. I spent hours going through pages and pages of notes.
I prayed that night and the following morning.
I know this is your will, show us what to do.
In my inbox that morning I read the following;
"Some exciting things happen today. Last September we asked {not sure if I am supposed to say their name} in the UK for a donation of cyclophosphamide. Today, they chose to inform us that we were going to get that donation...The funny thing is that they called us before we called them. And, on Monday Steve had actually given up on the donation and filed his paperwork from the September request away for a later time!!! That has to be more than just a chance coincidence!"

Why yes, yes, I agree.

And now Que some medical hurdles, questions that were far above my nursing knowledge, especially because I have been officially licensed to fill this roll for all of about 2 minutes. I emailed a surgeon I met last year, one whose wife worked in palliative care, (who just happened back then to work with Burkitt's kids too. Don't get me started on coincidences associated with this story).
He replied he wasn't the right person to ask, but to email another doctor. He hadn't talked to him in years, wasn't sure the email address would even work, but, just in case, he gave it to me.
Within an hour I had a response. Who was this doctor? The one who wrote the original medical protocols for the Burkitt's kids back in 2005. I had stared at his name all last year when I referred back to what to do with each kid.
"I would like to revise this protocol, I will get back to you in a couple of days"
"Of course you would", I thought.
I got the revised protocol, in its entirety, 2 days later.

Back to a new conversation with the pharmacist...
"We have to figure out if we can burn the left-over drugs in our incinerator, is there risk for exposure to the engineers dumping it? How exactly does it work? Right, because i have so much experience in engineering and burning toxic waste.
In walks Ali's husband to have his haircut next to where I was sitting, right after talking about this little (read:huge) detail.
Phil=engineer=someone who may know what the heck I am trying to figure out.
minutes later...
"I asked the chief engineer about it, he will get back to you and we'll figure out a system for it. Sound good?"
uh, Yup.
So yes, I haven't even made it back to Africa and I have already cried over where this year is going. Despite my absolute cluelessness about the majority of what I am actually responsible for, God is laying his perfect path right in front of me. He is making it clear and obvious, I feel so loved. Undeniable, my God is.

Oh yea, my partner in all of this is a girl I met a year ago. We both come from Boston, we worked as pediatric nurses, we both attended the same concert nearly a year and a half ago where God started telling us to go to some big floating hospital somewhere in Africa, and we are both now here for the long haul. Becca is one of my favorite people on the ship, and she is just as crazy as I am with this program. She is bringing experience, zest for life and God, and overall beautiful, precious excitement for this little project.
Neither of us know what exactly we are doing, yet things keep falling into place. We prayed today, asking God to guide us, not let us get ahead of ourselves, and more than anything...Thanks.
Because we are in awe that this is even close to working.
We are excited to see the first Burkitt's kid walk up the gangway.
I can hardly wait to lay kisses straight from Jesus on the scrunched up brows of each beautiful child He places in our path.
There is still so much work to do, still many hurdles to overcome. We need a physician to oversee these kids during their care on the ship, we have so many questions, probably more than we even are aware of. The list goes on. And on.
So yes, you can pray for us. Please do.
Last week when I was making those slides of everything Burkitt's, I included slides of Luc, Maddie, Rachelle, Aime for the purpose of showing some case studies. As I looked at their smiles staring back at me I let myself soak in God's goodness.
I love you, Suzanne, those trial of last year will not be in vain. Be excited, because I am. I will show you exactly what to do. Remember, if you remain in me, and I in you, you will bear much fruit.
Last year when I held the original proposal in my hands for this program, waiting to hand it to my boss, my eyes fell on a scripture verse up on the wall in the admin office. I knew, back then, that I was not doing any of this on my own strength. I also knew I would do anything God asked of me, and I couldn't wait.

Luke 12:48
"When someone has been given much, much will be required in return; and when someone has been entrusted with much, even more will be required."

We'll ride

2010-02-01T03:52:00.002-05:00

As I type I again find myself somewhere in the Atlantic, sailing towards a new destination. When I first joined Mercy Ships I struggled so much with change. As I stood on the top deck of the ship, in the early hours of Sunday morning, it came to me. As I sleepily gazed out onto the port in Tenerife, I realized I couldn't wait to sail, to make my way back to Africa, to embrace another change.
When I returned to the ship from my time at home I found myself amongst so many new people. Many had settled in and at first it was difficult not to wish things would just go back to being the same as last year. I wanted the familiar faces, I wanted conversation that picked up where it last left off.
As the past week went on I found myself forming new friendships, watching the change in people change my outlook on life. A process that is ongoing through our lives, as long as we let it be.
Now all of those new people and myself are traveling towards our next mission on a 500 foot steel ship.

The thought that the next ground I will set foot on will be African soil is difficult for me to grasp. Togo will bring new challenges, new heartbreaking stories, and new instances of pure joy. I am full of expectation, I am excited, I am ready.

All of this change feels so natural now. The best things in my life have come as a result of change, how could I deny its power?

"I’ve been wooed and romanced by your splendor
Enraptured I’m weak with your wonder
Be me life be my love be my shelter
Cover me cover me

I will always love you
I’ll never leave your side
I will always love you
As one this life, we’ll ride, we'll ride"
Sweet Abandon-Maeve

Appreciation

2010-01-27T09:03:00.001-05:00

While home, I was able to take a course in pediatric oncology and chemotherapy administration. We are doing something different this year on the ship, we are taking in the Burkitt's Lymphoma kids and giving them a program all to themselves. While praying about whether or not to stay last year, and if so, where I would work, God plainly laid out His plan for me. There were no questions, no hesitations, I just picked up and followed. He made it easy this time. I have no experience with oncology aside from my year in Africa, so I emailed my old boss. Within a day, I was in touch with an educator from our oncology floor at Boston Children's, and she had re-scheduled a course just so I could attend it during my small window at home.
Told you He made it easy.

While sitting in the course my mind wandered back to Africa (Shocker-my mind was wondering. Even bigger shocker-I found my thoughts falling back to Africa)
As we talked about Cyclophosphamide, the drug we use to treat Burkitt's, I thought about sitting for hours, waiting next to men with semi-automatic weapons to buy a few vials for 2 dollars a piece at the ministry of health. All so we could assure Luc and Rachelle had enough medication to finish their treatment.
When they mentioned doxirubicin, I thought of Luc, how his cancer was recurring when we left Benin. How we were trying to find this drug that isn't available at all in his country unless it is imported from Europe.
When we talked about the Nadir during treatment, the time when the immune system dips low following a dose of chemo, my heart ached for Maddie and her parents. She died because her body was too weak to fight her infection, too compromised during that time. The wound from that pain is still so present in my heart.
They mentioned complications, how nausea and vomiting is common. I thought about holding Maurice while he suffered quietly, too exhausted and sick to even cry.

She mentioned the risks associated with spilling chemotherapy while preparing it, how everyone should clear and secure the area, then call the 'spill team'.
I smiled at the difference between my old world and my new reality.

As I listened to the extended treatment and availability, to millions of dollars worth of medications, transplants, and other various options, I realized something.
A lot of people asked me if I was in culture shock while at home. I kept thinking of this phenomenon while I sat and sipped fancy tea at a world class hospital, watching the differences between Africa and Boston become more and more vast.
No, I wasn't in culture shock. I silently recounted every step it had taken for me to be at that place at that very time. I thought about all of the differences. How I have come to appreciate both worlds.

Before I left for Africa I worked at one of the top hospitals in America.
'I put you there, Suzanne. Look at what that time prepared you for.'

I now work among some of the poorest people in the world.
'That is my will for you, you were made to do this my child.'

The kids in Africa don't have half the treatment options, they die because they do not have access to certain drugs.
'The time they get from your simple steps is precious. You know in your heart they come home to me when it doesn't work.'

With Burkitt's we give basic chemotherapy. No, it doesn't always work, but without it, death comes quickly for these kids. Do I resent America, or Children's Hospital for having better options? Do I get angry that Africans appear to be at the short end of this medical stick? Do I resent the fact that kids suffer from cancer and I never wanted to have to face pediatric oncology as a nurse?
No.
Simply, no.

I was sent to Africa, where I found my place and my purpose in life. Burkitt's kids like Luc, Rachelle, Maddie, and Aime helped me find my place and direct me where to go next.
Instead, I sit here and appreciate all that God laid out for me. What better place to learn valuable information to bring back to my beloved Burkitt's kids then from the best of the best?
Treatment is simple, but that only means we don't interrupt their quality of life too badly. If we give them 10 years or 10 days, they don't suffer under a system that doesn't let go just because there is always one more option.
(Disclaimer: things can come across wrong in writing here. In no way am I glorifying Africa or blaming America for over-treating. That's not the point of this anyways.)
The fact that my current focus is on pediatric oncology is no surprise, really. Last year I learned that there is no end in regards to how much our hearts can love. God forced my heart open wide, even in the face of devastation, and I have never felt more alive.
God took the one thing I said I would never do, in a situation I never thought I would be in, and showed me His heart.
Appreciation doesn't even begin to describe what I feel for that.

Rise to the challenge

2010-01-05T15:46:00.006-05:00

My dad's friends asked me the other night if I dreamed about Africa. It wasn't until then that I realized how much I actually do. Every night I wake up feeling as if I have been thinking for hours about all that has happened this past year. Its a strange thing, really, and I suppose it is entirely normal, in an abnormal kind of way (such is my life).

The more I think about, and read back over my year, the more I find myself challenged by all that has happened, all that I experienced. Even beyond that, I realize that I am most challenged by the simple things I observed, moments that changed my life, moments I know God was behind, wanting me to open my eyes and soak it all in.
I don't really believe all that much in New Years resolutions. I do believe in change, and I pray these moments will do just that, forever change me. That a day doesn't go by where I don't treasure service to God as the most important thing in my life. I hope I continue to be challenged by the people in Africa, by their simple actions. So I ask you, as I ask myself, will we allow ourselves to be challenged this year?

"Muffled singing from a mouth filled with cancer. Praise to God from the lips of a boy and his mom who were just told his deadly disease is untreatable. Hands held out, palms up in prayer from a dying woman who wants her children to pass their exams, their only chance at a life. Tears from a woman as she talks about being afraid of dying, the smell from her exposed breast cancer filling the air as we listen." -What you don't have is much less than what you do, May 26th
Do we pray as if we believe God will answer? Do we worship through trials?

In regards to putting an iv in on a little boy: "Afterwards I leaned in and kissed his forehead, watching him pucker his lips. After all was said and done, after I had to inflict pain on this little guy, he kissed my cheek. And simply smiled."-All you need, July 24th
Do we forgive easily? Do we love freely and without fear?

"I can't wrap my head around how a mother can watch her child fail. How even with talk of curses and the disfigurement of being born with a cleft lip in a culture dripping with fatalism, she sleeps through cries from her own baby who is quite literally starving. As I walked, bounced, and swayed at 4am in our small ward trying to convince this child that it was indeed time to sleep, I thought about how we are all hungry. We are hungry for a love that is unconditional. A love that defies all boundaries and logic. A love that never fails. Just a taste, a small sip of something that perfect would satisfy us forever"-Hungry, August 3
Are we hungry? Oswald Chambers said, "If your cup is sweet, drink it with grace. If your cup is bitter, drink it with common union with God"

"We said goodbye to Hubert this morning. He went to be with Jesus while being rocked by his dad, something so beautiful, so precious, I'm not sure I'll do it justice by trying to explain.
Over the last few days your prayers and mine have been answered, just not necessarily always as we would have had it." -It's ok, August 24th
Do we believe in Miracles? What if they don't look how we want them to?

"Tonight, as myself and another nurse ran up and down the halls with two 5 years olds who find pure bliss in this simple act, I felt my heart being restored, my soul again being filled up."-Miracle, September 1st
Do we believe God is in these moments? Do we let joy come into moments of devastation?

"We stayed and talked about Enock, about what a special boy he was. His mom told us a story from the morning when she had gone about changing his bed. Enock, who was too weak to lift his head, was found by his mama on his knees in front of his bed praying when she came back into the room. He had found the strength to kneel before Jesus." -Going Home, Nov 19th
I still can't help but cry when I recall this. Do we even have an ounce of the strength Enock found just before he died?

Do we have the perseverance of Anicette's mama?
The faith of Maddie's parents?
The zest for life like Maurice?
The ability to love like Luc and his parents?
The humility and sweet spirit like Rachelle?

"Life, living, is about real moments. Moments that rock your world, leave you weak in the knees, with tears on your face, completely poured out.
Life is about holding a hand, smiling at a baby, letting yourself melt into a hug, looking someone in the eye out of sincere honesty even if you have nothing good to say, and showing emotion."-Life, August 31

"God is faithful, there are a million ways to come to that same conclusion. Yes it hurts, yes its hard, but this is life. Life is about changing, about loving with abandon. That life, that kind of love, it comes with a cost, its painful at times. But the alternative, well, no thank you." -Pain in the offering, Nov 1st.

What does the Lord require of you?
To act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God.
Micah 6:8
Please God, help me rise to the challenge. Help me love you more. Let me see the world though your eyes. Show me how to love like you.

Emmanuel

2009-12-25T04:38:00.008-05:00

It is 4:30am Christmas day. I imagine jet lag may have something to do with the fact that I am wide awake at such an hour, but less likely that it is driving my thoughts to distraction, making the possibility of further sleep entirely unattainable.
So what does she do? She blogs, of course.
My transition home has been good so far. I am enjoying the simple pleasures of eating fresh fruits like berries and grapes that I haven't had in a year. I love the moments with friends and family so much and I'm trying desperately to take a snapshot in my mind of every hug so when I think back sometime next year, when I am back in Africa, I can remember how good it felt.

I was driving to church with my parents last night and found my mind wandering.
"I miss the babies on their mama's backs" I said.
But to myself;
I miss Africa
Words you don't say out loud when you've just been home under 48 hours.
I stayed composed until we sang of Emmanuel. He was written in the prophesies, we hear about Him, usually on Christmas, but I say its a fair bet not many actually lets those words settle in. Do we really meditate on who Emmanuel is? This is not to say I have arrived at any wildly theological conclusion, far from it. I just tell the stories, that's it. Once again this is a story where I am left humbled and crying, a place where God loves to whisper into my soul words of comfort, a place I'm glad I even have the privilege of being.

While singing last night I thought of my beloved Africa. I thought about all those left behind and I cried for them. I cried for me, for my heart that aches so badly to hold and lay kisses on a velvety smooth baby, or cast my eyes on a smiling child along the side of the road. I longed to feel the joy so strongly associated with Africa that I was struggling to find it there in the sanctuary of our church. I cried because it turns out this isn't as easy as I thought, I am between two worlds that I love so dearly. I can't be in one and not miss the other.
I'm being honest in saying I believe this is an incredible paradox to face. There are people in this world who never find their niche, who never have a place to go where they feel inexplicable joy and love.
I have two.
While sitting, tears falling on my cheeks, grasping my moms hand, I heard it. I caught a glimpse of understanding. Hours later I woke up thinking of it. Now, as I sip tea and try to comprehend all that I feel, I know, again, that I had it all wrong last night.
It's not about me. Well, it is about me, but not in the selfish lens I was looking through.
Thousands of years ago a baby was born.
Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel.

He came into this world to save, to take on the sin of the world. He came to love and not condemn. He came to save me. He came to save all of you too, whether or not you like it, that's a truth I will stand by until I meet Him one day.
Its fitting that I came home just days before Christmas, it puts my world into a perspective that is much needed. Yes, my transition is a bit tough, but my goodness, God, the King of Kings, was sent to be among us. The epitome of innocence and purity in a world filled with hatred and demise. A savior for the broken, a friend to the friendless, He came to us.
It is because of Jesus, because of that day, that I live. I was saved from this world. Yes, I live here, I am split physically between two continents, but my heart, my soul, rests in a kingdom. That understanding trumps everything else I am feeling, it is my comfort. If my life consists of the pains of being split between two places in this world, if this transition is only one of many, I will drink it deeply. I will live a life of someone who was saved and then gently asked to go out and spread the news.
I will love because He first loved me.

Emmanuel, God with us. El Shaddai, all sufficient.

Touchdown Boston

2009-12-23T00:21:00.004-05:00

I'm here.
I'm home.
I can hardly believe it, its just so surreal.
It took 12 days of sailing, 2 days of roaming the streets of Tenerife, a 4 hour flight diverted to an airport hours north of where we were supposed to land, a 3 hour coach through England which shuts down with a mere 2 inches of snow, a night and day soaking up the beauty of London, a straight-out sprint to my gate at Heathrow (42 terminals is a long way to run when you show up 25 minutes before an international flight, oops), a 7 hours flight over the Atlantic, and a 10 minute drive home, where I sit now.

There are pictures of me throughout the house, my moms 'shrine' of me in Africa (as my sister jokingly calls it) takes up one side of our refrigerator. It just dawned on me that I was missed here just as badly as I missed home. While I was halfway across the world, the most loving family imaginable set up reminders and documented my journey in Africa. Little Luc and Anicette smile at me from the refrigerator, I see Maurice looking back at me, they are all here too. They are fixtures in not only my heart, but in my family's who love them just as much as I do.

So here I am.
Wide awake because for me its 6am, but the clock says 1.
The feeling inside of me can't be described in words (besides, if I tried I would go on for lines which we know I have a habit of doing).
Tonight I will sleep in a bed wider than my hips after a long hot shower. A bed that is covered in warm sheets and fluffy pillows because no one can make a bed like Jenny, my best friend and only sister. Tomorrow I will drink coffee in my pj's and write words of thanks in my precious prayer journal, because I am truly so thankful. I am so blessed.

I am home, and it feels good.

Wounded

2009-12-17T12:49:00.005-05:00

These two pictures, prior to today, hung on my wall. I saw them every day on my way in and out of my cabin. They make me smile, and even despite some of the toughest emotions I faced this year, these pictures spoke into my bruised heart and promised to lift me enough to face more the next moment.

I took the pictures down today so I can cary them with me as I begin to travel in 4 short days. I will hold them next to me through Tenerife, as I roam London for a couple of days, and when I finally, finally, make it home into the loving arms of my family.

When I took them from the wall today, when my eyes felll on the two children in my hands, I lost it. I couldn't contain the tears.

I want to hold them, I want to play with them. I want to kiss Anicette's little toes, feel the softness of the soles of her feet against my lips. I want to grab Maurice, hold him and feel his arm around my shoulder. I want to run up and down the halls with him, sharing joy through the eyes of a 5 year old.

Most likely, I will never see Maurice on this earth again. Our last visit was hard, he is much sicker, and three of us who love him very dearly tried in vain to keep our composure while saying our last prayers over that incredible little boy.

Maybe I will see Anicette again next year. Right now though, just today, it hit me that I'm not in Benin anymore. When we dock on Saturday morning it won't be the same scene I have been looking at for almost a year.

The air has changed, the sun doesn't burn so hot, and I feel somewhat lost. That is, until it came to me.

I am with them. They are not alone, sweet child. Let me heal your wounded heart. Give it to me. All of it.

I am thankful for these wounds I carry. They make me feel alive. They make me realize that yes, indeed, just a few small children have changed my life forever. I have been removed from the immediate presence of them, but they will never be far from my heart. Without these wounds, I wouldn't experience the healing that is taking place even now as I type.

What grace is mine, that He who dwells in endless light Called through the night to find my distant soulAnd from His scars, poured mercy that would plead for meThat I might live, and in His name be known
So I will go wherever He is calling meI lose my life to find my life in Him I give my all to gain the hope that never diesI bow my heart, take up my cross, and follow Him

What grace is mine, to know

His breath alive in meBeneath His wings my wakened soul may soarAll fear can flee, for deaths dark night is overcomeMy Savior lives, and reigns forevermore.

-What grace is mine

Constant

2009-12-15T04:44:00.009-05:00

François de la Rochefoucauld said,
"The only thing constant in life is change"
One of our chaplains started our weekly community meeting with that quote in relation to all of the departures we will be seeing off in the next week.
I began to think of all of the changes I've experienced in just one year, this last transition between Africa and now sailing (for more than 45 consecutive minutes) for the first time in my life.

I struggled when we first left, but not the way I imagined I would. I was overwhelmed for sure, emotionally exhausted but if I'm being honest, quite numb, not sure where to place my thoughts. I prayed about where to start, how to process it all and make sure I had covered everything. The first night of the sail I slept outside and was awestruck by the sight of the sky, the stars spilled across in a way I have never seen. I woke up and listened to Psalm 118, its words taking on all new meaning.

Suzanne, be still. Rest. Enjoy my creation, this time of transition. I want you to.

Don't get me wrong, I have a lot to process, a lot to figure out, new parts of my heart that I need to get acquainted with. I have been forever changed (thankfully) and that's not something you document in a scrapbook or depict in a slide show. It can't be summed up in a 5 minute talk, or as an answer to one question.
I heard someone say that Africa gets in your blood, it becomes a part of you. I'm not sure I could do an explanation of that any justice, its simply true.
Africa infiltrated my heart, its embedded in my sole, I can feel it in my bones.
Change is always occurring, it is indeed inevitable. Embracing change is something I am working hard at, and my stubborn nature seems to be letting up lately.
The past two mornings I have awoke to the sights of the sun rising over the ocean, following meteor showers the nights before. I have sat, the wind whipping around me, and simply enjoyed all of it.
Change is constant, most of us would agree with that. I do though, have to disagree with Rochefoucauld in saying that God, my savior, is my constant. He is my ever present help in time of need, He is my father, my friend. He loves me enough to move me halfway across the world, desperate to show me His heart, and after it all whisper into my soul that I need rest, that its ok.

In less than a week I will step foot back into 'the western world', they tell me it will be a tough transition, I don't doubt it for a second. I do know though, that there is something to be learned, that when I again face change in just a few short days, there is only one thing to do.
I will set my eyes, fix my gaze, on the only truly constant thing in my life. I will ache to be able describe to people how my heart will never be the same, I will let the joy of being with my family settle in deep. I will laugh, and likely cry recounting stories from my year in Africa. I'll try to explain how I have to go back, how I know I belong back on African soil.
The most important though, my consistent comfort, will be the moments when I sit and converse with my maker, the only one who knows it all.
That, that, will never change.

Two hands

2009-12-11T19:47:00.002-05:00

You could say I've had a bit of a mental block lately. I could blame it on the anti sea-sickness meds (on day 4 of our 12 day sail), or the constant rocking of the boat (which has increased ever so slightly since we turned North past Liberia this morning). Really though, its hard to explain how I'm feeling. This blog is generally my outlet, my 'therapy', my way of processing whats going on. Lately though, well, I don't really know whats going on. I suppose I'm between two vastly different worlds. I left Africa, where my heart aches to be back already, and I long to be home so much it hurts equally as much
Whats been best are the moments I let my mind go back to Africa. I can close my eyes and remember the kids, their wide smiles and incredible ability to love so deeply. I think about Luc and Maurice, Rachelle, and Anicette. I pray for them, I silently stand on the bow of the ship, sailing towards the sunset, and communicate with God. I am perfectly content, yet I ponder so much.

About halfway through this outreach I started making note of the things God has used me to do this year. People talk plenty about being the hands and feet of Jesus, an abstract thought unless you put it into the context of your own life. In no particular order, these are the things God chose for me to do after I told Him to use me in whatever capacity He saw fit.

With my two hands, I;
~Decorated plastic cups with stickers for 4 year old boys not keen on the idea of drinking after major surgery.
~Handed out medication in hot cement rooms, marking the bags under the different stages of the sun rising and setting to indicate when to take the small pills.
~Took a bag of warm blood and hung it above a dying patient, squeezing it into his body through his IV while praying he would make it. He did.
~Held the hand of a woman while she miscarried, and cried with her over the loss of a child she had already named.
~Carried baby Hubert around D ward for hours, staring into his liquid black eyes, marveling at his sweet demeanor.
~Felt the weight of sweet baby Hubert after he went home to Jesus and I held him in my arms.
~Tickled countless kids and waved to every single one who frantically waved at the yovo driving by.
~Ran my fingers up and down Glory's arm, and found absolute peace and confirmation with my life. I learned sacrifice is beautiful, which is turn doesn't make it sacrifice at all.
~Ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich made by my own mom and couldn't stop smiling over the fact she was with me for what was my favorite month all year.
~Picked through hundreds of yards of bright African fabric, choosing my favorites and imaging what I would make out of each one.
~Bandaged little Maurice's eye after kisses and reassurances I would be gentle so as not to hurt him.
~Held the shoulders of Maddie's father while he held her during her last breaths.
~Carried Maddie through the ship and into the car, securing her back into her fathers arm for the ride home where we would tell her mother the harsh news.
~Placed my hands on countless patients and called on God.
~Raised my hands in absolute surrender to my King, to my God who I love more than ever.
~Ran my finger across the page of Psalm 71 while giving my testimony to an African church.
~Drew blood on Luc and Rachelle, placed IV's on the little ones in the ward, all with the promise of stickers and kisses to make up from my horrible betrayal of their sweet trust.
~Held up little Enock while he sipped Coca Cola the days before his death.
~Accepted the gift of earrings from Enock's mom, her determined way to thank us for being with her while she faced a year of watching her youngest son die.
~Wiped hours of tears from my face.
~Ran my fingers across the toes of baby Anicette while visiting her village, coveting every second I was able to hold her.
~Held on for dear life to the back of a motorcycle(whose driver was sporting a leopard print cowboy hat), my first and only time ever. Ok, it wasn't the only time, we took zemis to the pool another day too. I am SO sorry mom...(and if you are reading this as a representative of my travel insurance, I'm totally kidding. I would never do something so reckless)

My point in all of this? I am the most unlikely character for this job. I didn't earn the privilege of working in Africa, I don't deserve a life that is, well, amazing. I don't measure up to other people doing this same work. I am no different from anyone reading this (I guarentee my past life can rival many of you who role their eyes at that statement). And my point is just that. When I gave up myself and let God take control, He did all this. I gave Him my hands and feet and asked Him to show me what to do. It is that simple. I listened, and I gained life. I was taught how to love, what it means to truly live.

Blog worthy?

2009-12-07T05:19:00.002-05:00

I've been thinking about some great blogs lately. You know the ones that leave you red eyed and sniffling while people question your emotional stability. Oh wait, there I go talking about myself again.
Moving on.
This weekend was our last weekend in Benin. I was more than happy to partake in a trip to Grand Popo, the best place to be in my opinion. The ride there was seamless. My friend took a zemi ride to the 'taxi stand' that has lines of guys driving various dilapidated cars towards the Togo border. With experience he talked them down to 5 bucks a person (the trip takes 2 hours) and we made it there in style (read: no livestock in or on top of the car and no push starts).

The weekend was amazing, I slept under the stars, laughed with some of my favorite people, and sipped coffee yesterday morning among palm trees and a perfect breeze.
The three different groups started the trip back at different stages throughout the day. My group was the last one to leave and we set out to the side of the road after a day soaking in the pool and working on tans we hope to keep until Christmas.
Grabbing a taxi and hitchhiking in West Africa are one in the same. Its quite the lucrative career once you get yourself a car here. With being close to the Togo border, its not terribly hard to find a ride back to the city of Cotonou. The trick was finding one with three seats so we could all go together. With every passing car we would hold out 3 fingers, representing the 3 seats we needed. The response ranged from the driver holding out 1 finger for his limited space, two flashes of his lights for only a couple of spots, and sounds of the horn which either told us "no I'm not a cab" or "get out of the road you crazy yovo's". Potato, potata.

Then my friend decided to pray. At home he drove a BMW, so he decided to try his luck.
"God, please send us a straight six BMW. Let it be moderately clean..." he asked
"At least not wet stains" I added
"No goats or chickens" he prayed in earnest
"Because I was just recently pecked in the head by one" I recalled
"And let us get home safely" we concluded.

The next prayer quickly included Toyota's, Audi's, and the other random heaps we see daily, but we were really holding out for the German car his heart desired. One car stopped and offered to kick out his current passengers for us, telling us for double the price he would take care of us. We objected and sent him away (after all, it was a measly Peugot), and then we saw it.
A blue BMW came towards us. We threw up our fingers and grabbed our backpacks while he pulled over. He wasn't a taxi, but a normal guy who was passing through on his way to Cotonou. After agreeing to take us home, we walked to the trunk to store our stuff while my friend sported a sly smile,
"Its a straight six".

We had a peaceful, clean, chicken-free ride back into the city and laughed over our answered prayer as we walked down the dock towards the ship. We met a girl from the group who left before us. They too had prayed for a nice ride. They even went as far to ask for air conditioning I think. They drove home in a Mercedes.

Honestly, believe what you will about this being an answer to prayer. I've seen too many not to believe that's exactly what our ride in the beamer was.
Back when we were walking down the dock I asked my friend to pray again.
"Just ask God for it not to be fish tonight for dinner" I pleaded
"Come one, I like fish anyways"
As I stared at the fried fish in front of me with a visible pout, a tray of leftover pizza was placed directly in front of me.

So was the day blog worthy? I don't know, but I know I won't soon forget it.
My God is powerful, all mighty, and the creator of the Heavens and Earth. My God also has a sense of humor and loves to build my faith not only through astounding revelations, but with BMW's and pizza.

Covered

2009-12-04T04:50:00.015-05:00

Yesterday I was thrown about the back of a Landorover for a total of nearly 9 hours. By the end of the day I was sweaty, dirty, had been peed on, and my head ached from smashing it on the roof of the car during the instances I left my grip on the handles for a second while the truck traveled over endless bumps and ruts on the dirt road.

Yesterday was one of the best days of my life.

(My view of the sun rise coming out of the ship)

Baby Anicette lives about 4 hours north of the port. A media team was scheduled to visit her in her village and I happen to have an 'in' with the media leasion. I stood outside at 6:45 yesterday morning, on standby waiting to see if there was room amongst the camera gear for me to squeeze in and make the trek up with them. I was giddy as I climbed into the back. I was so looking forward to going, I knew it would be a great way to end this outreach.

Thank you, God.

We did our usual stop and ask for directions way of traveling, eventually making it to meet a man who had come from Anicette's village. As we followed him, snaking through the bushes of Africa, I couldn't take my eyes off the road behind us. The dirt here is the color of burnt orange. We are in the dry season, so as we drove, terrific clouds of dust were kicked up behind us. As we passed people on their bikes and on foot, I waved, at first thinking it was a consolation for covering them in dirt. As always though, I was the one surprised. Nearly every time, they waved back. Through the dust, I could see a palm fly up to wave and a big smile. They didn't care about the dirt, they were just happy to see us and match a friendly wave.

That is Africa.

When we arrived, Anicette's mama quickly deposited her into my arms. She cooed and smiled, giggling as I kissed her belly and her cheeks over and over. That baby is seriously the most amazing gift of joy I have ever been given. She has been my comfort on so many days this year. She is one of the most beautiful children of Jesus I have ever seen and I love her with everything in me. My chicken little.

The cameras turned on and for a while we sat and observed as Anicette starred in the show. As always, there was no lack of cute chocolate colored children who went bananas over our digital cameras. I could barely take it all in. The colors, the smells, the feel of the kids warm skin on mine, the smiles, it was almost too much. My heart was overflowing.

This is my life. This is my life. Incredible

(A scene from the village)

(Watching the film crew)

(all smiles)

We were brought around the village, a crowd of scaresly clothed children always in tow. We were embraced, accepted, and welcomed in a way I have only ever seen in countries like here in Benin. Towards the end of our time, Anicette's mama asked my friend and I to pray for her and her baby. We hudled close and wrapped our arms around them. Tears flowed as I prayed.

Thank you, God. Thank you for every detail in this story. Thank you for the gift of life for this baby, thank you for this mama who loves her so much. Thank you for showing us your perfect plan, thank you for letting me love them and feel the love pour out of them in return. Thank you.

Her mama pointed to my face and asked "why?"
I'm happy
"Why happy?"

Before I left to come to Africa I watched a Nooma video by Rob Bell. Its title was Dust. It has stayed with me since that day (on the tears rating it was 4 stars. Be warned, my rating may be 1-2 stars above normal). He talked about how disciples were always the most elite scholars. They were the best of the best. However, when Jesus came, among his Disciples were fisherman. It was a major honor to be chosen, and we can only imagine how amazing it was for Jesus to ask a lowly fisherman to come and follow him.

"...At once, they dropped their nets, and followed him." Mark 1:16-18

Disciples follow their rabbi everywhere He goes. The walk behind Him, never doubting where He will lead them. At the end of the day they are covered in the dust of their leader. Jesus' disciples were covered in His dust. They dropped everything for the honor and privelege of following Him.
That imagery leaves me breathless.

This year I have had moments when I was sure I wouldn't make it another day. I have been devastated, my heart feeling as if it would literally break for what I have seen here.
Last year, before coming to Africa, I dropped everything in order to follow Jesus. I abandoned most of what I knew and promised Him I would follow, wherever that lead. The road has been one of suffering, rejoicing, and absolute surrender. It has been hot, sticky, and exhausting. The road is long, but I don't walk it alone. I choose to follow, and I am honored to be covered in the dust of my savior.

Parts

2009-11-27T04:33:00.008-05:00

As this week comes to an end, I can't help but let my mind race over everything I have to do before the ship sails away from Benin. While the hospital on board is closing its doors, I am gearing up for a big transition for the patients we care for outside of the steel doors. I have three children who are only just past the halfway point in their treatment for Burkitt's.

I have patients who have no means of buying medication or supplies for their wounds, and may live past the 3 months supply we leave behind. When we sail, Africa will still be here, these people stay right in their same situations.

But that's not entirely true. People here have been changed forever. Whether it was by a surgery that corrected a deformity, a farmer who learned how to grow crops, or a pastor who now knows how to council the mentally ill, people have changed. Parts of this country have been altered, for the better, forever. The biggest mistake one could make who is here in Africa would be to think they deserved any of the credit for whats been accomplished this year.

I too have been changed forever, I will never again look at the world the way I did just 9 short months ago. Parts of me wish I didn't have to learn so many lessons the hard way. Parts of me wish I could have stayed in the comfort of home, doing Dunkin Donuts coffee runs on the weekends while working in one of the top hospitals in America with state of the art care for all of the sweet children who come through its doors. Parts of me wish I didn't have to suffer so much heart ache and grow so attached to kids who I then watched die. Parts of me wishes I was done right now, packed up and ready to sail.

But those are just small parts, the whole of me, my heart, is more invested, more in love, than it has ever been. I wouldn't change one thing about this year, not one thing about my life. My latest lesson was learned though those tears over Luc. This story, in its entirety, is in God's control, it always has been.
Yesterday, I was reading through my favorite blog. A while back she posted something from the lay apostle, Anne. Without fully researching her(Anne's) crediblity (actually, I got dizzy looking through all of the different opinions about her), this particular part struck me.

"First, there will always be a difference between the world’s path and heaven’s path. These two paths, while they can run along side each other for increments, will always separate. Ultimately, each man will have to choose. Every man, to a greater or lesser degree, will have to contend with choosing first good over evil and then he will have to make another choice and that is the choice of choosing My plan for his life over his own plan for his life. After that, the choices become even more studied in that the man must choose My plan in each day, in each task and even in each moment. You may say, dear apostle, that this is a difficult call for a man, to study his actions in each day. You may say, this is asking a lot. You are right. I, Jesus, am asking a lot of you. I ask for your full commitment and I do so without apology. Dearest apostles, if you give me your full commitment, there is no limit to what I can do. Look at your life. You have said yes to me on many days. Examine what I have done with your yes answers."

The parts of me that want to be home are outweighed by what I believe to be the call on my life, why I am here. All of me is in a postion of thanksgiving. I have fullness of life, I have gained so much by giving up everything.

"Truly, your hearts, open and filled with My love, call out to others. You provide for Me a welcome to those who feel separated. If they can be taken into your heart for even a brief moment and experience Me, with My love, then they will have the courage to both approach Me directly and to accept Me directly. Please, do not count the sacrifices when you consider your service. Do not count the loss of worldly respect. Count only the souls who are comforted and consoled. Count the repentance and healing of so many who have been restored to unity with heaven. Count the humility that I have bestowed on you, dear apostle, since you began to learn about true holiness. I am your King. I can give you anything. I choose to give you peace and holiness. I choose to make of you a resolute servant. Accept My will in your life and you will then be able to accept all of the graces heaven has stored up for you."

Africa is much more than just a part of my life. Its where I have found my place in God's plan. Its where my heart was broken for 'the least of these', where I died everyday to my own will and desires, and put my trust to the real test. Its where I will continue to learn hard lessons and love with every ounce of energy I have. It is where I will put all of my effort, laced with tears and moments of pure joy, into these last days before the ship sails.

Every part of me is ready.

So much

2009-11-25T03:11:00.002-05:00

Since last posting my emotions have been labile at best. You could catch me at any time throughout the day and I'll be on the verge of tears. When I became a pediatric nurse I didn't sign up for my patients dying, that wasn't part of the package. I said I would never do oncology, kids with cancer were just too sad.
When I became a Christian, I changed. I wanted to do anything for Christ, I prayed for His heart. I wanted to love like Him.

Luc's parents called on Monday to say he had increased swelling in his right eye, the same eye that once was bulging out from a large tumor. We watched the tumor disappear, he was one of the ones that would make it in my determined heart. I went immediately to Dr. Gary. He said what I didn't want him to, that the treatment works only 70% of the time, that kids who initially respond then can have the cancer fight back.
Maurice's mom called too. He was sick and his cancer was getting worse too. She was bringing him up-country where she could care for him and we promised to call her.
Rachelle has malaria and no money for treatment. We told her to borrow, to do anything she could to go get treatment. She can't get her next dose of chemo without being treated first.

After all of it, I went to my room and sobbed. I cried for Enock and Aime, I cried for little Maddie. I gasped for air thinking about Luc, Maurice, and Rachelle.
Please Jesus. Help me. Help Luc, save Maurice, be with Rachelle. I love them so much. This hurts too much.

My sweet Suzanne. Their story has been written since the beginning of time. I wrote you into it for a reason. When they come home, they will be in Heaven, with Me. I cry for them too. I love them even more than you. I have shown you what real love is, what it is to truly love my children.

Of course my heart feels as though it will burst. Of course I still, even now, sit with tears threatening to roll down my cheeks in the middle of the staff office where I type (great place to blog, Suzanne). I prayed yesterday and sent out an email to my mom asking her to do the same. We had an appointment yesterday with a pediatrician to talk about Luc. There is one more drug we can try but it isn't available fom the ship or even in this country for that matter.
When I shook the doctors hand, I knew he was our answer to prayer. While talking, he was using his hands and after only a few minutes, Luc, who was sitting on my lap, started mimicking the doctors hand gestures. During Luc's exam, the doctor tickled him and interacted in a way that made my heart relax. When we got up to leave, Luc ran over and held the doctors hand. He trusted this man, and through his eyes, I trusted him too. I knew that after we left, God would put the right people in line to do what was right. Instead of blind trust, I got to have a glimpse of who God had in mind.

I walked out of the hot building, hand in hand with Luc. When we came to the edge of the curb and counted,
un, deux, trois.
Then we jumped. We continued this over the cracks in the sidewalk, over some tiles set in the ground (you get the picture) all the way to the car. Again, deep in my soul, I heard a whisper.

Suzanne, be like Luc. Live for this moment. Smile, laugh, be joyful. I have so much for you, just open your eyes. Enjoy this time with Luc, don't look into the future. Have trust, experience my presence, right now. I am here.

God, you have given me so much, so much that I don't deserve. Thank you for loving me, for showing me how to love, and being there to pick up the pieces when my heart feels destroyed by the pain that comes with loving like you. I will set my eyes on you, I will wait on you. I will choose joy over heartache.

Mark 10: 13-16
"People were bringing little children to Jesus to have him touch them, but the disciples rebuked them. When Jesus saw this, he was indignant. He said to them, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it." And he took the children in his arms, put his hands on them and blessed them."

Going home

2009-11-19T15:13:00.005-05:00

We have been visiting Enock since the beginning of this outreach. A shy boy with a sweet smile, we always looked forward to drawings and small folded notes from him when we would go visit. He is the little boy I told the story of how he made me a get well card one day when I wasn't able to visit, one of the many actions a child has done that will stay with me the rest of my life.
A few months ago his mom made the decision to fight against his cancer. She knew the oncologist here isn't trustworthy, that he may not do right by Enock, but what was her alternative?

His tumor responded, he regained some of his childhood. He returned to school and he joked with his brothers and sister. He acted tough with his friends and cuddled with his mama.
He was a 7 year old again.

In only 1 month, his tumor came back. This time it was even more angry, more aggressive, and stole back Enock's care-free childhood.
Last week we went to his house where he could hardly hold his head up. His mama leaned in and held her cheek against his closed eye. She kissed the bridge of his nose with her thick lips, an action so tender my heart fell. She was watching her youngest boy, her baby, die.
On Monday we learned Enock had been brought down to a clinic in the city where his aunt worked. We found him in a cool cement room with a soft breeze and clean sheets. He rested on a pillow and his mama smiled as she watched him sleep. He woke up from time to time and asked for 'coca', he smiled a bit when I told him he was a man after my own heart by drinking coca cola. At one point he asked for me so I moved from the top of the bed where I had been holding his hands to the bed with him. I held him up as he sipped his coke, I laid my arm on his chest while he weakly held onto me. I kissed his hands when he would open his eyes, searching for familiarity in that second of confusion. We stayed and talked about Enock, about what a special boy he was. His mom told us a story from the morning when she had gone about changing his bed. Enock, who was too weak to lift his head, was found by his mama on his knees in front of his bed praying when she came back into the room. He had found the strength to kneel before Jesus. I asked him if he wanted us to sing to him and he nodded 'yes'.
mon Dieu est bon
my God is good
I can't stop crying while writing this. I can't.

Yesterday we went to see him again and his mama wanted us to bring him home with her. They weren't sleeping well there and Enock missed his brothers and sister. We loaded into the car, Enock laid across the back resting on myself and his mom. I carried him into his house, whispering "look, you're home. We brought you home", and gently placed him on the couch. He smiled at his sister and then drifted back to sleep. We prayed for him and I kissed his face.
Edabo, Enock.
goodbye

We got the call this morning that Enock had died. I held Luc who happened to be next to me when someone told us the news. I hugged him tight fighting these same tears that take my breath away now.
This afternoon, Mariette (Aime's mom) came by the ship. I had picked up some fabric a week ago as a gift for her as she just recently, since Aime has died, graduated from pharmacy school. She walked down the dock sporting the dress she had made with the fabric and she proudly showed me her diploma. Right before she left she pulled out some pictures, one of her and I lay among them. My eye caught another one, one of Aime before he showed any signs of the lymphoma that claimed his life.
There was no way to control the tears falling. It was too much today, I couldn't help it. She smiled in understanding, and we hugged as we have a million times.

And now, now my heart aches so deeply, it hurts so much. I think of Enock, about his mama who must be so devastated to lose the son she loved so much.
Just now I googled 'edabo' to find out if I was spelling it right. Fon is a funny language, almost none of the people who speak it can read or write it. The results showed some friends blogs from the ship, one of them being my friend Richard. I read through one of his posts, about another patient who died, and found comfort in the verses he included.
Psalm 116:3-7

3 The sorrows of death surrounded me, and the pains of Sheol came upon me; I found trouble and sorrow.
4 Then I called upon the name of Yahweh; O Yahweh, I beg You, deliver my being.
5 Full of unmerited favour is Yahweh, and He is righteous; yes, our God is full of mercy.
6 Yahweh preserves the simple: I was brought low and He helped me.
7 Return to your rest, O my being, for Yahweh has treated you well.

I am not afraid of brokenness,
wash Your feet with humble tears
I will be poured out till nothings left
I just want to wait on you, my God
Lord, I just want to dwell in who you are
-Kari Jobe

Chicken little

2009-11-14T10:42:00.001-05:00

She was admitted to a corner bed in D ward this summer. A tiny 5 month old, hardly the size of a newborn. Her mama's eyes were hard set, her smile hidden beneath months of having a baby she never bonded with, a baby with a deformity that often makes these precious little ones the subject of cruelty, outcasts of society.

She watched as baby Hubert, another little one, put on weight. She saw the nurses coo and celebrate everyday he showed a gain. In her corner of D ward her eyes became more distant, her baby starved in so many ways.
With virtually no gain, we had nothing else to give. We had to have the bed for another patient, we didn't have a pediatrician, the list went on. We had prayer, but we had always had prayer. Countless people prayed, but nothing changed for this little baby. I volunteered to follow her outpatient. Palliative care wasn't full, we had time, and I was switching back that same day. Her surgery was canceled, and a new card was filled out for November, wishful thinking at that point for many.

For so long nothing changed for this little babe. Anicette continued to stay the same, but we did see a change in her mama. It had started in D ward. She began dressing Ani in cute clothes. She smiled when she had to get up in the middle of the night, joking with us in whispers while the bottles warmed.

In the hospitality center, the visitors continued to pour in. Daily, Ani and her mama were getting loved on, prayed for, sung with. A girl in HR was a known pediatric dietitian in the 'real world', she was on the case, and was able to somehow get new formula sent from the States, faster than anything has ever been shipped.
Each week I found the coordinator of our feeding program. At first the reports were a gain in ounces, a few hundred grams maybe. Then she would lose those grams the following week. We feared the worst but desperately held onto a faith we prayed would change the story that was unfolding. She began to gain, each week I saw the mom we would communicate in sign language. It was a simple thumbs up or down, and every week we hugged after a big thumbs up.

I was October, and after months of praying for Anicette, loving her as we know Jesus loves her, I cried when I heard the news she was heavy enough for surgery.
He did it. God did it.
Through all of the heartache, all of the pain I have felt these past weeks, my joy has been consistent. It rests in this story of a little baby. It rests with my God who heard the prayers of so many, who loves Anicette more than any of us could imagine. Before her surgery I snuck some pictures of her as she slept in my arms.

I watched her surgery, even managed to hold it together enough not to cry in the actual operating room (don't want all those men thinking I'm some over-emotional nurse or something).

When I went into the recovery room a while later, checking to see if she was awake, I finally let myself give into the tears when I discovered Anicette awake and eating. Her mama looked at me, and in the English she has picked up over the last months, with tears in her own eyes, she said "Thank you God"
The next day, my friend Meg wandered down to the ward with apparent super-hero timing. She caught this picture which I promptly printed and put in a place I see every day. It makes my heart smile. Seriously, its medically possible. My heart smiles.

When I first met Anicette back on D ward, I had the pleasure of being her nurse. In those first weeks I lovingly nicknamed her chicken little. She had tiny little chicken legs, and rather than just call her chicken as I had originally started, chicken little seemed to fit just right.

Last week I brought Ani and her mom for a second round of vaccinations at a local hospital. After her jabs, Ani cried her way into the car. She ceased only when we sang, which we all did the entire drive home, my translator and her mama laughing at my newly learned French the whole way.
Jesus, you are good
Jesus, you heal
Jesus, you are God
(below, a picture of Mama singing in the car)

Her strips are off, her lip is healing, and she has a ticket to come back for her second surgery next year when we return to Togo, Benin's next door neighbor. I'll be there, and hopefully I will be her nurse so I can share in late night whispers with her mama and early morning cuddles with chicken little.

Jeremiah 29:11
"For I know the plans I have for you declares the Lord. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future."

Maurice, Moustafa, and the Ministry of health

2009-11-11T07:10:00.003-05:00

Last week, after I wrote the final story on Maurice, I got several urgent phone calls from his mother a few days later. She wanted to speak with me face to face, and I agreed given she doesn't have the reputation of being an alarmist, and I knew she was serious.
As we sat in their hot cement house, all of us in the one room, sweating and draped in children, Maurice's mom told me about a dream she had. As she slept, she saw Maurice getting an infusion, she knew somehow it was the same kind we had tried before. She saw an angel come and touch Maurice on the eye, healing him of his disease.
Can we try it again?

Yes, of course.
God please let me have faith that allows me to believe this could happen. I want to believe. Give me the strength to believe.

With only a handful of medication left on the ship I had done some research into getting more at the Ministry of Health here. They said it would be easy, "no problem" which in all honesty is not terribly comforting. At all.
We dropped Maurice off at the local hospital with Rachelle and Luc on Monday and made our way over to see about the medications. We went to the first room where you 'order' what you want. We then followed a lady out to a warehouse where boxes upon boxes of medication are piled as high as the ceiling. The most popular are towards the front.
Mebendazole for worms, Quinine for malaria, Vitamin B6 injections for, well, they give it for any and every ailment. As always, another story for another day.
At this point, my partner and translator split to go retrieve a signature on some official documents we have signed weekly by the minister of health, Moustafa. I don't know why, but I love that his name is Moustafa. Moustafa, Moustafa, Moustafa. Its fun to say, isn't it?
Anyways, I figured I could handle the payment and receipt portion of our transaction with the (extremely) limited Frech I know. The original lady I followed decided to bring me to yet another room, this one with the glorious sound of an air conditioning unit buzzing outside. As I walked past an armored car I remember thinking about how sketchy banks and business transactions can be in these countries. This led me to not be the least bit surprised when I walked through the doors to find two humungous men yeilding giant guns (I won't embarass myself in trying to say what kind of guns they were) and sporting bullet proof vests.
Sa Va? I said like an idiot.
Oiu, sa va.
Whew. haha.
Once Moustafa (the minister of health) found me and returned my team to the room with the air conditioning and guns, we sat and waited. And waited.
A phone in the lobby rang at one point, apparently we missed the memo to answer it, and was prompted to do so by another customer. 'They' (still don't know who 'they' are exactly) told us our total cost for the medication, but nothing else.
Moustafa returned and clearly was not impressed by our waiting game. He marched into the back room and shortly thereafter we were asked to pay up and follow him back to the warehouse.
Within minutes I was handed 10 vials of cyclophosphamide, a toxic chemotherapy drug. In total, I paid 13,o50 CFA, roughly 26 bucks.
In the end, after a few hours, we had enough treatment for Maurice, and all it took was my signature.

I saw Maurice today along with the other kids. He is sick, yet still cuddles, and his mom is hopeful. She knows medicine doesn't believe we will be successful in this treatment, but she is praying that science is wrong. I am too.
Will you join in praying again for little Maurice? His mother says that he will be a testimony to Gods miraculous nature, and everything in me wants that to be true. I also want to pray in line with Gods will for him. For now, I go with my gut instinct to give his mother credit and try a few rounds.
For now, I will continue to love on Maurice and tell him about Jesus. That part is easy.

A wave goodbye

2009-11-03T14:08:00.004-05:00

No, I'm not going to tie this title into some witty nautical metaphor. Its one of those titles I'm finding a bit cheesy, but alas, I'm tired tonight.

You all met Maurice quite some time ago. He was my first pediatric patient in palliative care, which made him a shoe-in for my favorite kid in Benin. He was sick and so sad those first days. His mama's eyes were always cast towards the ground, but occasionally she would speak in her broken English and smile shyly.
We treated Maurice for the type of cancer that he appeared to have. Several biopsies sent overseas kept coming back suspicious, but we kept sending them because we wanted an answer. If you read about Mercy Ships much, you would know about Dr. Gary Parker. He's been here over 20 years and I have had the honor of watching him work. He took on Maurice each time, praying for him before the first cut, and following up, making sure we were doing what was best for the little 5 year old. We finally got our answer of Sarcoma. I went into the office one night several weeks ago and attached to Maurice's file I saw research Dr. Gary had done on his particular cancer. I got an email soon after explaining that he had spoken with another doctor, and if we pursued chemotherapy, they could help with a protocol.

All of this time, Maurice has been staying with his aunt while his parents care for the rest of his family up north in the country. We showed up weekly to find a dirty, mostly naked Maurice and often left to sounds of him crying. Everything in me wanted him with his family, with his mama who takes such good care of him. I knew it was right for him to go home. They of course wanted him close to the ship, and then we had to have a honest discussion about just how likely successful treatment would be.

Last week I went to see Maurice at his house. He is recovering from the latest infection to his eye, and I wanted to change the bandage. He was smiling and happy, very willing to hold the saline for me as I attempted to make (and keep) a sterile field for his dressing change.
Monday he came to the ship, this time with his mama. She no longer looks at the ground, but kisses my cheeks and hugs me tight. Maurice was the happiest I have seen him, and I knew right then,it was time for him to go home.

His mama reports there is a 'big' hospital up north where, if, we wanted to give 'injections', they could. I can't describe hospitals here, but a thousand factors are against any timely, accurate, non-corrupt care being given to Maurice. I couldn't make the decision on my own. I couldn't. I emailed Dr. Gary.
"Is it worth trying? I want whats best for him."
As I typed, Maurice sat on my lap. I walked into the hallway, not sure of what to do, what to say. I couldn't honestly say I thought it was worth putting him through more unnecessary treatment. As I crouched down to talk, feeling unsure, Maurice came over and curled into me. I pointed to my cheek, ad he responded with a kiss. He doesn't know it, but that was my comfort. God reassured me in that very moment that I was to let go of Maurice, it was time.
I asked;
"Maurice, can you tell me something about Jesus?"
He replied
"He heals"
I asked, Tell me one person Jesus loves"
and he replied,
"me"

I walked them to the dock and grabbed one last hug and kiss from both mother and son. As he shuffled away, still with his big yellow flip flops, 2 sizes too big, I called out, 'bye Maurice', and my favorite kid in Africa lifted his hand, without turning, and waved goodbye.

Pain in the offering

2009-11-01T07:11:00.008-05:00

I was considering writing a post a few days ago, an update of sorts. Immediately following Maddie's death I described my status to a friend as 'crying at random'. The type of burden the whole situation left me with was too strong to carry on my own. When I woke up in them middle of the night, over and over those first few nights, I just laid there, quietly reflecting, privately grieving the death of a two year old little girl that I loved so much. It was me and God during those moments, silently communicating, me starting to gain glimpses of understanding.
Each morning I asked Him to fill me, and I listened to Psalm 118.
'This is the day that the Lord has made, I will rejoice and be glad in it.'

On Tuesday I faced the day, unsure I would be able to hold it together. My heart was so heavy. Our last stop of the day was the hospitality center, a building which houses patients who require follow up care or simply somewhere to sleep while they come back and forth from the ship. I was checking on a little baby we said we could help bring to the hospital. Of course I seized the opportunity to hold baby Anicette while I was there. When I first met her I nicknamed her chicken little. She was so tiny, always throwing up formula all over us, and giving her distant mama a run for her money.
But that was then.
Now, when I ask if Anicette has "puked", her smiling mama replies; "no puke". (Yes, I taught an African mama the word puke. I also taught her the song 'Tomorrow' from Annie)
While extending her English vocabulary to include "fat belly and fat bum are good", a band of chocolate colored boys ran to me excitedly. They held a treasure in their hands, a plastic replica of Alex the Lion from the movie Madagascar. Although it probably came from a happy meal in some far off land months ago, the battery which allows Alex to speak still had some life in it. All you had to do was hit him gently and he would say one of three phrases.
I'm Alex, the only Alex
You got it!
Lets go Wild!
As a result of the battery dying you also had to have your ear right next to the toy in order to hear these wildly funny (if you're a little kid in Africa) remarks. The boys took these factors into account and deducted that if you hit the toy against your ear, you can hear what Alex is saying.
And of course, they thought it was imperative that I join in the fun.
I leaned over, still holding Anicette (now that she is big enough she will go for surgery Nov. 2nd), and started mimicking what Alex was saying every time his plastic mane was whacked against my ear. The boys roared with laughter and joined in shouting the phrases as loud as they could . It only hurt when the toy didn't respond to the gentle hitting, causing my assailant to make the subsequent blows to my ear just a little harder.

Joy started creeping in. With my right arm cradling Anicette on my hip, I found my left hand holding her fat belly as I leaned forward. I glanced at her and my eyes were instantly set on her wide smile, her tiny pink tongue visible through the large gap in her lip.
God was there. He was right there at that very moment.
Actually, He knew that moment was in store for me well before I knew I would even need it.
On my way out, Anicette's mama started singing a song very familiar to me. I sang it as a child, and they sing it here often, in English, then also in French. She was singing in English, and I knew, in that instant, God was smiling at us.
"This is the day
this is the day
That the Lord has made
that the Lord has made
We will rejoice
we will rejoice
And be glad in it
and be glad in it."

On Thursday morning I didn't have much to offer God. I didn't have words, couldn't put down thoughts on paper, so I decided to listen to worship and just sit. The sun was warm and I marveled at how it comes up every day. There isn't a day when it doesn't rise.

'Blessed be your name
When the suns shining down on me
When the world's all as it should be
Blessed be your name
Blessed be your name
On the road marked with suffering
Though there's pain in the offering
Blessed be your name.'
-Matt Redman

God is faithful, there are a million ways to come to that same conclusion. Yes it hurts, yes its hard, but this is life. Life is about changing, about loving with abandon. That life, that kind of love, it comes with a cost, its painful at times. But the alternative, well, no thank you.

'You give and take away
My heart will choose to say
Lord, blessed be your name.'

Oh, and here are some pictures of Maddie to go with her story. The first two are my favorite (Her mom is so excited because for the first and only time, we got Maddie to smile at us)

As I mentioned though, Maddie was not always a fan of this yovo, which of course made me love her even more. She was such a character at only two. This is a picture taken on our way to the hospital, after I asked her to smile.

\

Maddie

2009-10-27T16:30:00.000-04:00

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

2009-10-22T15:56:00.003-04:00

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

2009-10-19T15:33:00.003-04:00

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

2009-10-16T11:28:00.006-04:00

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

2009-10-11T15:37:00.005-04:00

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?

2009-10-05T15:06:00.020-04:00

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?

2009-10-02T10:37:00.005-04:00

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"

Therapy

2009-09-28T11:28:00.007-04:00

I'm having a hard time today. I'm sure it will pass, I'm not interested in investing more into these thoughts than I need to, I will be ok. But its hard now.
People who go home often have a hard time coming back. Being home reminds them of their life, how good it is to be surrounded by people who know them. How sweet coffee and conversations are face to face, how hugs feel different when the other person has loved you for years is on the other side.
I can't stop getting choked up every time some asks about my mom leaving and how I feel about it.
I'm not 5 years old, and maybe should be tougher, yet I'm not giving myself too hard a time over the lump in my throat. Some days a person gets tired of saying goodbye, from being apart from everyone important in their life.
My heart aches over not being with my sister on her birthday, picking apples and taking pictures of the changing leaves on the trees. It physically hurts to look at the pictures.

I want to go home.

That looks so scary written down.
Its not a "I want to go home" for real, I just want to say it because right now I'm feeling that way. I just want to go home, even if its for a little while, just for some hugs maybe. A collection of pictures from my friends and family is running across my mind, and now the tears are continuously falling. Facebook is apparently dangerous territory today...

In my logical mind I keep telling myself that this is normal, that I will be ok.
I prayed this morning through the anxious thoughts arising from out of nowhere. I firmly held my cheek against the head of baby anicette, a cleft lip baby who I love with every fiber of my heart. I hugged familiar kids who shouted my name and "ciao bella" when I walked by D ward this morning. I shook hands with a boy who's name means 'strength', a boy who I see a few times a week and who always smiles like we haven't shaken hands in months.

Hmm. Funny, I'm not so upset after writing that last bit.
I also wrote down Oswald Chambers 'My Utmost' for the day. The last part got to me, which I suppose in itself is also a comfort.
"Once the call of God comes to you, start going and never stop"

Before coming here my life at home was good. Really good. I guess that doesn't help much with leaving all of it. The truth of the matter is I am nothing without this call on my life. Losing my identity and following Jesus saved me. Being here is the biggest privelege this girl could dream of, and you would believe that if you knew the life I came from.
It is hard some days, I was upset a few minutes ago when I started this post, but its ok. I see God and how huge He is, how soveriegn He is. Then I realize His sincere, fatherly attention to the 5 year old in me that wants to go home. His attention to the broken prayers in my heart.

I joke about how this blog is therapeutic for me, how I don't keep a normal journal. Again, its not my own words but God's work that provides the therapy.
Today you got to see it in real time-

By no coincidence, the following verse is written a few doors down on the whiteboard that bears a new one daily.

"Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit,' says the Lord"

'Rollercoaster' wouldn't even begin to describe this adventure.

Another reason to smile-How can you NOT smile at a random encounter with a face like this while going about your business on a Monday;

Once in a lifetime

2009-09-27T16:56:00.004-04:00

I just dropped my mom off at the airport.
What a strange feeling.

I instantly felt like I hadn't spent enough time with her, I didn't make her time special enough, I should have done things differently.
How quickly attempts at stealing joy can come. Like a thief in the night...

We had an incredible month, a strange collision of worlds. All of a sudden my mom was on the ship, at dinner, ready for work with me.
We went out each morning side by side. We prayed for the patients, played with babies, and sat underneath avocado trees during visits.
We watched movies, ate popcorn, and laughed with eachother.
We made memories and shared jokes only the two of us would understand. We sat on the beach, on boats, and piled on top of each other for a two hour taxi drive.

She saw my world and I got to share everything I love about Africa with my best friend from home. I watched her react to patients and situations like a natural, loving every encounter, hug, and squeeze, as I knew she would.
I love my mom so much, and it doesn't get easier to say goodbye when you've done it before. My heart aches for the time that went by so fast.
As I cried tonight, sad that I had somehow screwed up, I thought;

I had one chance, a once in a lifetime chance to make this good.

Now, as I sit here and upload photos to facebook, reflecting on the past month, I realize that yes, this experience was indeed once in a lifetime.
And we had an amazing time.

What a privilege, God. Thank you so much.

P.S.- Hi mom!

A time to heal

2009-09-24T17:06:00.002-04:00

Over the last weeks and months I have had a lot going on. The balancing act of extreme emotions that comes with being here was wearing on me. I was running on my own strength some days, which of course is never a good idea. Last week I told people I was just holding on for dear life through the storms, holding fast to God and His promises.
My knuckles were practically white.

It wasn't until this week that I started putting God's recent work into a bigger picture (part of me getting over myself and all). Last week Aime's mom came back to the ship with us, she wanted to see the nurses that took care of her sweet boy before he died. She was hugged and kissed, squeezed and looked at through teary eyes.

This week we got a call from Hubert's dad. He asked if their family could come to the ship. I was beaming as my translator hung up the phone. We had given them our number the day Hubert died, but I'm not sure I ever expected them to call. I definitely didn't expect them to be so willing to come back.
As the nurses passed around little Pauline who let her timid smiles out in between hugs and tickles, tears were found in all of our eyes. We got to hug baby Hubert's mom, meet his older brother, and show the father some more glimpses of how we work, how we are just here trying to love. That's it, that's our goal. We love them.

I realized today how coming back to the hospital after losing a child is something a lot of parents do. I believe it is part of their grieving process, part of their healing.
What they don't realize is that it is part of our healing process as nurses too. Seeing them, being able to just stand in a doorway as smiling girls clad in blueberry-colored scrubs came through for their chance at a big hug (and more tears), was soul medicine. The good stuff.

And then I saw what God was up to. As this outreach starts winding down, as patients start declining, as I struggle with the way hospitals mistreat their patients and fight with everything in me to get through, to hold on, I see God. I can hear Him.

Come to me, give me your burdens. My load is light, child. Its time. Time to heal that heart of yours that's hurting so much for these people.

My mom came here almost a month ago, and I smile thinking about how perfect the timing was of her being here. Its hard to be away from your best friend, its difficult to face uncertainty in regards to the future and when you may live on the same continent again. I know this time has been a time of healing for hearts that ache from being apart. It was a time that strengthened me, has helped me gain excitement and momentum to finish this outreach as best I can.
We leave tomorrow morning for a night away. We will spend a couple of days relaxing after a long few weeks, probably reading side by side on a beach, a favorite for both of us. More healing. Bring it on.

I will always remember those two little boys, and I am so grateful for the restoration going on in their families lives.
As for me, every kiss from a kid, every flying leap of another running into my arms, continues to heal my heart. It fills to overflowing.
How cool is that? God is just so awesome. period.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under heaven:

a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,

a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,

a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain,

a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,

a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,

a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace

But wait, read just a little more. It gets better.

Ecc. 3:9-14

What does the worker gain from his toil? I have seen the burden God has laid on men. He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end. I know that there is nothing better for men than to be happy and do good while they live. That everyone may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all his toil—this is the gift of God. I know that everything God does will endure forever; nothing can be added to it and nothing taken from it. God does it so that men will revere him.

My sunshine

2009-09-17T17:27:00.008-04:00

You know the song, it happens to be one of my favorites. The first time I sang it to a baby, a nurse was trying to place an IV in her foot. The mom, dad, myself, and the IV nurse all sang to a 6 month old who ceased crying, and plainly looked at all the goofballs surrounding her. I nearly cried that first time (actually, I probably did). I knew I was doing exactly what I was meant to.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

you make me happy when skies are grey

you'll never know, dear, how much I love you

please don't take my sunshine away

I sang it again to baby Hubert a few days before he died. We had brought him for a chest xray and the cold plate underneath him, paired with me holding his small arms over his head was just too much for him. His crying subsided as I sang, tears freely falling down my own cheeks.

The other night, dear, as you lay sleeping

I dreamt I held you in my arms

When I awoke, dear, you were not with me

so I hung my head and cried

My attitude today, and really if I'm honest, over the last few days, has been totally crappy. I'm tired, I'm overwhelmed, I'm blah, blah, blah. I asked myself what I could write about. What do you say when all you hear in your own head are complaints?

Then I thought about Maurice, my favorite kid in Benin (and you thought nurses weren't allowed to have favorites. Newsflash: we totally do). I wanted to give an update, which I will (eventually), but for now I want to share the latest pictures with my favorite 5 year old taken this week. My sunshine.

Sometimes you need to dwell on your thoughts, deal with your emotions. Sometimes, though, once in a while, you need to get over yourself and realize that each day is a gift.

Thank you, God.

Now that I have seen

2009-09-14T10:20:00.004-04:00

I love Africa, I really do. I love the people and their wide smiles. I love the children and their abundant willingness to act silly, run around, and then melt into big hugs. I love that when I walk downstairs to get ice for my water at night I happen upon toddlers screaming joyfully running up and down the hallways, kicking a ball bigger then them. I love handshakes that squeeze your hand hard, and peoples eyes who speak for them. I love that babies who have been outside are extra warm when you cuddle them, and my favorite thing to do is pat their little bums when I walk past them sleeping on their mama's backs. I love the looks on peoples face when I try to speak their dialect, and I love that they slap me hard on the back in a fit of laughter after I finish.

I love that people here think pineapple makes your blood 'dry', that paracetamol (tylenol) makes you lose blood, and cold water makes you sick.
I love that ensure cans, when rolled back and forth, can entertain a two year old for an hour. I love seeing tacky decorations displayed proudly all over a cement living room, and I love how welcomed I am into every house I enter.

The reality of living and working in a third world country can be harsh at times, I won't deny that. That same reality, that death is a part of life, that there are people in this world who rely solely on God, that boundaries prevent true community, is why I love this place.

I've been praying for some time about extending my time here with Mercy Ships. I was originally committed through the end of this Benin outreach in December, however it started seeming impossible that my time may be coming to an end. While praying I didn't have any earth-shattering, sky-opening calls to stay, but I do have true peace. I have absolute contentment with my recent decision to extend through the next outreach in Togo.

My heart fits here, I fit here. I believe God put me, and wants me to stay here. For some that seems absurd, how does God tell someone what to do, what does that sound like? What does that look like?
I hope I can show you, I hope you will see what drives me to be here, what gives me the strength to wake up every day with a full heart and a willing spirit. I'm so excited about so many things, I can't wait to share them.

I was listening to Brooke Fraser this weekend and as always the song Albertine got me thinking. There are people here, kids in particular, that have grabbed hold of my heart. They have a treatable cancer, and their stories are amazing (more on that soon). They are a big part of how I believe God has shown me to stay here. The chorus, in just 3 lines, sums it all up.

"Now that I have seen, I am responsible.
Faith without deeds is dead.
Now that I have held you in my own arms, I cannot let go"
-Albertine, Brooke Fraser

kneel down here

2009-09-10T16:10:00.004-04:00

The original title of this post was going to be 'bang head here'.
Maybe you can relate.
Have you ever been frustrated? So frustrated you want to cry? Scream? Throw something? Walk away? Give up?
Today I was at a loss for words, I was even angry for a bit. It seemed like around every corner there was a brick wall in front of me.

It started out with hopeful news for one of my patients, we might be able to do his surgery after all. I was happy for him, excited to tell him the plan. Another biopsy, a different surgeon, just tell us 'yes'.
Except he didn't. He actually would hardly look us in the eye. The fetish priest, aka 'traditional healer' told him we would leave him with a big wound, and that's only if he didn't die like apparently "many" do. The room was heavy, everyone looked as though they could feel the weight. Our message of good news was unwanted, WE were the enemy. Prayers seemed like a dim flame, flickering in a dark room. Oh Andre, how can I show you?

Next was Madjida, a sweet old man with a big smile, minus one front tooth. After praying he promptly told us about how Jesus was just a prophet. He said he didn't want to get into it, that Muslims and Christians war over that same conversation. I spoke the only words I could come up with, I don't know how to have these talks...
"We worship God, and yes, we believe Jesus is His son. He was the living example of love, we are just following that model. We are trying to love."

Then there's Pania. A little two year old with a massive tumor slowly taking his life. I didn't mention before that my best guess is that he has also had a stroke. When chemotherapy is given without steroids, swelling can occur in the brain. In his case this resulted in no use of his left arm and a weakness in his left leg that causes him to slowly limp wherever he goes. Basically, the doctor in the 'hospital' here messed up by my estimations. Then he sent him to the ship for us to bring the bad news that no, this little boy will die without a miracle.
Awesome.

Onto my Burkitt's kids. I brought them on Monday, got a call on Tuesday they had no running or drinking water, and Wednesday learned even more ways the hospital was trying to purposely hassle them. Not allowed to go outside the gates for food, the parents were forced to eat the expensive food inside. The lack of water wasn't hospital-wide, if they paid they could go take a shower. The same went for use of the toilette. Every day this week we were there, and everyday something new came up. The free stay, as agreed upon with Mercy Ships, was now going to cost us. Shocker.

All day God was good, He provided glimpses of joy as a means of encouraging my mom and I. As I carried little Luc down the stairs of the hospital, ready to be discharged, followed by our entire Burkitt's entourage, post second round, I felt good. Really good.
On Thursdays I pray with a couple of friends, and tonight my friend Meg and I bowed our heads, tired and weary from long days.

God, this is so frustrating. Why does it have to be so hard?

Suzanne,
I see Andre.
I know Madjida,
I hold Pania in the palm of my hand,
I love Maddie, Rachelle, and Luc.
They are mine.

All day I was saying 'bang head here'. Tonight, as I prayed, and quietly surrendered everything, instead of my own voice I heard;

Give it to me, its not yours. Its ok.
kneel down here.

A good day

2009-09-07T18:20:00.006-04:00

It’s funny to me how as we grow up, a ‘good day’ can be viewed and weighed so differently.

This morning I got up, excited to start the day. It was finally time to see if all 3 families would show up with their kids so we could head to the hospital here on a quest for the three kiddo’s second round of chemotherapy. At 8:30 my translator reported the first little girl, Maddie, had arrived. The plan was to leave at 9 from the ship, too many obstacles lay between here and there to not take it upon ourselves to personally hand-deliver the children to the care of the local doctor.

I smiled when I saw Luc’s dad parking his bike by the end of our gangway while we walked out into the hazy heat. We only were waiting on Rachelle. Once we called her, we learned from someone (still never sure who exactly answers the phone) that she was traveling and should be at the ship by 10:30. No worries, small bump, so we piled into the land rover and started our trek to the hospital.

Once there we settled little Luc and Maddie in, stole some kisses from the other little kids staying in the room, and talked with all of the parents about what to expect. The nurses had their arms full of the medication and supplies we provide, right down t the IV tubing. We got back to the ship to find no one waiting for us. Still ok, it’s early enough.

A quick trip to our hospitality center to check in and re-stock some medication for the sweetest cleft lip/palate baby ever, and when we returned, I felt my heart drop a little with no signs of Rachelle. She has a far way to travel, with an impossible amount of glitches that can occur between home and the city.

Please God

We ate lunch and afterwards I found myself repeatedly going outside for a quick scan (knowing all of security was on the lookout for us too). At 3 my mom and I (oh yea, my mom is here for those of you who don’t already know that. I’ll go into more detail in the next post, fun stuff) decided to split and do a few things around the ship. My spirit was a little down, I wanted so badly for Rachelle to make it here. She has a special place in my heart, especially after taking care of her on the ward a few weeks ago. I trusted that mama to come with her; I could see it in her eyes when I dropped them at a taxi last time that her promises were earnest.

Please get here

At 3:30 I decided to go through our hold, the place where patients come into the ship to wait. My eyes immediately fell on a familiar, smiling face. It took my mind a minute to register it, but I knew within seconds they had made it. Rachelle’s mom slapped my hand hard and we exchanged a solid handshake. We threw formalities out and hugged, it was just too exciting to see each other. Rachelle was next, with her striking face, far more beautiful and mature than her 13 years. We made our way to the hospital, my heart soaring the whole way.

She made it

Tonight as I type, all three kids are sleeping in a small, simple, hospital room. They are tucked in next to their mama’s who all love them, who care for them sweetly and sincerely. Their care has been prayed over; Heaven has heard and knows each and every request that has been made on their behalf.

Tonight as I type, I think back to the sheet of paper that fell out of my prayer journal earlier. I don’t know why, but an old assignment from a shift dated Aug 4 was stuck inside. Rachelle’s name appears just over baby Hubert’s, two kids my heart has opened up wide to since being here. This is what I wrote after reflecting a bit on what the last month has brought;

Thank you, God. My heart heals as the days and blessing are poured out. I’m content, you are all I need. I love you and how good you are.

I realized today, that you don't have to be completely healed of heartbreak in order to love fully and wholeheartedly again.

I have had a long couple of weeks, and I am still processing so much, but I am content. By the end of the day, my face was full of kisses, I had been hugged a million times, and I had smiled and laughed with three kids and their mama’s who all have hope. We all have beautiful, shining, joyful hope.

Now that’s a good day, one I wouldn't trade for the world.

Rachelle and I after her last admission

8 Coconuts

2009-09-04T10:15:00.002-04:00

Yesterday morning, as I was leaving the ship for the day, someone let me know that Aime died. We had discharged him the day before on his grandparents insistence. His mother had left the ship, unable to cope with watching her son die. Over the phone I asked the nurse back at the ship to give the family some money. You see, they were planning on putting his on the back of a zemidjan (a motorcycle taxi) to bring him up-country. Aime was suffering terribly, working for every breath. The thought of him on a motorized bike made me feel sick, I don't care if that's part of the culture, I really don't.
When we called Mariette, his mother, she confirmed our sad news. She asked if we could visit, and I smiled when I learned she was staying right next to where we were going.

I wrote some of the events of the afternoon down right away. To be honest, I'm tired of trying to put impossible emotions into words. My mind races, then seems to just blur when I attempt to recall specifics. Hubert, and now Aime, are the first two children I have cared for and loved who have died. You don't get over these things in a day or two, I don't think you are supposed to, really.
If that's not enough, I have to hear that Aime died in the taxi, less than an hour after he left the ship. At least it wasn't on a motorcycle.

I'll simply list what I wrote yesterday, no use trying to make it sound eloquent.
"If God loved Aime, why would he let this happen" I was asked.
"He suffered for 4 days. As a mother, I had nothing. I could do nothing" she flatly stated.

As explained by my translator, Mariette will not see Aime again before he is buried, his grandparents continued north in the taxi after he died.
"In our culture, parents are not to bury their children, they are not supposed to"
No kidding.
"My wish is that they will work to find a good solution for this disease. Aime has suffered so much". The tears started welling then.
"I hope God will bless you to find a good solution for these children"
If you only knew that's my same prayer

Sitting with a largely expressionless face, Aime's mom explained that she felt her heart had been removed.
My answer?
I sat with her, I let tears fall, I held her hand and I leaned my legs against hers, the weight of both holding each others up.
I found Lamentations 3:33 in her French bible. I promised her I believed the words, my heart prayed that she somehow would too.

As I prayed and talked with some friends last night I was grateful for someone who knew what I was going through. When children die, it sucks, was our conclusion.
Told you it wasn't going to be eloquent.
Its a horrible feeling, one you can't explain. It just hurts.

In the end, now, on this new day, I am refreshed. It even started yesterday. Mariette said she did not want to know a God who lets children suffer. All it took was a promise from the bible before she smiled knowing Aime is with Jesus. She said pictured him singing and being held, we agreed that was perfect.
I have no doubt that Aime was surrounded by his own special angels as he left here and was placed in that taxi. His suffering is over, I'm thankful for that.
My only comfort come from clinging to the same promise I shared with Aime's mom, because at the end of the day that is the only way to cope with these things.

Lamentations 3:22-33

"Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. I say to myself, "The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him." The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him, to the one who seeks him; it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord. For men are not cast off by the Lord forever. Though he brings grief, he will show compassion, so great is his unfailing love. For he does not willingly bring affliction or grief to the children of men."

Aime's mother asked me yesterday if I liked coconut. I answered yes, not expecting that when I was leaving I would be followed by family members carrying 8 of them. I've shared them with the nurses who cared for Aime and the doctor who had to make the hard decision with Mariette to cease treatment. The few left will be made into a special treat for next week, because on monday, I will accompany 3 children to a local hospital for their second dose of chemotherapy. Rachelle, Luc, and Maddie all have Burkitt's lymphoma, the disease that claimed little Aime's life. They are responding to treatment, all three beautiful evidence of answered prayer. Mariette asked about them, she knew them from when they were all on the ship together. We will celebrate 'round 2' with a special party. Balloons, ice cream, coloring pages, and coconut cookies.

Miracle

2009-09-01T17:13:00.007-04:00

Today I hit my emotional rock-bottom. Several times. Whats funny is that each time it only lasted a few moments. I didn't think I could walk another step, face another person, pretend for another instant that I was ok.
I have spent a lot of time with Aimee and his mom the last few days. Today was the hardest I think. This morning we watched a mother break in half with the decision to not pursue any more chemo.
Yes, he will likely die. We will pray, we're so sorry.
Those words look so empty when they lay flat in black and white. I can promise they are anything but that.

I left this morning, barley holding it together. My mind was largely absent from the two visits I fumbled through. My last task of the morning was to pick up Maurice (remember him?) and bring him to the ship for admission. We are going to do another biopsy because the second came back negative for cancer, something that doesn't make sense.
As I pulled into our port, I sighed as I watched a large mac truck backing down the entire length of the dock.
Seriously?
I put the car in reverse and waited as the painful evidence of poor planning backed its way past me.
As we came around the bend I hear a little voice behind me say;
le bateau de bateau qui mon bateau
The boat, the boat. That's my boat
Getting snapped back into reality, back to a proper perspective, should come with some kind of sound effect. Like a swooshing noise or something. Honestly.
I walked holding Maurice's wrist down the dock to our entrance (afterall, he was carrying something in one hand and his snot rag in the other). He is so psyched to be here. He gets to see his "friends". The love in my heart for that little boy is indescribable.

I saw Aimee again after I settled Maurice. My heart again, fell hard. I walked to A ward in search of a baby to hold. I needed some therapy. Ali knew where I was, and her eyes desperately searched the room. Gloria came out of the bathroom with her dad. A three (?) year old special needs girl with the sweetest face. Her eyes are wide set, her mouth always found to be hanging slightly open, which breaks into a smile that would make your heart explode. All you have to say is her name and she looks quickly to dad to make sure he is smiling, in which she finds license to melt ones heart with her own wide smile. I crouched at her bedside and met her face with mine. We sat forehead to forehead, her soft skin warm against mine.
Thank you God. Thank you for this beautiful little girl.

Tonight, again, I felt my heart ripping open for Aimee and his mama as I sat with them.
"We can come see you everyday if you decide to take him home"
She is too afraid, she doesn't want to admit that she would be bringing him home to die. Who can blame her.
"Please, pray for Aimee and I. Please pray" she pleaded.

My heart. Its too much, God

I took one last walk down to D ward for a quick goodnight visit with Maurice. Upon opening the door I watched as my favorite 5 year old ran towards me, arms open wide. After our hugs I tried to get a kiss on the cheek from him. As most boys, he was reluctant at first. That's when I felt a little finger poking my arm.
Another little girl, about 5, was puckering her lips, ready to give me the kiss on the cheek I was trying to solicit from an unwilling Maurice.
Maurice was quick to follow suit after he realized my left cheek was neglected, and my heart soared.
"Whats your name?" I asked the little girl (In English, so as I asked I also looked for her name bracelet)
I wasn't surprised at all with what I saw.
All day I have been filled and poured out emotionally. Each second of emotional agony has been followed by sincere joy over something. God has been so present, so tangible, I can hardly start counting all of the instances He has provided comfort between yesterday and today.
Tonight, as myself and another nurse ran up and down the halls with two 5 years olds who find pure bliss in this simple act, I felt my heart being restored, my soul again being filled up.
That small tap on my arm and goodnight kiss, after a couple of the toughest days I have had, came from a little girl named Miracle.
He is good.
All the time.