ali's african adventures

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.

Shore leave expires tomorrow morning.

For the normal person, this means nothing. For us on the ship, it means everything needs to be tied down and secured, something I spent a good chunk of this morning doing. (The sore wrist and awkwardly placed cut on my hand from where a rogue sink fell on me were a little extra bonus.)

It means one last extra load of laundry, one last long, hot shower where you let the water run while you shampoo your hair, knowing full well that once we leave the dock we'll be on water restrictions for the next six months.

It means sitting on the dock, staring at the shadows of the mountains against the night sky, not knowing if you'll ever see them again and not really caring, because shore leave expiring is the anticipation of sunsets over the open ocean, dolphins at the bow and, in about a week and a half, the warm, red smell of Africa.

I'm sitting on my bed and from my porthole I can see the captain walking along the dock, making final checks of the mooring lines we'll soon be throwing off. The HoJ is playing football with friends from Canada and Australia and Italy, and over the sea wall the dark ocean stretches out like a promise.

There's talk of wind and waves, so I'm afraid my new-found love for sailing might disappear just as easily as it found me, but despite the forecast, I can't wait. It feels a little like Christmas Eve, only this time the present waiting under the tree is a whole new country to experience.

We sail for Togo tomorrow. A whole new country, filled with people living stories I haven't yet heard. We haven't left the port, and I'm already impatient to arrive.

It's been ages, hasn't it? Since I've blogged? Truth be told I've just been taking a break. Stepping back from the whirlwind of this past year and just breathing. When I sit down and think about, when I realize that, within the last twelve months, I've been in eight countries on four continents, it makes me lightheaded. I got married, I moved back to Africa and then my home sailed to Spain. In a couple of weeks it'll head back south again, to yet another country, yet another language to learn. This, frankly, all seems insane. When I look at my life, written out in black and white like that, I can't imagine what I'm doing. Why I'm crazy enough to want this.

Because wanting this means missing them, the little ones who drool on my shoulders and snuggle into my arms to fall asleep with round bellies and soft fingers wrapped around mine. It means I see photos on Facebook and pray that they'll remember me when I come back to visit. And inevitably they don't, and I have to smile while I ask them if they know my name and the whole time my heart is breaking just a little because they never do.

Wanting this means I miss out on seasons, on the crisp fall air and the smell of damp earth in the spring. Granted, it means I skip the slush and frost of winter, but it also means I don't see snowflakes, perfectly formed, falling to land in clusters on my eyelashes and sleeves and the mittens my friend knitted for me, the ones I never get to wear because it's too hot for mittens in Africa.

But this, all this messing about in boats, in the end this has much to recommend it. When I came back this time after being at home for a couple of weeks visiting family in the States and Canada, I was amazed at how it all smelled like the sea when I walked onto the dock. All around me were the sounds of waves and the lights of the city reflected on the water and it smelled like the sea in summertime. I don't usually smell it, accustomed to it from long familiarity. But then I went away and came back and the salty breeze whispered to me that maybe I should never have left in the first place.

Because at nighttime there are crickets here in Tenerife, singing underneath the palm trees. We walk through the streets and I'm holding a stranger's hand, only he isn't a stranger; he's the one I love the most. And I'm stepping off street curbs without ever looking because he went first and I know he's not going to steer me wrong when my fingers are curled into the callouses on his palm. We're walking in the alleys of a Spanish city, the stones uneven underfoot and the clock in the church tower pealing out the hour, and none of this seems strange to me. It feels like home, and when I can stop thinking and analyzing and just let myself be, I realize that it is.

I always thought home was a fixed address, the one place you plant your roots and claim forever; I'm starting to realize that my home is nowhere and everywhere. It's in New Jersey and Toronto and Liberia and Ecuador. Home is this ship and a dock in Benin and a farmhouse in a small town in Ontario. It's where I've been and where I've yet to go, and it's all of these places at once. And I guess that's why I want this life. Because this life means I get to be home in Africa.

And I can't wait to be there again.




(Where's home for you?)

I'm sitting here on the first day of the new year, and I don't feel any different. Twenty-six and I'm already jaded, becoming numb to the passage of time, it seems. My dad put it best, around 12:02 this morning. The most wilting hour of the year is the one right after midnight on New Year's. Right then you feel like everything should be different, everything should be new. But all I felt was tired. Not full of the promise of the new year, just ready for bed.

Which is why I'm glad I've been keeping a blog, writing down my experiences and putting them out there for strangers to read. (Hi strangers!) Because I just spent the better part of an hour flipping through the electronic pages of my journal here, and I can see how far I've come.

I was so lost when this year started. Just home after the most incredible year of my life, and I had no idea where I fit in. Being in Liberia had changed me in some fundamental way, and it wasn't until I went to Texas in February for a training course that I realized just how different my perspective on the world was. I finally realized just how blind I had been.

Life went on from there in a whirl of wedding preparations, and on May ninth I married the love of my life, Phil, herein referred to as the Husband of Joy. The wedding was a blast, but I didn't feel truly settled until I was back on the ship, a place I'm coming to see more and more as my home.

In Benin this time, I met a little baby who took my heart and filled it with love. Love, which was what I needed when I stood at the head of a line of people and one by one closed my ears to their cries, one by one told them no. And just when I thought I couldn't go on, when I thought I was far too breakable to be doing this work, God reminded me that with Him, I'm enough.

The year picked up speed from then on in, with patients that seemed sicker than ever. I turned twenty-six, my second birthday in a row on a ship, and I got a present that I really hadn't expected. Just when it all seemed to be going well again, with babies gaining weight and getting better, and just when I thought that the year was going to hold so much less tragedy than the last one, baby Hubie got so sick. I cared for him, watched him struggle, and on the Monday morning when he went back to Jesus, my heart was shattered.

God has a funny way of picking up the pieces, though, and soon enough I had stepped into a new role, one that challenged me in so many ways, made me think about anything but myself. The challenge was never so great as when we were caring for the VVF ladies.

It seemed fitting that the year ended with my favourite story, the one of Wasti and his mama. It was the first time I had ever needed to know how much a cow costs, and it was the perfect way to end the outreach.

We closed our doors on on November 27th, after I discharged the very last patient, Benedicte, and the ship prepared to sail. We left Benin and I was fully epecting to spend the next twelve days being miserable and seasick. Instead, God showered blessings on me, and I enjoyed sunsets and dolphins and all the stars ever.

And so here I am, after all that. I look back at it and I know that I'm not the same person I was on this day a year ago. I've grown so much. I've learned to love more deeply, to cry more freely and to laugh with even more joy. My heart has been broken and pieced back together what feels like a thousand times, and of course I'm not the same.

I can't be the same when my heart is so different, when everything is new.

Never have I fought so hard for so little sleep.

It's two in the morning, and all I want to do is rest. Instead, I'm being tossed around my cabin, woken up at frequent intervals by creakings and crashings all over the ship, my body pulled back and forth by the incessant pitch and roll of my floating world. This, my friends, is not what I signed up for.

It started last night when the ship started to encounter something the captain is referring to as Big Swell. To my less-seaworthy self, that's code for Dear God, Please Let This Be Over Soon, or Why Ferries Should Not Sail on the Open Sea.

I took these photos yesterday at sunrise, standing on the far side of Deck Eight, when all the rocking and rolling was still mildly entertaining. There's maybe a three second gap between the two, illustrating quite profoundly (if I do say so myself) why flat-bottomed train ferries should most likely not be sailing around on the big blue ocean, however smooth that ocean may look to the untrained eye.

Yesterday was funny, in a sort of I didn't get any sleep, but I'm going to enjoy this anyway kind of way. People staggered through the halls, leaning at crazy angles to offset the rolling, and with each big heave, something, somewhere would hit the ground. Small children, who didn't have any sense of how to compensate, wove back and forth across the floors, their steps directed for them. Plates slid back and forth on the tables, and with each lurch I felt a little less like I wanted to be a part of all of this.

Tonight, I'm just tired. HoJ and I are attempting to sleep sideways across our bed, hoping that a side-to-side roll will be more successful than the head-to-toe one that left us sorely sleep-deprived last night. Thus far, I've got nothing to report, other than the obvious; it's two in the morning, and I'm blogging. Because the ship has plans for me, and I'm pretty sure they don't include peaceful slumber.

Are we there yet?

During this sail, with the weather being as perfect as it has been, the nurses have started a tradition of having morning devotions out on the bow. Today, I headed out a little early to spend some time alone before everyone arrived. I came armed with my camera, just in case I saw some flying fish or something.

Or something turned out to be more that I expected.

I stood at the railing, staring down at the churning water, and all of a sudden it was alive with twisting forms. A whole pod of dolphins were racing the ship, playing the the spray kicked up by the hull, jumping with every splash the ship made. Within minutes all the nurses had joined me, and we stood there, mesmerized. Their sleek forms looked for all the world like they would be overtaken, but at the last minute, they would roll free, jumping out of the way.


I'd never seen anything like it, and I never expected to be treated to a repeat performance, but that's exactly what happened. Neatly marking my day like bookends, just before dinner another family came to play. I call this one a family, because there were mamas and babies, the little ones learning to jump and play, too. There were even more this time, and while we watched, others joined them, swimming right at the ship and turning at the very last minute to leap out of the spray.

And now, here I am. Blogging about dolphins when I should be well asleep, a feat that's proving near impossible tonight since the ship is rocking more than it has this entire voyage. I can hear our dishes sliding around in their cupboards, and it's taking much more effort than usual to not fall out of bed.

Oh the wild joys of sailing.

Last year, when I was silent all during the sail, it was because I was flat in my bed, trying vainly to keep the contents of my stomach where they rightfully belonged. This year, I'm silent because I'm having the time of my life.

The sail has been wonderful so far. The seas have been calm, the weather near perfect. I spend long hours on the bow, listening to the waves smash against the hull of the ship, the sun beating down on my head. The jobs I should be doing on the computer have been printed out and clipped into a binder, because I can't bear to work inside.

We've turned the corner now, heading north past Liberia and Sierra Leone, and the air is starting to carry the faintest hint of chill. The wind is stronger, the waves a little higher, and still I am not sick. I wake up each morning so thankful for another day, and all I keep thinking is, This is amazing. I never have to dread sailing again!

Last night was the best part of all of this.

I carried a sleeping bag and a mattress from the hospital up the five flights of stairs to deck eight, where I staked out a corner next to some dear friends. We snuggled into our hoodies and blankets while the ship rocked us gently and overhead the moonless sky was strewn with a million stars. The Milky Way was a pale band arching over the ship, and Sirius shone out, brighter than all the others. Through the binoculars, we saw galaxies and nebulae and stars stars stars. And over and over, one would break rank, streaking towards us in a blaze of light.

I've seen meteor showers before, but this was something new. This was God, wanton in His creation, forming stars by the billion and throwing them across the sky for my pleasure. This was Heaven, bending over me, spinning and whirling with the movement of the waves. This was everything that is Right about God, everything that is More.

Earlier in the evening, I had been at church where we lit the third Advent candle. Week by week, we are getting closer to the Light. Day by day, His coming is closer, and then I went outside and He was all around me, dancing among the falling stars and whispering from the darkness.

This is for you. I did this all for you; I knew you would love this. My deepest desire is for you to know my Joy, and so I did this for you.

I'm brought to my knees when I think that He left all that for me. That He gave up walking among the stars and came to be laid in a feeding trough. The Consolation of Israel, crying out for his mama in the night. The Light of the World, shutting his little eyes against the morning sun. Immanuel. God with us, nestled in a young woman's arms.

Early this morning I woke to see the sky painted with the colours of sunrise, the stars hidden behind the light of a new day. As I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, one last star fell, streaking past the fingernail moon hanging low over the waters. One last reminder, one last proof.

Stars fall and He is so near.

We are at sea. For now, everything is calm, the water like blue rippled glass and I'm going to enjoy it for as long as I possibly can. I know that within the next few days, when we head north and start cutting across the current, I'm most likely going to be in the same boat I was at this time last year. Until that happens, I'm going to enjoy the sail for as long as possible.

I'm going to head out to the bow and watch the sun set as we sail towards it. I'm going to stand at the stern and stare at the wake, churning and aqua, the only thing to break to monotony of open ocean as I look behind us. I'm going to lie on Deck Eight with a million stars spinning above me.



And somewhere in the midst of all of that, I'm going to realize that I've left Africa again. It took me by surprise this time. One minute I was on the dock, throwing out my trash in the blinding heat, and the next we were pulling away from our berth, crew lining the rails and waving their goodbyes. I feel vaguely unsettled, like I should feel more. Leaving Liberia was like ripping a piece of my heart out, but this farewell to Benin has been much less drastic, and I'm not sure why.

But I've got the next nine days or so to ponder while we sail up to Tenerife, so I'll make the most of my time. (If I'm not seasick, that is.)


(The photo of Phil and I was taken by Murray, and it's a re-creation of one we took last year on the first day of sailing. I was headed home, getting ready to introduce Phil to my family, and he was waiting to get my Dad's blessing before proposing to me. Today is our seven month wedding anniversary. What a difference a year makes...)

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)