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.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
A day in the life of a 28 year old
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!
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!
Monday, July 19, 2010
Preperation
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"
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"
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
A simple touch
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Joy Restored
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.
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.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Its Time
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
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
Monday, May 24, 2010
Hallelujah
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"
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"
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