Many things can change, but some things never will

The hopefulness this season brings....

It's no secret that Christmas is my favorite time of year. The countdown lasts all year, but December 1st brings an uncontainable excitement. Lights, trees, Advent, cookies, baking, hot chocolate, shopping and presents, more baking, cold weather....I could go on and on.

It's also no secret that Christmas this year was different than any before. I had no idea what to expect during the season. I wasn't even sure if that excitement would still be there, or if I would simply spend those weeks missing family and home, waiting for the holidays to pass. Sure, the ship went all out with decorations and celebrating with numerous activities special to the crew members from around the world. We had Advent services each Sunday evening, a Nutcracker ballet performance, a visit from Sinterklaas, and a beautiful night of singing as we celebrated Santa Lucia. Doors and hallways were decorated, holiday parties were had, Christmas cookies were baked. Trying to bring bits of home to this international community that is unlike any other.

The beauty of this season, however, came not from any planned activities or watching hours of Christmas movies with friends in pajamas. It was the unexpected moments.

A windows down, country music playing loud, Land Rover full of friends drive out of the city on Christmas Eve eve. Watching the sun sink lower behind the ocean on the horizon, across the gorge, the wind bringing the sounds and smells that are only Africa.

Witnessing the faithful friendship of our non-medical crewmates to our patients.

Remember Rovel (star crafter from a few weeks ago)? A few days before Christmas, he had his second stage surgery and we saw his personality fade away, only wanting to stay in bed. He was mad, he did not like what had been done in surgery, as he now had to keep his head tilted toward his left shoulder. So he pouted.

The night of our Australian Candlelight and Carols on the dock, each of these guys came to the ward to convince him to join. To no avail. He was "tired." Content to sit beside me at the computer and watch me type words that he does not understand. Then we offered to take him to one of the upper decks, where he could look down and watch. A hint of a smile.

Because I had forgotten. He is only a young teenager. Who has had his face attached to his shoulder. Who doesn't have the luxury of a private room, rather a room full of 14 other patients and their caregivers. I wish you could have seen him wave to his friends down on the dock. Then the friends that joined him on Deck 7 :)

Christmas Eve, where we set our shoes outside our doors and joined the rest of the crew for the lighting of the final advent candle. No, we did not all raise candles during Silent Night, but instead we sang verses in French, Swedish, Dutch, Spanish, Norwegian, German, and English.

Waking Christmas morning to shoes full of cards, treats, and gifts. Blessed by the generosity, thoughtfulness, and creativity of the people here.

 



Spending Christmas week with these friends.....

Being "hospitable" during Open Cabin



Christmas Eve eve drive

Christmas Eve pancake breakfast

 

Watching Elf with Rovel during his daily dressing changes, hearing him giggle when Buddy eats a plate of spaghetti noodles and maple syrup, or seeing him dance along with the scene in the mail room.

 

Laughing as he shakes his head and rolls his eyes, because the Christmas tree headband I am wearing is ridiculous.

 

 

Seeing him smile when he realized that when he said his favorite color was vert (green) it means he gets green head bandages.

 

Or the colors of the Congo flag if its a special day!

 

And perhaps my favorite moment thus far, hearing him say "Wow, thank you!" when he looks at his face after the bandage comes off, and he finally likes what he sees.

"I know it's true, time doesn't stand still. many things can change, but some things never will. The memories we share, the songs we always sings, the mystery of life, the hopefulness this season brings....Always sentimental and don't you know that it's gonna be a Christmas to remember"


"A Christmas to Remember"- Amy Grant

And how could such a thing

 

'And how could such a thing

Shine its light on me

And make everything beautiful again'

 

 

Our season of many good-byes has come to an end. We saw handfuls of friends off at the dock, heading to the airport, to where God has called them next. It ends what was a long few weeks of "see you laters" to those who in this short few months have come to be close friends.

Friendships here are hard to describe. You live, work, play, and sleep together. It is hard to find alone time. We are here for a common purpose, so bonds are easily formed. Friends are never more than a minute away and someone is always willing to get coffee or watch a movie!

But there are drawbacks to this kind of community. It is hard to find time alone. On a bad day, you still have to interact with people. (or stay in your cabin and starve...)

Day to day life can be hard. As I have said before, I have had to let go of so many expectations I had about being here. One being that by month 4, I would be settled, loving every moment, and feeling that I've got the hang of this. Most days I do, but there are also days where feelings of doubt and unmet expectations creep in. 

In these friendships, you are starting from scratch. I thought this a disadvantage. As much as I thought I was prepared for this experience and things I was anticipating learning, I was not. The self I became after living here only a few short weeks was a semi-exposed version, stripped of my comforts of home and my routines, a self that I usually keep very well protected behind quite a few walls and layers. This was the person these friends had to meet first. Not the me from home, who I thought (and still some days think) is the better version.

This self here struggled. To find my place and figure out what I am doing here. I came longing to make a difference in the lives of the people here, and many days I wonder if that is what I am actually doing here. Is what I am doing enough, even when it looks so different than what I had imagined? And what comes next?

My friends here have accepted this version of me. They listen to me. They encourage me. Every Wednesday, these friends gather on Deck 6 to check in about life together. One of our last Wednesdays before we begin to disperse, (and by we, I mean they, I'm staying here :) our South African friends were going to wash our feet.

We all waited, then they brought us over one by one to wash our feet and pray over us. I stood at the back of the room, humbled by these friends. Watching each person be passionately prayed over and served by friends. These are some of the most selfless people I have known and I found myself wondering again about my place here.

Then it was my turn. With the beautiful South African accent, I was prayed over. Every thing I complained about or questioned 10 feet away at the back of the room was prayed over. It was a resounding "Yes. I hear you. I see you. I know you. That is all that matters."

I am reminded again this Advent season that our God is not a God of the expected. A king was expected; he sent a baby. I am learning unexpected lessons: to let go of the things I thought were good in me and realize the only thing that can ever be good in me is Jesus. To let go of the need to give things and learn to just give of myself. To not be sorry when real emotions surface, but thankful that someone is there to listen. To learn to live in anticipation of what He is doing, rather than in my own expectations.

That He be glorified in each moment and our true joy found in Him, maybe that is all that matters.
 
 

 

 

"Stars" - David Crowder

Merry Christmas...With Love

 

 

"Merry Christmas with Love" - Clay Aiken

You're brave and you're beautiful

This is Alisteria, Alice for short. She came to us from Uganda, brought by a veterinarian after being badly burned when she was little. She was a plastics patient, here to have work on her eye and ear reconstruction.

 

For the first few weeks she was in our isolation room, being treated for MRSA and having daily dressing changes. Every time you appeared at the window of her door, she would give a little wave, cock her head to the side, and give you a little smile. She patiently tilted her head as you wound the bandage around her head.

 

She moved to B ward when her infection had cleared and it was time for her first surgery. Many days she sat on her bed and colored, talking quietly to her dad in their own local language.

 

 

This week I visited her at the HOPE Center. Instead of a timid smile, these days she greets you with a mischievous smile, and says "I'm fine," knowing you will ask "How are you?" We sat under the shade of a small tree- Donald, one of our max fax guys with a walking stick that he uses to keep the children of the HOPE center in line, Gerril, one of the teenage plastics patients, and Eliezer, another teenage plastics patient.

 

 

Alice sat with us for about 5 minutes. She doesn't sit quietly alone anymore. More of her personality comes out. She's a bully. She runs up behind the boys and flicks their ears. Grabs their arms and pulls them out of their chairs. Tries to push them over. Instead of getting mad, they playfully fight back. They tickle her, chase her, and run from her when she pulls branches off the tree to hit them. They playfully wrestle, then ease up when she cries and runs to Donald.

I was telling that story back at the ship later that evening. "She needs discipline," someone said. But there's more to Alice than a lack of discipline.

After she was burned, she was kept in a shack next to her family's home. Two pits were dug in the ground. One for the skin of her face as it fell off. Another for her, should the infection kill her. (There are pictures, but I couldn't access the website to post them here.) She was isolated and abandoned. Yet she survived. Years of surgeries came after this veterinarian took her into his care. Many still await her.

A spirit of survival and self-preservation are rooted deep within her. Not only physically, but emotionally. She fights, she endures, she doesn't like to show weakness. These walls she has built are high. But slowly, we are breaking them down. Gerril and Eliezer, who don't lose patience with her and play until she is exhausted. Donald, who wraps his arms around her when she cries. Nurses, who took her outside after all the other patients so that she didn't have to stay in the isolation room every day and who adorned her bandage with stickers and bows. Doctors, who are changing her face. Each one reminding her that she is brave, and she is beautiful.

"Fight Like a Girl" - Bomshel

I only get so many minutes...

My list of things I would like to accomplish here is consistently getting longer. Learn French. Read the books on my ever growing list. Blog. Be consistent in my bible study. Build relationships. Explore Congo. Among other things.

When I first arrived, I had no idea how I would fill my days off. And now I find myself wondering when I will have time to do all these things.

Last week, before I was going to head to the gym, I snuck into the ward to snuggle this small before her surgery. She had been admitted Friday to receive antibiotics over the weekend before her surgery Monday, and I made sure she found her way to my arms at every free moment.

I found all the patients crafting away. All the patients we have on the ward, besides Sahira (who was already in surgery) are teenage boys. Colored paper, scissors, glue, stickers, popsicle sticks, water colors, glitter glue, and crayons were all spread over an empty bed. Emmanuel was spelling his name out of popsicle sticks. Andredi was putting gobs of glitter glue on stars. Rouel was coloring. Ghislain was sitting with paper in his hands.

I stood and observed their silent crafting for a few minutes before Emmanuel went and got me a stool to sit and join them. I was handed some scissors and paper and with a few hand motions, instructed to cut. I began to cut strips for a paper chain and soon Ghislain joined me. I taped a few together and that's all he needed to see. Paper chain = done.

I began to make pieces of an intricate paper star, which requires cutting, twisting, and taping individual pieces of paper, then stapling 5 or 6 together to make a star. Rouel picked up the first piece I made, studied it, then grabs his own piece of paper and begins to make his own. With little to no instruction, he made the second, third, fourth, and fifth pieces. We then staple it together and his eyes get big at the finished product. We attach a string, I point to the ceiling and shrug my shoulders, asking where we should hang it. He leads me to his bed and points right above his pillow. Of course :)

As the next shift of nurses arrive and prepare to take the patients to Deck 7, I realize we have been crafting for over an hour. Rouel gathers all the papers, scissors, tape, and stapler. Then he motions for me to come- we are going to craft during our time outside. I tidy up the craft area and follow obediently. We make several more stars and he teaches other patients how to make them while we are upstairs.

 

After I leave the wards later that afternoon, I remember all the things on my to- do list that seemed so important that morning. Momentarily I think of all the other things I could have done during that time. But then I remember their smiles as they hung their paper chains and placed all of their names in order. How these boys sat together, communicating with grunts and pointing, maybe for the first time, with peers their own age. They each had lived with facial deformities which made them different.




Here, they were all the same. Each was in a various stage of recovery, one has his jaw wired shut, one has steri-strips all around his mouth and chin, one has a bandage covering his whole head, and the other wears a jaw support.

They are all seen. Not for their deformity, but for the personality that is revealed a little more each day as they recover. They are all loved, for their creativity, for their jokes, and for the lessons they teach us.

 

"Time is Love" - Josh Turner

You should see the stars tonight, how they shimmer shine so bright

I know it's been quite a while since I have blogged. Life here, day to day, has become 'normal' to me and not quite blog worthy. I was waiting for something remarkable to happen, for us to go on a big adventure, or to have a patient story to tell. And in fact, all of these things have happened. Just not in the way I was expecting.

 

Last weekend we went camping on the beach. 15 of my closest friends here on the ship piled into a mini-bus taxi and headed out of the city to a desolate beach location.

 

The weather was perfect as we hung our hammocks and pitched tents. We spent the afternoon walking the beach, swimming, and laying around discussing life with friends.

  

My bed

View from my hammock

 

The sunset was beyond beautiful. I snapped a few pictures, then set down my camera, not wanting to miss the majesty of the colors and knowing it would never look the same from behind a lens. We made dinner over the fire, played Catch Phrase by light of head lamps, introduced our non-American friends to s'mores, and then spread out on the beach to look at the stars.
 

 

Being in the port, stars are rarely visible from the ship. With rainy season, the skies are often overcast as well. This night was made for us. Though there were clouds, the sky above us cleared and the stars were brilliant.

I lay on my towel thinking that this is not why I came to Africa- to lay on a beach under the most perfect sky; I came to work, to serve. But at the same time, this is exactly why I came to Africa. To experience a glimpse of His glory, while laying in a deserted beach on the coast of Congo, under a blanket of stars, with people who inspire me to be better, day in and day out.

 

At the edge of the water at night, when you ran your foot over the wet sand, the sand began to glow. Our South African friends called this the 'flourescents.' It was amazing.

 

At some point in the middle of the night, rainy season came. We cowered in tents and hammocks under tarps. It cleared for the sunrise and breakfast, and then returned. We played cards, read, laughed, and talked more. We packed up in the rain, hiked through the bush, and hoped our taxi man would return to fetch us. When he did, we piled our sopping selves inside and napped all the way home.

 

 

But we smiled. Because this is life. No matter your circumstances, there is joy to be found. Here, every day I am finding more and more, that it is the people I am surrounded with.

To be continued...

"Stars"- David Crowder

Photo Credit: Dr. Van Dorssen, Karyn, and me

I once was blind, but now I see

Every week, we get to be a part of life changing surgeries for the patients on our wards. Sometimes the healing for them can be a long slow process.

But every once in a while, we slip out to the dock at 1:15 in the afternoon to experience these moments. To hear the beat of the African drum, the pounding of their dancing feet, and see the joy in their faces.

 

  

 

These are our cataract patients. Their recovery time is quickest and their joy immediately evident. 

I've thought about joy these past few weeks. Sometimes it's evident in life, easily flowing out of my heart. And other times I have to search for it. To choose each day to have joy.  

I want joy like this to flow from my heart each day. Even when I have to work a day shift (evenings are my favorite around here!) Or am working when all my friends have the day off. Or am just missing home. I choose to remember the joy that I have been given, just like these cataract patients, I once was blind, but now I see. 

A few weeks ago a media team from France came and did a documentary on the ship. We took care of Natasha, a patient featured here, on our ward. 

http://www.france24.com/en/20131024-down-earth-hospital-vessel-health-mercy-ships-africa-training 


"Amazing Grace" - Hullabahoos