community

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.

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!