ali's african adventures

Please don't get used to all this posting, especially not the ones coming on the weekend. Chances are, once things are back in full swing, I'll be lucky to let you know what's going on three or four times during the week at best. But I get the feeling that I'll have so many more stories to share that the little details might slip through.

Details like what it even looks like here. When I talk about the dock I know exactly what I mean. I can picture the wall of containers marking out our little territory. I can smell the garbage and almost hear the tiny feet of the cockroaches as they skitter away from our feet in the night. But you have no idea of these things. For all I know, you're imagining a much more classic scene, picturesque wooden planks reaching out into crystal blue waters.

This is our dock. It's smelly and oily and noisy and we love it. There's space to run and play, space to draw on the concrete with chalk and space to set up chairs when the galley decides that Friday is a good enough excuse for an outside barbecue.

Click to see it bigger, and you can see, really blurry to the far left, the gate. That's the second level of security, the first being a fairly well-guarded main gate at the entrance to the port. Our gate security leaves a little to be desired; it's the classic West-African rope-across-the-road type, manned by a man who is more often than not fast asleep on a mat on the ground. Continue on towards the right in the photo and you see the start of our container wall, the division graciously provided by the port to give us our own space, free from random dock workers and erratic forklifts. Our fleet of vehicles is parked all along the wall, and on the other side, taking up the whole top of the photo, you can see why it's nice that we have a place marked out for us. That's where there are conveyor belts and cranes and all sorts of people working. On the far right of the photo, lined up against the ship, are our dockside tents. We'll be doing admissions there, along with outpatient physiotherapy.

It's not your typical backyard by any means, but we feel pretty lucky to have it.

Whenever I tell someone I'm a missionary, I'm fairly sure they're immediately envisioning those pot-bellied, wide-eyed kids on the TV commercials. The ones with outstretched hands and raggedy clothes who steal your heart with a glance. They're probably thinking of what I'm missing out on, all the comforts of home and family and such.

I hate to disappoint those people, but this just happens to be where I spent my day. (Click to see it bigger.) I relaxed on a blue-cushioned chair next to the pool. I sipped on ice-cold Coke (the kind from the glass bottle, which tastes better than anything else in the world) and chatted with one of my best friends from Liberia who has finally come back to the ship to work alongside me again after a long outreach apart in Benin. When our rumbling stomachs told us it was time for dinner, we packed up and headed home along the sandy path next to the road. The air was quickly losing the day's heat, and a cool breeze brushed against our faces while we stared around us at the palm trees and flowers and children waving a shy hello.

It's not always like this, but sometimes this is actually what it looks like to suffer for Jesus. And because all this also comes as the side order to a healthy dose of those little brown babies who need to be loved on, I'm not sure I ever want to stop all my 'suffering.'

It's late in the evening on Friday. Unless I'm badly wrong, the patients downstairs are tucked in their beds, sleeping the night away. All except Emiline; she's going to sleep in her own bed tonight.

Emiline was the first. The first patient to be carried through the doors of Operating Room Three this outreach. Her left leg was twisted, and her grandma wasn't shy in praying for her healing. She did more than pray, though. Despite Emiline's classic five year-old Yovophobia (Yovophobia: noun. An intense, often irrational fear of white people. Not limited to nursing staff, although these tend to be the scariest.), her grandma brought her to the ship. They waited in the hot sun outside the admissions tent on Wednesday while all around them we pretended to evacuate the hospital. (This commotion, unfortunately, did nothing to allay little Emiline's fears.) They made their way down to the wards while Emiline staunchly refused to smile or even acknowledge the countless attempts at friendship; she wanted nothing to do with the scary Yovos.

Unfortunately for her, the Yovos weren't going anywhere. In fact, one of them (potentially a very tall, Canadian-American one) wrapped her up in a blanket and carted her off to the operating room, handing her over to a bunch of strangers wearing masks while a camera crew filmed the whole thing. (I'm getting to that, I promise.)

Afterwards, things weren't much better. Emiline came back from the operating room with a cast on her little left leg. We propped her up in bed like a tiny queen, making sure she was getting her medicines for pain, making sure stickers were always close at hand, making sure someone was always there to comfort her, but she just stared at us, stoic and unsmiling.

This morning, all of that love paid off. I was walking past her bed in the corner when I saw a flash of red. I peeked over to see Emiline hiding behind a piece of construction paper, the product of the latest attempt at friend-making on the part of her nurse. I gently tickled the toes sticking out the end of her new, white cast and was rewarded with the crinkle of a grin in the corner of her mouth. I tickled her again, and a tiny giggle escaped from behind the paper. We were finally friends.

Which is why it was bittersweet to round with the surgeons and realize that Emiline would be another first; the first patient discharged this outreach. Everything went perfectly with her surgery. Her bones are straight, her pain is almost gone, and she has a little orange card telling her when to come back and see us.

Emiline is sleeping in her own bed tonight, having survived her time with the Yovos, the first patient to be won over by love poured out.



Now, if you want to see Emiline, instead of just reading about her, there's a good chance that she'll appear on a Discovery Channel Canada show called Mighty Ships, airing sometime in April or May, I believe. There was a crew from the show here for the past month, filming the sail and the setup and everything that goes on on this crazy ship, and we're all going to be on TV! At least that's what I figure the snazzy hat they left me is all about.

The guys said I'll be on the show, but I'm not sure what part of the footage they shot of me is going actually make the cut. This may or may not be because I spent most of the time laughing / looking the wrong way / making faces / forgetting what question they had just asked me / goofing off. Which, really, is par for the course for me, so they'd better just go ahead and leave it all in.

We're all excited about how this is going to turn out; I'll keep you posted as I know more details.

There are patients in the hospital.

After what has felt like forever waiting, there are West African children snuggled beneath the blankets in the wards again. There are caregivers sleeping under the beds, translators speaking for us and teaching us a few faltering words in Mina and Ewe and Kabiye.

In the morning, when we first reported to work, we found nurses and translators and housekeepers and laundry workers but no patients. The beds were still freshly made, the patients all waiting outside in the admissions tent. We had a day to fill with more waiting, so like kids on Christmas morning we gathered in a circle in an empty ward, the feeling of anticipation filling the air and twisting in my stomach.

We sat together, brown and white and brown and white and we prayed and we sang. I sat with my hands outstretched while the Spirit flowed through my fingers straight from the lilting tongue of one of our translators. It was all consonants and sounds I'd never heard, but in her words I knew that she spoke of the same God who pulled us all here from our old homes around the world. When Kokou prayed in English, asking God to do something new here in Togo, the words of a song sprang to my lips. Before I knew what I was doing I had begun to sing.

Do something new in my life,
Something new in my life,
Something new in my life
Oh Lord.
Do something new in my life,
Something new in my life,
Something new in my life
Oh Lord.

Such simple words, ones I've sung so many times before in Liberia and Benin, but I felt tears in my eyes when I realized what I was asking. What we were all asking.

And so it felt natural when I raised my voice and prayed what the Liberians call a strong prayer to Daddy God, one filled with the name of Jesus and extravagant claims on His promises, echoed by amens from around the circle. It felt right to sit there surrounded by people I barely know and realize that we are about to start something that will change so many lives forever. It felt right to admit that things should change, that God should show up and do something entirely new. And it felt so right knowing right to the corners of my soul that He will.


(I should maybe have thought it through before praying so heartily for something new, since shortly thereafter we ran the first-ever hospital evacuation drill in the history of this particular ship. Far too much new all at once for my liking, I have to admit, and a little stressful for me; since I ended up being one of the ones to set up the whole thing and could see more than a few holes in the plan while we ran through it and couldn't help feeling a little responsible.)

But when that was all over, when all the fake patients were safely back in their classrooms (we used Academy students instead of the real deal, since that might have scared them beyond healthy levels), when I finally had time to stop and think, all that came to me was that time this morning. Sitting in a circle, feeling like the first day of school with my heart open wide.

It was all I could do to keep from dancing up the gangway while I led the first patient onto the ship, a little boy in a pink shirt who isn't going to be laughed at anymore. (That uncharacteristic attempt at professionalism may have had something to do with the fact that I was being followed rather closely by a camera crew from Discovery Channel Canada. No joke; more on that later.)

I tucked him in, kissed his round cheeks and felt the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiled his shy little smile. I'm hoping to see that smile grow over the next few days as he realizes that, finally, everything is going to change.

Something new is going to happen.

Every so often, I take a look at a website that tells me who's stopping by this little corner of the world. Generally, there's not much information available, most of the visitors being classed as unknown. Every once in a while, though, I can see that a Google search led someone over here. Today, I found what I think might be my favourite so far:

how do you open the door to Jesus?

Which is a great thought and all, but unfortunately they turned up at this entry, which most likely did nothing for their soul searching.

Oh well. I'm hoping they at least got a laugh out of it, spiritual enlightenment being somewhat lacking.

Every once in a while I stop talking about my little brown babies and ask you to pray for a white one instead. Today is one of those days.

Meet Lily Anna. She was just born this morning, weighing in at a not-so-hefty two pounds two ounces, the beautiful daughter of my friends from the ship here, Lorah and Justin. Lily has a long road ahead of her, and I know Lorah and Justin would be more than appreciative of prayers for their little family. I don't have all the details, just what I can glean from Facebook updates and photos from across the ocean, but it looks like she's off to a good start, especially blessed with the parents she has.

Let's pray for this little one, okay?

The problem with the last few days is that they've been so busy that I haven't written. I've been crawling into bed every night, already dreading the alarm that will wake me in the morning, and there just hasn't been time to stop and write. Which is why it's so unfortunate that so much has happened; I don't know how to share it and make it all make sense without writing forever. I don't know where to start now.

Do I start with Vincent, the patient from last year in Benin who we found waiting here at the port gates in Togo? He'd been living on the streets for days, waiting for the ship to come because his trouble was getting worse again. Do I tell you how, once the wards were finally set up, we brought him into one of the empty rooms only to discover that the cancer in his hand had spread up his arm, that his eyes were squeezed tight shut while we prayed for him? Do I try to explain how he, inexplicably, left to go back home with a smile and a wave, claiming that we had done enough for him. Done enough by telling him that we can't help and that, short of a miracle, this will kill him. But, by all means, please come back in a week or two and we'll let you know if we can amputate more of your hand.

Or do I start with the time when five of my best friends and I headed out in the gathering dusk to search for a place that sold cold drinks. How we walked into a concrete-walled room, sat in mismatched chairs and declared that we thought the place was lovely, simply because their menus were laminated and there was a single fan hanging from the ceiling, pushing around the thick air. Will it mean anything to you when I tell you that, all at once, the lights went out and we went on without missing a beat, the near-dark from the windows more than enough light to talk by? That, somewhere, somehow, I've become accustomed to life in the third world and have already started dreading the leaving of it.

Maybe I should start with this morning, when I headed up from the dock to find a little group of mamas and babies huddled in the shade of the gangway. Cleft lips and tumors and little bowed legs waiting for everything to change. I could tell you how I saw them take their hope in their hands and climb the stairs, heading for the hospital where x-rays and CT scans would determine their futures. But if I started there I'd also have to tell you about little Felix and his brother Pascal, the two cutest boys I've seen in a long while (HoJ excluded, of course). I'd have to tell you how Pascal screamed, burrowing into my arms when his mama left him to take Felix into the x-ray room. How Felix's screams echoed his brother's through the door, and how the light fell from that mama's eyes when I told her that Felix wasn't going to be scheduled for surgery. His trouble wasn't bad enough; we'll probably see worse, so we have to keep the books open for them. How Felix put up his arms for me to carry him back down the gangway, back into the hot sun to begin the long walk home on his little crooked legs.

I could start with the French. With the way I've been called upon to translate by so many people who don't know I really don't know French. And how, despite that, I've been able to speak the words I'm called on to speak. How I've gone back into my Bible, poring over the passages about the gift of tongues and trying to figure out if this isn't actually what they meant, this speaking out in language I don't know. I could tell you how a surgeon called to me in the hallway outside the x-ray room and asked me to tell his patient about his findings, how I started to say I couldn't and ended up explaining it all to the patient, who nodded gravely and told me she understood, repeating it all back to me with much better grammar.

But none of those stories is the right place to start. None of them fit together, make any sense next to each other. I can't weave this narrative in the way I'm used to doing; I feel disjointed. But I think that's what my life is right now. Just a bunch of stories. Still frames and memories, collected up and stored away like precious keepsakes. These are the stories I'll tell in years to come when I'm living somewhere far from here, somewhere with reliable electricity and hospitals.

And by then it won't matter where I start, because the beginning can be anywhere when the story has already been told.

Anyone who knows me is probably aware that mornings rank right up there with Chinese water torture on my list of Things That Are Fun. As I've grown older, I've definitely moved out of the Did you REALLY just wake me up? Now feel my wrath stage, but I'm still not terribly coherent before eight or nine. (Which, as a side note, makes it really interesting that my job has me starting my day at seven. Every single morning.)

Today was an exception.

Today, I set my alarm for four thirty, and woke up without ever pressing snooze. I was out of bed before the HoJ could even stir, gathering my things and hunting around for stickers. Because today was the first screening day.

Those of you who know Mercy Ships at all will be surprised at the term first. Screening is generally done almost all at once, on one big screening day at the beginning of the outreach. Thousand of people show up and are processed through different stations, being seen by doctors and nurses and lab technicians to get them scheduled for surgeries or sent away gently if we can't help. This year it's very different. The Togolese government will be holding presidential elections on the twenty-eighth of this month, and the campaign process has just started in earnest. No unrest is expected, but at the end of the day, this is West Africa; we've seen tragedy come from power changes so many times before, and everyone is a little cautious.

The end result of all this is that the government is not allowing large crowds of people to form. A couple thousand for a screening definitely counts as a large crowd, and so the whole process for finding patients has been reworked this year. We're going to do smaller screenings at different locations all throughout the outreach, filling up the surgery schedule as we go along, rather than all at once. This being the first of these days for the year, though, we expected a bit of a crowd.

That's where the four thirty comes in. At screening, everyone stands in a long line, and the earlier you get there, the earlier you'll be seen. Usually there are hundreds at the site who camp out overnight for a place in line. Today, after a bumpy drive through the dark, cool near-morning, we arrived to find just eight. Eight souls, huddled in a little group near the gate of the stadium we would be using.

Suddenly (at least to me) this all seemed like a bad idea. How were we ever going to fill the schedule, if only eight people were in line? Why were we there before dawn for just eight people? How was this going to work?

God, true to form, had other plans. I'm fairly sure He just wanted to get me praying sooner rather than later, because as I lifted my heart to Him and the night sky lightened to grey, they started arriving. One by one they came, getting in line with hope all over their faces. A mama carried twins, one with straight feet, one with crooked, and I smiled to myself because I knew we would help them. A little boy walked slowly past, his hand in his papa's, his legs bowed out, and I knew I would see him again, too.

All morning I moved up and down the line, handing out cards for the eye and dental clinics, learning my first two words in Mina (one of the main tribal languages here) in the process. N'kouvi? Adoo? I repeated, over and over. Eyes? Teeth? And there, too, my heart was light. Not for their blindness or their pain, but because I knew we would be able to help.

We were finished by lunchtime, the word evidently having gotten out that today wasn't the only day to be seen. It all just felt different, somehow. There wasn't the sense of desperation that so often comes at screening, the need to be seen today or else never. The latecomers calmly accepted cards and my explanation of the dates for other screenings, thanked me and left. (That's a whole different story altogether, the way I managed to speak far more French than I've ever learned just when it was needed most.)

The people we couldn't help hugged me and kissed my cheeks and said thank you anyway, and I'm wondering if it wasn't just because someone was listening to their story. Maybe for the first time, their problem was important to someone. Important enough for all these people to leave their homes and fly halfway around the world. Important enough for us to wake up at four thirty in the morning, to stand in the dirt and listen while they told us how they hurt. And important enough to look them in the eyes and mean it when we told them we were sorry.

There are something like twenty-nine more screenings still to come. I'll miss them, because I'll be on the wards, taking care of all those patients that will have shown up to stand in line and tell their stories.

I can't wait to be a part of them.


(Too many words and not enough pictures, I know. I'll post some as soon as the photographers have shared them with us.)

We had a blackout yesterday. For those of you just joining the fun here, a blackout on the ship is where, for certain technical reasons totally unknown to me, they have to shut off the engines for the whole day. I think there's a lot of cleaning involved, but what it means for the general public on board is a day without electricity. Now, before you call me a terrible missionary for even needing electricity, let me explain one little thing: as far as water is concerned there is no such thing as gravity on this ship. Every drain (toilets included) operates on a vacuum system that sucks the water right down. No power equals no suction, or, as we generally say around here, Hey! My shower isn't flushing! Keep this in mind, because it becomes important later on.

I spent the day in the company of the duty nurse pager and a really long book. It was wonderful and relaxing, albeit a little warm and stuffy. (We have portholes, but they don't open, so when the air goes off, it gets hot fast.) Once the engineering crew had done whatever they needed to do way down on Deck Two, the familiar hum of the engines let us know that all would soon be well. Sure enough, the lights flickered on, our fridge came to life and the reassuring sound of air whooshing through the vents greeted my ears.

I was about to jump into the shower, figuring that all was well, when an announcement from the Captain came on the speakers. Good evening crew. Please be aware that all vacuum systems are now operational with the exception of port side forward. Which, I'm sure was wonderful news, except that my cabin is most definitely located port side. Forward.

I gave up my hopes for the shower I'd been looking forward to and wandered up to Deck Five to gaze longingly ashore from the gangway. Instead of the clear night air, I was greeted with an epic rainstorm, completely unexpected because it's not the raining season yet. Water fell in grey sheets, almost rivaling the intensity of Liberian storms, and lightning lit up the sky, silhouetting the cranes against the clouds. Everything smelled like wet concrete and summer, and it didn't take me long to realize that this was the best shower I was going to get.

I was wet to the skin within seconds of walking down the gangway, the warm rain beating on the top of my head and running down my face like tears of joy. The dock was two inches deep in water, and the puddle-splashing was inevitable and glorious. I felt like a little kid again, head upturned to feel the tiny fingers of water moving over my face, arms outstretched to embrace it all.

There's something about rainstorms in Africa that isn't like anyplace else I've been. I know I've still got half a year here, but I'm already starting to tuck things away in the back of my head, making a mental catalog of all the things I'll miss when this season of life is over. Rain in Africa is somewhere near the top of that list.

Yesterday was the first time I sailed into Africa. I've flown in to meet up with the ship for the past two years, going through the rigamarole of airport security and baggage claim, the sticky drive to the port to finally walk up the gangway. Yesterday was different.

As we sailed in to the port, I heard the sound of trumpets, too faint to make out a tune. We passed the familiar canoes, at least one fisherman in each invariably bailing out the water while another stood to wave to the Yovos lined up at the railing. The water was aqua under an overcast sky and the Togolese flag flew proudly from the tugboats.

As we drew closer to the dock, the indistinct sounds from the band took on shape until I could pick out trumpets and trombones and maybe even a tuba. They were waiting for us on the end of the dock, playing African worship songs and drumming until I thought they would break their sticks. The women waved handkerchiefs wildly in the air and everyone was dancing the unashamed dances of the truly joyful.

As we pulled alongside our berth, they walked with us up the dock, shouting and waving and welcoming us to our new home. They joined up with another, much larger group, one with twice the drums and even more dance moves. My shoulders were warm in the sun and I was sweating through my shirt and I couldn't stop dancing with them, my cheeks hurting from the smile I couldn't stop.

Later, much later, when the sun was almost down, the dock was deserted. The drummers had long ago piled into their buses and the marching band had marched off to rest their tired lips. I was waiting in line for dinner when a friend caught my eye. There's a baby on the dock. Needing no further encouragement, I ran out into the sticky air to find Francois.

He's very small, our Francois; he'll be two months old on the nineteenth, and he weighs a little over five pounds. Huddled around him was a much smaller welcoming committee than the one before. No drums, no fancy clothes, no dancing. Just a mama, a grandma and a little baby, all skin and bones, his lip and palate split wide, his future hanging in the balance. With them was a nurse, who I later learned works at the orphanage where Francois' mama was planning to leave him. She didn't want a broken baby, but the someone had heard that the ship was coming, convinced her that there was another way.

I took him in my arms, his little scrawny legs hanging out the bottom of the damp piece of cloth he was wrapped in. I buried my nose in the cloud of his hair, black and curly and softer than anything I've felt before, and I breathed deep before handing him over to our feeding program nurse who was going to be overseeing his care.

I wanted the drums, then. I wanted the handkerchiefs waving in the air and the ladies dancing in their finest African clothes. I wanted the whole world to know that here on our dock, a mama was choosing life for her baby. But they just climbed into a Land Rover in the gathering dusk, heading to the off-ship house where he'll stay until the wards are open.

And like that, it has begun. Welcome to Togo.

We're here!

The ship has arrived in Lomé, Togo, much to the delight of everyone concerned. I've got to head to a country briefing in about five minutes, so for now, I'll leave you with just the knowledge that we've made it here safely.

Later I'll tell all about it. How I almost started crying when I heard the African worship songs being belted from rusty trombones on the dock. How I've already sweated more in one morning than in the last two months combined.

How good it feels to be back home.

Back when I started this blog, I had only one real aim in mind: to cut down on the number of newsletters my mother would tell me I needed to write. I figured that if I wrote my stories here, people could just stop by and read them, and they'd know what was going on with me.

Along the way, it's evolved into something so much different. I find myself actually needing to write, regardless of whether or not anyone is reading. I process my days through my words, my sorrow and joy and frustration and exultation all draining through my fingertips as I type. It calms me, writing. Takes the pieces that didn't fit and slots them neatly into place. Smooths the rough edges and holds me tight while I cry.

And somewhere in the midst of all that, I realized that people were reading what I wrote. Not too many, and probably not many with any regularity, but somewhere out there, someone was taking the time invest in this work alongside me. I can't tell you how encouraging that has been. To know that there are people out there who, in some small way, care about me and what we're doing here. Care enough to leave a comment when they can relate to something I've said. Care enough to send me stickers from Singapore. Care enough to write me some of the most uplifting e-mails that land in my inbox.

Like the one I got from Dina just yesterday. The one that was full of joy! and! exclamation! points! The one that ended with the words ...got to get my kiddos to bed! but first bedtime prayers for ali and ani...

Now, maybe it makes me a big old baby, but I'll admit right now that I read that e-mail and burst into tears over here, somewhere on the Atlantic. The thought of those four little kids who I've never met taking time at the end of the day to pray for me completely floored me, and I guess I just wanted to say a public thank you, to whoever's out there.

Thank you for being a part of this. Thank you for caring about me and what we do here on the ship. Thank you for leaving comments and writing me encouraging e-mails. Thank you for sending stickers and baby clothes and craft supplies. Thank you for praying for us. We'll be in Togo in just a few days, going full-out to get everything set up for the new outreach. There will be new nurses to train, new translators to meet, new stories to learn.

And somewhere, on the far side of the ocean, there might just be a handful of kids sending prayers up to Abba for us. Which is why I'll keep writing, keep telling all those stories. Because they're not just praying for me; they're praying for the babies with the cleft lips, the ladies who have been wet for years, the old men blinded by cataracts.

The worship leader at our community meeting last night said it perfectly, I think.

We are going to Togo because God is already there.

We are going to meet God there, all of us, because we are all part of this work. You and me and the little girl who sent me the money from her piggy bank to help pay for a package she sent me. Whether you realize it or not, you are part of this work, part of this awesome privilege as we get a front row seat to the piecing-together of shattered lives.

And that, my friends, deserves an exclamation point!

Others went out on the sea in ships; they were merchants on the mighty waters.
They saw the works of the Lord, his wonderful deeds in the deep.
For he spoke and stirred up a tempest that lifted high the waves.
They mounted up to the heavens and went down to the depths; in their peril their courage melted away.
They reeled and staggered like drunken men; they were at their wits' end.
Then they cried out to the Lord in their trouble, and he brought them out of their distress.
He stilled the storm to a whisper; the waves of the sea were hushed.
They were glad when it grew calm, and he guided them to their desired haven.
(Psalm 107:28-30)

It seems that there was at least one crew of Biblical sailors who set out in a flat-bottomed ferry, or I'm not sure they would have been able to describe our experience over the last few days quite so accurately.

Take a protractor (if you're nerd enough to have one of those on you) and measure out twenty-five degrees off the vertical. Now imagine your house, the room you're in right now, tilting that far to one side. Then snapping back upright. And doing the same in the other direction, all in the space of not-so-many seconds. Think your room would survive that with any kind of grace? Not much on the ship did. We were sleepless and rattled, the galley a mass of spilled milk that no one, thankfully, was crying over. (They're tough like that.) As for myself, I spent the time sleeping and revisiting any meals I had been foolish enough to chance.

But today? Oh, today is a different story. Yesterday evening the swells had died down enough that waves weren't crashing over the bow, and we were finally allowed out there to revel in the sunset, a performance we happily repeated today. And now I'm going to bed, where I intend to stay for the whole night. Tonight, there will be no crashings of dishes not properly padded in cupboards. There will be no mad dashes out of bed to see what went bump in the night, dashes that end up turning into full-out sprints (and possibly collisions with the far wall) when the ship pitches forward at just the right time.

No, tonight is for sleep. And tomorrow is for eating the peach cobbler that my now-non-queasy stomach allowed me to make a little while ago. And that, my friends, is good enough reason to be glad.