leaving

I was just sitting on the sea wall for the better part of an hour. I'd been there for quite a while, lost in thought, looking out at the ocean, before I realized that it was probably the last time I'll ever sit on that wall. Sooner than my queasy-in-anticipation stomach would like, we're going to be sailing, and I don't know when I'll be back in Benin. True, Togo is right next door, but with Ghana on the other side, we're more likely to be exploring new places rather than revisiting old ones.

So I sat there, savouring the heat for one more night, my bare feet tucked onto the ledge that some thoughtful builder had thought to incorporate into his construction. Little wavelets ran up the wall, rushing towards shore and making small smacking sounds on the concrete. The water was slate blue and grey, reflecting a thousand colours from a pastel sky, and the horizon was dotted with ships waiting to come into port.

Way up on the mast, the HoJ was silhouetted against that sunset sky where he was working on the last fixes that need to happen before we can head out. All around me were the now-familiar sights and sounds and smells of a port I'd never seen before June. And just like that, I'll say my goodbyes to Africa for the next couple months. It always happens sooner than I'm ready, and I'm growing accustomed to the idea that my life might just end up being one long series of goodbyes as HoJ and I wend our way around the globe, following the Call that's brought us this far.

It's no use looking that far into the future, though. For now, I'm content with tying down my cabin, tipping my beloved linen closet down to rest on the floor so it doesn't fall over when we hit open water and securing my Tupperware tightly in its closet.

It's time to say goodbye again. I'll see you on the other side.

(Unless, of course, a miracle occurs and I'm not violently ill for the entire trip. In which case, you'll hear all about what a great sailor I am and how all those people who get sick really just need to man up and tough it out.)

(Don't count on that being the case.)

It's been silent around here, I know. For probably the first time, I make no apologies. Truth be told, there's not much to say. The wards are quiet, the beds folded and stacked, strapped to metal bolts screwed into the floor. Every surface has been washed down twice. Every surface, including ceilings. (I'm six feet tall; I'll give you three guesses on who got to work on that little project.) We sit around on rogue mattresses that escaped the piles and we talk about all that's happened this outreach. We scrub until our knuckles bleed. We laugh together, and we pray together, and this is how we end the year.

I was walking down the hallway with one of the nurses the other day who said it felt like the end of school. The time where your teachers are just giving you busy work to fill the hours until that final bell rings and you're free for two glorious months of summer. We hand out jobs like candy; empty that cabinet, scan those files, scour that floor. And all we're really doing is waiting for the time the Captain will come on the loudspeakers and let us know that the Pilot is on board. That we're throwing off the lines and setting sail.

That time is coming soon, but until then, we have this time stop and reflect. After a hectic ten months where we practically doubled the number of surgeries from last year, we've finally got time to catch our collective breath. And that's exactly what we've been doing. The nurses spent the day off ship at the pool. We called it Team Building, but as far as I can tell, this is one team that's already standing on a solid foundation.

So when I sit here in my cabin, the lights finally on again after yet another day of blackout while the technical crew (HoJ included) worked feverishly to ready the ship for sailing, all I can see is that foundation, that crazy call that made each of us leave everything to come here. A few of the nurses noticed my tattoo today, and when I quoted the verse it comes from, I knew from their faces that the same Love drew them here, too.

The Love that has us dancing on the wards when ladies go home dry. The Love that sees us through the dark days when babies go back to Jesus. The Love that opens pockets and hearts to give money so a mama with a broken baby can buy a new cow. The Love that lets nurses from across the world work together without strife. The Love that causes an Aunty to care for an orphaned baby with no thought to her own wants. The Love that has us on our knees, scrubbing until our backs ache, laughing the whole time. The Love that brought each patient to us, and the Love that saw them home again.

That's the Love that will fill me again each time I pour myself out.

If your pour out your soul on behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness and your night will be like noonday. (Isaiah 58:10)