preparation

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!

Here's another old post, this one from the beginning of August. It seems to me that every time I read back my own words, I find myself realizing all over again why it is that I'm quitting my job, packing up and heading to the other side of the world.

.....

This is going to be long, but I guess I had one today. I was precepting a new hire, a middle-aged woman who came right out and told me that she had missed her true calling as a veterinarian, was just in nursing for the money and thus was going to be unhappy for the rest of her life. Needless to say, it was a difficult 12 hours, compounded by the fact that my patient was slipping backwards.

We're talking about a baby I have poured blood, sweat and tears into over the past month. Literally. He's been getting worse rather than better over the past days, and the outlook is darker than ever. I had to explain this to the parents when they arrived to visit. Four dark brown eyes locked on mine, trusting me to lead them through the tangle of their son's life. If only I could see my own way clear ...

They explained to me that, in their culture, it's traditional to shave the baby's head during the first week of life. The hair is "dirty", and shaving it allows the baby to have a clean start at life. The dad didn't meet my eyes as he quietly told me that they had thought he would come home, but now, 39 days into this, they realize that things aren't going as planned, and is there any way we could do it for them?

I had to decide at that point. Give report, pass off the task, end one of the more difficult days I've had in recent memory and walk away? Tempting. And then, unbidden, the image of Christ, kneeling, towel around his waist, taking one dirty foot after another into his hands, washing, drying. A clean start.



The night nurse and I warmed water, got soap and razors and set to work. We carefully placed his soft, black hair into an envelope for his parents to take home. The room was quiet. I looked up and saw his mother smiling. Dad took a picture on his camera. Then recorded a video. And then ten more pictures. Smiles and laughter in the face of terrible suffering.

And this is why I do it. The least of these, Christ says; whatever you do for the least of these, you're doing it for me. Surely this baby is among the very smallest and saddest of God's creations, but today, for the briefest of moments, I got a glimpse at how He must have felt that night.

Hope and healing.

I originally wrote this on July 27th, the day after I got the tattoo. This being a place to record my African journey, I figure it's only appropriate to repost it here.

.....

The question is, I suppose, warranted; it comes quickly on the heels of surprise. "Why?"

There are two reasons. The one is so cliched that I feel lame just telling people about it. Just know that it's a story about a little girl who loved her daddy very much and a daddy who loved both her little girl and the stars, and so everything was as it should be. The other reason is, perhaps, more important, although it's hard to tell.

I've lived in New Jersey all my life, in a quiet suburban town with very few stars; we're too close to New York for that. Growing up, I spent long, idyllic days at Camp, drinking in God's creation. I used to throw myself down on the soccer field or the archery range and stare up at the sky late into the night, amazed by how many stars I could see. It's quiet at Camp, set apart from the rest of the world. It's easy to be close to God there, tucked away in His hills.

I grew up, and God put me on a plane and sent me to Zambia, to live in the bush for a startling, dusty, variegated summer. Every night, just before the generator went off, my housemate and I would boil a kettle full of water. The lights would go off, and silence would descend on the hill. We would drag our chairs outside and sit, mugs of bush tea in hand, our hearts emptied of everything but the stars. I talked to her once about how I have a hard time staying close to God. How I get distracted. She thought for a long moment before replying, simply, in her broken English, "But that's why God bring you here. It's quiet in the bush. You can hear Him here."

For the rest of my life, no matter where I am, no matter how busy my life becomes, I'll carry this reminder with me: Stop. Look up. He is there, and He is so desperately in love with you.

That's why I did it. Because I'm forgetful.

My name is Alison. Call me Ali. (That felt so Moby Dick for a moment there.) I'm 24 years old and I've been a nurse in the pediatric intensive care unit (PICU) for the last two years and change. I live at home with my parents and my sister in a quiet New Jersey town not far from New York City. I teach Sunday School and lead youth group. I am a photographer.

I am comfortable.

Perhaps that last is the reason for all of this. The reason that God tapped me on the shoulder, dropped me to my knees and told me I'm headed to Africa for ten months. The reason that I'm no longer able to stay here, quietly living out my life in the confines of suburban America. The reason that, despite the two years of seniority (and being that much closer to Christmases at home), I'm quitting my dream job in less than two months.

I'll be getting on a plane and heading for Freetown, Sierra Leone. I'm going to be serving as a volunteer nurse on board the world's largest non-governmental hospital ship, the Africa Mercy. I'll be part of a team, made up of volunteers from around the world, that provides free surgeries to the world's most desperate poor. I will be paying to live in cramped quarters, work long hours and be away from my family for the better part of a year. I have never been so excited in all my life.

.....

I met a man who hails from just outside Freetown at a church I visited this summer. Joseph shook my hand about seven times in the space of our short conversation, a wide smile cracking his face from ear to ear. We stood in the quiet sanctuary after the service, and I asked him what I should know before I went. The smile faltered for a moment as his brow furrowed. "Have you seen poverty before?"

I thought I had that one covered. You see, I was in Africa before. Nine weeks is hardly long enough even to get settled, but I was changed by my time in the Zambian bush. I saw, for the first time (American child that I am), poverty. I saw children die from malaria, malnutrition and gastroenteritis. I sat in my room at night and cried because these deaths could have been prevented.

I explained this to Joseph. He took my hand again. "Sister," he said softly, "that is Zambian poverty. That is bush poverty. In Sierra Leone, you will see war poverty. It is very different."

.....

I don't know how I'm going to do this. I find myself overwhelmed by the magnitude of it. But I know God has plans for me. Hope and future. That much He has promised. So off I go. I'll keep a chronicle here. And I'll come back at the end of next year changed in ways I can't even begin to anticipate.

I can't wait.