ali's african adventures

I'm sitting in a darkened ward, empty beds all around me. The patients have gone, and all I can hear is the thrum of the generators instead of the chatter and swell of this place when it's full. Somehow, they have all gone.

Wasti was the first to leave this morning. Last night, we gave her the money for her cow, and it was one of my favourite moments of this entire outreach. We brought her to an empty room, away from prying eyes and listening ears. (You can never be too careful with that much money.) We pulled out a picture of a cow and she pointed to it, making a sign to show us that, yes, she used to have one of those. But it's gone now. I showed her the little plastic bag full of brightly coloured bills, and her eyes grew wide. She sat, frozen, looking at us, hardly daring to hope. We laughed and pointed to the cow, pointed to the money, pointed to her. Incredulous, she slowly pointed to her heart. For me? This is for me? More laughing and nodding and pointing, and after a short forever, she finally worked up the courage to hold out her hand. We dropped the bag in her outstretched palm, her eyes got even wider, and she threw up her hands, praising God in a language we had never heard before. She made lots of signs, and the only word we really understood was bebe. Through her wildly moving hands, we were made to understand that her baby was not okay before, but now he is fine. He is fine.

When we got back to the ward, after cautioning her not to tell anyone, she was bursting with the news, so she ran to her bed and scooped up Wasti from his pile of blankets. She held him close, kissing his little cheeks and whispering in his ears, telling him all about the cow and the hope for their future. And this morning, in the darkness of near-day, Esther and Liz and Natalie bundled mama and baby into a LandRover, all her bags of formula and rice cereal and her little pouch of money tucked securely under her shirt. They drove through the sticky air to the bus station where they piled them onto the bus and waved them away. Her family will meet her up north. Wasti is going home.

As the morning wore on, we raced around, trying to beat the clock. The translators were working until noon, when the ship threw a huge thank-you party for them, and we had to get everything done by then. Around ten, Therese and Beatrice and Josua climbed into the elevator and then headed down the gangway to a waiting car. Their nurse went with them, to see them safely to the clinic where they will be staying until their wounds have healed.

Not long after that, the next volunteer came bearing car keys. Christine and all her bags of supplies were packed into the car, and her nurse, too, headed out into the heat of the day, along with one of the translators, in search of the local private hospital she's being referred to.

I was left alone in the ward, two patients still in their beds. I worked methodically, enjoying the feel of charting and bandage changes and discharge instructions after such a long time sitting at the desk. When the first patient was dressed and ready to go, I turned my attention to the very last patient. It was only then that it hit me. The last patient was Benedicte.

Benedicte, the very first patient I took care of when I came back to the ship after getting married. There we were, alone in the wards, a little baby who was born with her lip and palate torn open who now looks normal. Who can now grow up with no idea of the ridicule she would have faced otherwise. She was the first for me, and it's only fitting that she was the last.

So I gave her grandma the instructions. I gave Benedicte one last snuggle, kissed her fat cheeks one last time, and they were gone.

They're all gone.

It's American Thanksgiving today. On a ship filled with people from thirty nations, in a country only one or two of us call home, we're celebrating in style. Tonight's dinner promises to be one to remember, and I have friends who have decided to make it even more special. At least, that's what I'm assuming based on the hand-turkey invite (stuck to my door with a magnet, of course) that tells me to come dressed looking my best.

And today there is much for which to be thankful.

In the dark watches of the night this week, as I stared up at the ceiling, all I could see were the faces of the patients still in their beds in B Ward. I ran them through my mind one after another, wondering how we could arrange everything before Friday. The time seemed so short, and they were so many.

Therese. Beatrice. Christine. Veronique. Francoise. Benedicte. Jacob. Kossiwa. Josua. Ali. Wasti.

Over and over, all night long, I would wake up with their names on my lips, on my heart. All day, I would work to gather supplies, write letters, arrange transport, and still the time has seemed so short.

One by one, though, they are going home. Kossiwa yesterday. Jacob, Ali and Veronique today. The rest in the morning, to homes and clinics and hospitals where they will be cared for until they are well. By lunchtime the wards will be empty, the outreach finished for the year.

And somewhere, on a bus heading north, will be a mama and her little baby, his huge black eyes staring out at the world around him, his lip held together with a row of tiny knots. Somewhere in her possession, hidden away from prying eyes and thieving hands, that mama will have a little plastic bag filled with her future: the money to buy a new cow.

Today, I am thankful for Wasti's mama. I'm thankful that she sold everything she had to come to the ship, seeking a new life for her baby. I'm thankful that she kisses his face and rubs lotion on his skin and patiently feeds him every three hours. I'm thankful that she almost didn't accept the small sum of money we've already given her, the money she will need when we drop her off at the bus station tomorrow morning before the sun has risen. It's too much, she told her nurse. You have already done too much for me.

I'm thankful for all the people here on the ship who heard the story of a broken baby and jumped at the chance to be a part of his healing. I'm thankful that I get to be there, later this evening, when we give her the money for her new cow.

I'm so thankful for that cow.

I just want you to know who you're praying for when I ask you to pray for Wasti. Here he is in all his glory, before and after. I found out today that, on the wooden bench outside the operating rooms, where we stop and pray for every patient that goes through, Wasti's mama almost said no. She was told that there was a chance he could die on the table, and there was a long moment where she almost said no. Her broken baby was precious enough to her that she was almost willing to stay an outcast, to endure the ridicule and spite, just so she could be sure of waking up next to him in the morning.

Now when she wakes up, it's next to a little boy who isn't quite so broken anymore. Which is what's keeping me going in the face of all the other wounds, all the other heartbreak.

That, and the fact that Kossiwa's papa came to collect her today. He took one look at the hole in her lip, gathered her in his arms and kissed her tiny cheeks. He loved her even before we gave them the paper that will allow them through security next year and onto the ship in Togo, where we hope to repair the damage. The small family left, Kossiwa's mama waving at me as she headed down the hall. Edabo! A l'anee prochaine! Until next year!

I'm looking forward to some more happy stories.

I come with more sobering news than I've been bringing the last few days. Because just when it seemed that everything was going our way, that wounds were going to be well on their way to healing, today was a sucker punch. One after another, we discovered new evidence of breakdown, new reasons to doubt.

But the truth remains: our God is a God of Healing. He can, and I pray that He will heal these wounds. I think when He says we just need a tiny seed's worth of faith, that what He's saying is that all we need to do is ask. The more I think about that, the more comforting it is. Because it takes all the weight out of my tiny hands and puts it back squarely into the ones that can hold it. The only thing expected of me is simply to come, to ask. The rest He will do. So here is what I ask, and what I want you to ask with me.

Ask for Christine. Her wound has torn back open, and she needs to be under the care of a competent general surgeon as soon as possible. All of the local hospitals are currently on strike, and we don't know what to do. God does.

Ask for Kossiwa and her mama. Kossiwa had her cleft lip repaired almost a week ago, and when we removed the packing holding her nose into the right shape, we found that from the top of her lip all the way through the floor of her nose, all she has is an open hole. Her mama is devastated, and Kossiwa will need more surgery in the future. For now, they have to go home with a baby still broken.

Ask for Therese. She is recovering from VVF surgery, a wound infection and a skin graft. She's doing well, but after what happened with Christine, we're wary, not willing to get excited too soon in case infections rears its ugly head again.

Ask for Beatrice. She also had VVF surgery, and her wound has required the most specialized care we have available. When the ship leaves, so will our technology. She will be going to stay at a local clinic where her wound will be cared for, but we don't know what will happen with it once we leave.

Ask for Josua. He's also battling a stubborn wound, his left over after a hernia operation. He'll be roommates with Beatrice and Therese at the clinic, and we're praying that his infection clears up so that his skin can heal.

Ask for Wasti and his mama. She's still learning to feed him, and the envelope on my desk marked Cow Collection is starting to fill. Their future looks bright, full of the promise of home.

Ask for all these and all the others, almost seven thousand, who came up the gangway this year for surgery. Ask that the Light would shine in their darkness, that Truth would win over lies and that Hope would take the place of despair.

Ask all this.