leaving

I woke up today with the feeling that it was something really momentous. A day I never honestly thought would come. It seemed to lend itself to overstatement: My Last Day Before Africa (or something equally self-indulgent and capitalized). And yet I spent it doing the most commonplace things. I went to the bank and signed some papers. I visited Marco and Jonah and got to marvel at the fact that they are not, in fact, babies anymore. I went to Target with my cousin, had dinner with my family and watched American Idol while drinking tea and eating Dunkers with my sister.

I said goodbye. To everyone and anyone I came across. Yes, lady at the bank, I'm leaving tomorrow. Yup. I'll see you in a year. Cousins? It's been real. Until next year. Sister? Couldn't quite manage that, so I'll get up tomorrow before she leaves for work.

I just got off the phone with a friend after saying yet another farewell and collapsed into tears. Call me a girl, call it hormones, call it normal, but I can't shake the feeling that it's weird for me to be this upset. I've always known that I'm supposed to be a nurse in Africa. This is, in effect, the culmination of all my schooling and all my life up until this point. I feel like I should be ecstatic, excited out of my mind. And yet I'm fighting the urge to quietly unpack my bag and stay curled up tight in my bed until long after the plane has flown tomorrow.


And then, of course, I just happened to look over at the corner where my things are stowed, and my eye was caught by a flash of purple and yellow. You can just barely see the rattle in the picture here, to the right of the baby. It was the favourite toy of my favourite baby at work. He was a little African monkey of a boy, left alone most of the time by parents who didn't know how to face having two babies- one perfect and the other so broken. I loved him with all my heart, and when he went to be with Jesus, the rattle was buried with him (placed there by an unknowing funeral director who had the good sense to think it was the most natural thing in the world that he had picked out that very one from a vast pile of toys). When I first met Jennifer, the mother of the twins I visited today, we bonded easily over shared stories of ICUs and love of babies. It wasn't until she pulled out that same stupid fish rattle, explaining that it was a hands-down favourite of her own boys, that I knew we were kindred spirits. She said she had no idea where it had come from. It had just appeared in Jonah's pod one day and the nurses said they could keep it.

Today, as I was leaving her house, she disappeared for a moment, reappearing with eyes that glistened suspiciously (through my own tears, though, it was hard to be sure). She held out the rattle to me, a little worn and wobbly now, adorned with a few bite marks. "Jonah and I had a talk and we think you should take this to Africa with you. Share it with lots of babies or give it to one. Whatever needs to be done."

And, once again, just like that, things make sense. I've been scared because all of this is so much bigger than me, when it should be just the opposite. Despite the fact that I see this as all so huge and momentous and flat-out scary, I should be jumping at the chance, because God has been showing me all along how He has been preparing me for just this task. I want to save the world and I'm awed by the size of that challenge. I forget that God's not calling me to the whole world. He's calling me to Liberia, to one ship in one port. He's asking me to take my fishy rattle and trust that He will show me the one baby in the whole world who needs it. Strange thought, perhaps. But on this eve of departure, I'm finding it oddly comforting.

This weekend was a whirlwind. I feel cliched saying that, but I can't think of another way to describe the sea of faces and emotions. (And no, I don't fail to see the irony of an oceanic metaphor.)

Friday was a classic pizza night coupled with a grand sendoff. The girls, true to form, had created a banner which will hopefully be gracing my cabin in a few days. (Not sure what my roommates will think of me calling myself a queen, but hopefully the art will make up for that.) Paul donned Hawaiian shirt and sang along to a slightly altered Beach Boys song. Feet shuffling nervously, he broke ridiculously far out of his comfort zone to get us all belting out "Help me, Ali. Help, help me Ali." Friday night pizza is amazing on a regular day, but this week was something extra.

Saturday found us cooking up huge cauldrons of chili and recruiting the youth group boys to create corn bread muffins galore. (Hint to novice bakers: blowing into the cup of flour is not the way to level it off.) We joined up with another youth group and packed forty-plus kids into three different houses for a progressive dinner all over the area. We ended it with sweet worship, intense drumming, and a challenge to not stay stagnant in our faith.

Sunday was church. I've never been hugged so many times in one day. The kids made me a card and slipped me notes and baby Judah finally gave me a kiss. Uncle Jim entered me onto his prayer list. The elders surrounded me, the church stood together, and they lifted me up to the throne of the God who's guiding all of this. Paul's words were so simple. "In a sea town there are people." The Sunday School kids stood in the front, making faces and trying (without much success) to wink at me. When we were released, we ran downstairs to act out one last story. At least five times.

Sunday was also the Super Bowl. I've only missed one Super Bowl party at the Haggans' in my entire life. Thankfully, this was not that one. The usual sausage and meatball sandwiches were there, along with the chocolate fountain and a mountain of fruit. The living room was packed with rabid fans wearing all imaginable forms of Giants gear. We lost our voices on the first first down. And when Eli and Plaxico and the boys pulled it off? Well, go ahead and check my facebook for video proof of that mayhem.

I love these people. I want so badly to stay, but I can't wait to leave. Bring on the year of paradoxes.

I'm headed into the city this morning amidst a flurry of snow. I want to lose myself in a sea of people and be anonymous just one more time. I want to walk down city streets alone and not fear for my safety. I want to feel in control.

Come Thursday, I don't know when I'll be able to feel any of that again.