ali's african adventures

Yesterday, when I was writing to you about my adventures in Ghana, all I was thinking about was the little baby down in the ICU.

My office day had suddenly turned clinical when Jenn paged me. Can you help us with the baby, she asked, breathless, and then hung up. There was no question which baby she meant; Obre (or O'Brian; we're not entirely sure which name is his, since his mama uses them interchangeably) is the continuation of last week's sadness. At four months, Obre tips the scales at a hair over six and a half pounds, small even for a newborn. He has a bilateral cleft lip and palate, and was very, very sick.

Three seconds later, when I was at his bedside in B Ward, Jenn met my eyes and my heart sank as I realized that we were losing, that it all felt far too much like Baby Greg. We knelt together with Obre's nurse, holding the mask to his face as he struggled to breathe, and we knew that it wasn't looking good.

This time, though, we had something we didn't have back when Baby Greg was with us; a ventilator that can give support through a mask, the less invasive step before a breathing tube. With this huge tool in our arsenal, the decision was quickly made to transfer Obre to the ICU and let the ventilator help him breathe.

It took a long time to get him settled, and all the while I felt a sickening sense of déjà vu, watching his pitiful struggles mirroring Baby Greg's, so long ago. All that kept running through my mind was, But we lost Baby Greg. And we lost Ani. And we can't lose any more. It took forever, but Obre was finally settled and I headed to bed, fully expecting to come to work in the morning and find that he had deteriorated overnight to the point of needing the breathing tube.

Instead, the ship is buzzing with news of the miracle.

Around midnight, Obre started to spiral downwards, his heart racing and his oxygen saturations falling. His nurse, Natalie, tried every trick in the book, but soon realized that nothing was helping. She called anesthesia who called Dr. Gary and they gathered around the baby in the dark of the night. They quickly decided to intubate, since there was no way Obre would survive otherwise. Natalie and another ICU nurse, Jenny, moved to collect supplies and draw up medications, preparing for the procedure. As they worked, they looked over to see Dr. Gary, his head bowed, hands on the baby, praying to Jehovah Rophi. It was 12:20.

At 12:25, Obre's oxygen saturations increased from sixty to a hundred percent. His racing heart slowed to normal, and the bewildered nurses put down the tools they had collected. The surgeon and anesthetist slipped away, and Obre was left, requiring just a little oxygen blowing hear his face to keep him stable. No mask. No tube. No ventilator. Absolutely no medical explanation.

There was a miracle last night. My heart has been full to bursting all day long knowing that God is so absolutely here. That He cares for each little sparrow baby, knowing that this one was falling and intervening in a way that leaves no room for doubt.

As I type, our sparrow baby is either tucked into a nest of pillows and blankets or snuggled into his mama's arms, where he's been all day, breathing easily.

We had a miracle last night. Do you know how exciting it is to be able to say that?

Ghana was incredible. The HoJ always refers to it as The Promised Land, and after this past weekend, I'm starting to understand why.

Number one on my list of requirements for a good time in West Africa is not getting in a car accident. That criterion was met in the hideously green taxi van that took us from the border up to Hohoe, where we were planning to hike up to the Wli Falls. The drive was surprisingly uneventful, following a border crossing that involved several repetitive forms to fill out, a run-in with a guard who didn't want to let Jenn out of Togo because she couldn't produce a visa and a rather hostile money changer who was furious that the new guy on his team gave the Yovos a fair exchange rate.

When we arrived at the Wli Water Heights Hotel, the air was still under a grey sky. We were sweaty and stiff from a long ride over dirt roads, and falling into the chairs outside our rooms was the only thing we wanted. And when it started to rain and the wind gusted the cool mist through the archway in front of us, letting it settle on our skin was heaven.

After resting for a while, we headed out to hike to the lower falls. I say hike with my tongue firmly in cheek; it was more of a wander through a beautiful jungle, crossing over the little wooden bridges that spanned the river and jumping over ant superhighways that stretched across the path.

The lower falls are spectacular, the pool shallow enough that you can stand right under the rushing water. We swam and played, and on the way back, a little child came up to me with a bright red flower and I remembered how much I love being in English-speaking countries when he held it up to me and said, Please, it's for you. Take it.

Saturday morning dawned clear and warm, and we laced up shoes and filled our water bottles in preparation for the hike to the upper falls. There are two ways to reach there; either straight up from the lower falls, or the more circuitous and infinitely more spectacular loop. We, naturally, chose the loop, and with our guide Alfonso and his trusty machete (which was the single solitary thing he brought with him on the hike that nearly did us all in), we headed upwards.

When I say upwards, please don't think I'm exaggerating. A good portion of the hike consisted of scrambling up a slope steep enough that I was steadying myself with my hands. Other fun parts included when Alfonso had to hack through the bush with his machete and the part about how my friend Julle, just recovering from a nasty cold, was trying to make it up this mountain with the lung capacity of maybe a five year-old.

Needles to say, we stopped often, and I'd like to believe it was to admire the vistas unfolding around us. In reality, it probably had more to do with our poor stamina, but the fact remains that I spent that day in the midst of one of the most beautiful parts of creation.

The mountains rolled away into the haze, stacked behind each other and fading from green to grey. The cliffs were brown against impossibly green trees. And just when I thought I was on top of the world, I looked far far away to the other side of the valley to see a trickle of water against the rocks. There is the falls, Alfonso told us, pointing with his machete. That is where we are going.

At which point I wanted to give up, since I saw no logical or non-suicidal way of getting around to that little promise of water in the distance. It's a good thing the HoJ was there, though, because there was no way I was going to be a baby in front of him. So we pressed on, and all of a sudden we were at the edge of was was practically a cliff, and Alfonso was starting to go down. We, like idiots, followed, and this is where things got really interesting. (And also a little depressing, since we were losing ground that our screaming muscles had only grudgingly gained.)

Going down that slope was like the Three Stooges in triplicate for a good hour straight. Liz got stuck under a log. Tim almost tumbled off the path. Sam fell every three or four steps. There were constant little shrieks, and the sound of falling rocks behind you meant that you needed to start running to avoid a collision. One part even included rappelling down a slope using nothing but a vine. I kid you not, I think I'm related to Tarzan after that one.

When we finally reached the falls, it was worth every second of the hike. It was a tiny piece of heaven carved out of the jungle. A little sandy beach, surrounded by lilies and pale purple flowers blowing in the wind from the falling water. A cool mist hung in the air and the water was the most refreshing thing I have ever felt.

We lounged in the sun and played in the pool and ate our sandwiches listening to the roar of the water. If you click on the picture to the far right there, you can get the scale of the thing; the tiny little pale dots about a quarter of the way up on the right side are people.

All too soon the clouds started to gather and Alfonso let us know it was time to head out. We took the direct route back, so instead of gorgeous scenery and mountain breezes, we hiked straight down through the airless jungle. Down and down and down until our quads turned to jelly, knees buckled and several of us honestly considered sitting down and making our new homes right there among the trees. It was only the sound of the lower falls, getting louder and louder, that pulled us onwards, and finally when I was positive I couldn't get any hotter without some sort of spontaneous combustion, we found ourselves on level ground, minutes from relief.

We shared Fantas, sold by a man who must make a killing, and cooled off in the water before heading home to collapse in our beds and nap the afternoon away. The promised rain never came; instead, when night fell, the sky was lit up with flash after flash of lightning, the clouds silhouetted against its glare. And this is where the part about going with the best group ever comes into play. Because once we saw that lightning, with very little discussion, everyone took their chairs out to the courtyard where we lined up in two rows and sat down to watch the show for the next several hours, chatting all the while about who we would vote off the island first if we were all on Survivor. (Sorry, Jenn.)

And when the next morning dawned, we knew that, once again, all had been set right. The Saviour had risen, and so we gathered in a circle to remember Him. A half-stale slice from an old loaf and a bottle of lemon Fanta for the bread and wine, and communion has never tasted so sweet as on this Easter morning in Ghana. It was hard to swallow around the lump in my throat when I realized all over again that the God who spoke into place the mountain I had climbed was the one who was willing to taste death so that He could fix the world we broke. So I could find my way back to Him. That even a fallen creation could bring me to my knees in awe, and if it's all just a dim reflection of Him, that I'm breathless in anticipation of the real thing.

On the mountain, I kept thinking of Aslan in 'The Last Battle.' Further up and further in. Further up and further in and still I can't get to the end of the love that destroyed death.



(There are lots more photos here. I'd love to hear how you celebrated Easter with your families. Did you get to climb mountains? Hunt eggs? Did it mean anything new to you this year?)

I'll write about Ghana tomorrow, but right now all I can think about is Vincent.

He slipped away this morning, early, before I came on to work. His breathing slowed and then just. stopped. And I can't help thinking that, out of the whole year, this would be the best weekend to die; the weekend when no one doubts the truth of heaven, when the whole world is celebrating a risen Saviour. When all over the country there are huge gatherings of people in their finest clothes, dancing and singing under the palm trees because death has no sting.

No sting. Maybe that wasn't quite true this morning when I pulled back the curtain in the empty ward where he lay, when I saw his face, so still in death. It stung a little just then, until I remembered the truth, and for the first time I really understood what they mean when they say it'll set you free.

My heart was free then. To know that Vincent is no longer in pain, that he's resting in the arms of a God who is very much alive, very much in the business of putting things right. It was a feeling like breathing again after being underwater for far too long, like I noticed only just then that I'd been holding my breath for the past few weeks, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Only this time the falling shoe looks like peace and comfort and release.

All day, people have been coming to me to hug me and pay their condolences, and it feels like I should be standing at the foot of his coffin, receiving them in place of the ones who turned away. For the first time, the message on the captain's board didn't ask for prayer for the family, just for those who cared for him and today, for the first time, there was no difference between the two.

I lost a brother today, but it feels like flying to know that he is free.

In a word, this week has been brutal. It's been four days, but it feels like an eternity, and I'm absolutely drained. At this point I see only one option left open to me; I'm getting the heck out of Togo.

The HoJ and I, along with a group of friends, are heading out to Ghana tomorrow morning to spend the weekend relaxing and hiking and playing in waterfalls. I may be a nurse, but I'm pretty sure this is just what the doctor ordered.

I'll see you on the other side of Easter, when Christ has risen and everything is new again.