The Art of Reflection

so it's been 10 months...

2011-07-08T18:09:00.001-05:00

Have I lost my voice? Where are all the deep thoughts, the meaningful reflections, the heartfelt inquiries? I came home from West Africa 10 months ago and have not blogged since then. Not once. In fact, I left you, dear few and faithful blog readers, in Niger which is colossally unfair of me. Since then I returned to the ship in Togo, sailed to South Africa, traveled for two weeks in South Africa, flew home via Paris, and then spent two weeks in Seattle and another two in Rochester before settling in to a new life in Houston. I went to Hawaii for a family Thanksgiving, Mexico with my Minnesota girlfriends, and am currently in Minnesota about to embark on a canoeing adventure in the Boundary Waters. All of that to say, I can't possibly catch up on all that's happened between now and then, and I'm sorry about that. I'm sorry I left you hanging in Niger waiting for the conclusion of two intense weeks of VVF surgery.

My heart has not been up to blogging, I guess.

I've been home in the states now for 10 months, and I am still grappling with all of the changes that have happened. I suppose I'm mostly over the reverse culture shock, except there's this part of me that misses being in West Africa. Each day that passes lessens the grief a little. I've thought about it-- a lot-- and I can find no other word but grief for this ache that I'm living with on a daily basis. I find myself wondering what's happening at the fistula clinic in Niger and what's going on at the fistula hospital in Freetown Sierra Leone that my friend Sarah helps run. I wonder how things are going on the ship, how the nurses are doing, how lives are being changed. I miss being in the thick of things. I keep thinking about what my role would have been, had I returned to the ship this year.

I write this not because I feel the need for sympathy, but because some part of me simply needed to admit this publicly.

I don't imagine that my emotions would stand up to the light of scrutiny. Perhaps I miss feeling important, feeling needed, part of changing lives. It's heady stuff, doing the kind of work that Mercy Ships and the Worldwide Fistula Fund does. It could easily become addicting, feeling important, feeling useful to God as if he can't quite get things done without me. Which is of course laughable, but there you have it.

So here I am. I live with my parents in Houston and work full-time as a nurse at a community hospital a few minutes' drive away. I'm starting my master's degree in nursing this fall at the University of Texas in Houston. I commute 45 minutes each way to a wonderful church downtown although I have not yet made any friends or become connected there. I've fostered some really positive work relationships with coworkers. I've had cause to be thankful numerous times over for the blessing of being able to spend more time with my parents as they go through their own transitions in life.

And still, I ache.

I have no idea what the future holds, other than I'll be done with graduate school by next Christmas and be a family nurse practitioner (FNP). I keep hoping that I'll receive a clear call from God for whatever happens next, but then so far he seems to give me only just enough grace for right now, in this moment. It's so typical of me to want to run ahead of Him. I'm forever looking ahead to the next thing, all the while missing the very thing he has directly in front of me. I feel His whispering in my heart, slow down. Breathe deeply. Rest in me, in my presence, in my love for you, in the knowledge that all is well and all will be well.

Flower from a flame tree or tulip tree- I forget the name- in Hawaii.

fish lips

2010-10-06T17:12:00.000-05:00

Continuing to blog about my time in Niger working with the Worldwide Fistula Fund.

Saturday (day 10): fish lips

After all the hullabaloo of riding camels yesterday, we had to say goodbye to part of our team as they left to fly back to the US. Our team is splitting up now, before our patients are fully healed, because we have to maximize space (and thus finances) on the small plane it takes to fly from Maradi back to Niamey, the capital of Niger. It also doesn't take as much manpower to care for our patients now that the surgeries are finished, so it makes sense to have a smaller team. Three nurses (including myself) remain, and Dr. Steve.

From L to R: Dr. Steve (surgeon), Alainie (RN), Sarah (RN), myself (RN), Ginger (RN), Dr. Lewis (surgeon), and Greg (anesthesiologist)

Although today is Saturday, those of us that are still here in Danja still have to work. After breakfast we head down to check on our ladies and do whatever nursing tasks need to be done for the day. But today is much more leisurely than last week and we spend more time playing with the kids than anything.

So without any further ado let me introduce you to the phenomenon known as "fish lips." This is Sarah's brainchild and a great way to make people laugh, regardless of culture or language.

Sarah (on the right) started it all!

Everyone in Niger that we've met loves having their picture taken, but all smiles disappear when you aim the camera (except Sharifa on the far left--I caught her off guard).

But little girls love to laugh, and when the crazy nurses start making fish lips of course they will join in!

Hauwa and Sharifa with varying levels of success... but trying really hard!

Me and Hauwa, two of the bestest fish-lippers you ever did see.

queen of the orient

2010-10-01T18:54:00.002-05:00

Friends, I've been traveling with only intermittent internet access for the last several weeks, so I'm sorry for the long pause! Continuing to blog about my time in Niger...

Friday (day 9): queen of the orient

Today we did three surgeries on Abou, Marimouna, and sweetly timid Miriam from the Tuareg tribe (one of the nomadic desert people groups). We have arranged to ride camels after finishing work today, so we do two surgeries before lunch so that our afternoon workload will be lighter. It's only after our third surgery is over that we realize that we're done, not just with that particular surgery but with all of the surgeries for our trip! It's been so hectic that few of us have been really keeping track of the days, but we're now halfway done with our time here in Niger.

Since we front-loaded our work, we are able to leave our patients a little earlier in the evening in order to meet our camels. I have desperately wanted to ride a camel for, oh, about five days now since we first heard it was a possibility. As we're walking up the road towards the guesthouses we suddenly see camels, three of them! The camels have an eclectic group of men, teenaged boys, and even a school-aged boy caring for them. My particular favorite was this one sporting a snow-coat hood as his head covering. Only in Africa!

Gotta love the snow-coat hood. (Just in case it snows, you know.)

The camels themselves are ever so much bigger than any of us imagined and we each begin to have second thoughts. Then the camels notice us and start making the most un-animal braying, gargling, and even drowning noises we've ever heard. At this point I'm remembering all the stories I've ever heard about camels being bad-tempered, mean, and loving to bite.

I count the knobby joints in each sinewy leg and inspect the saddles, precariously secured with one lone leather strap around each camel's ribs. The saddle seats hardly look big enough for anyone's rear end, much less mine! But now that I see the camels in real life I imagine turbaned people riding these ungainly creatures through the vast expanses of the Sahara and Sahel deserts, trading spices, leather, and salt. My mind is made up: I can't wait to experience this!

Since there are only three camels, Sarah, Greg, and James (our Australian physical therapist missionary friend who lives on the compound) bravely volunteer to go first. Greg swings his leg over the absurdly high saddle, and before we know it he's miles high in the air but as relaxed as anything. Sarah's camel makes all sorts of dreadful sounds-- and Sarah makes all sorts of faces-- as she gamely tries to climb into the saddle in a skirt. The rest of us in are hysterics, including the men holding the camels. Finally all three are seated on their camels and the men lead the camels down the road for a quick jaunt while the rest of us take pictures in between bouts of hysterical laughter.

And now it's my turn, along with Ginger and Alainie. My camel is the tallest of the bunch and a beautiful off-white color with the longest eyelashes I've ever seen. I've learned from Sarah's experience and have on a pair of scrub pants underneath my skirt, a fact for which I am immensely thankful as I try throwing my leg over the insanely high saddle. The men place my feet on the neck of the camel, and as I hold on tightly the camel slowly begins to make its way to a standing position. It's rather like riding a seesaw and I tilt precariously backwards and then forwards as the camel unfolds its various knobby joints. Already I love this! I can picture myself riding across the desert, shielded from the sun by robes and a turban. Ginger, Alainie and I joke that "we three queens of orient are," and we set off down the road.

Holding on for dear life as the camel see-saws its way to a standing position.

Our ride on the camels is over much too quickly in my opinion. The camels saunter away with their owners, and our bellies are aching from having laughed so much. I imagine we have provided the camel owners with some stories to tell back home!

a queen of the Orient... or something like that!

What a gift this whole experience in Niger has been so far. I'm realizing that as I continue to explore the Nigerien culture and worldview, I keep falling more and more in love with it all. I love the Hausa language, I love the relaxed yet conservative nature of the Nigerien people, and I even love the head wraps. I hardly notice my own head wrap any more, and am quickly becoming proficient in various ways of tying it. It's amazing how much I've experienced in just nine short days, and I can't wait to see what next week holds.

Heading home after much laughter.

I think I want to go home

2010-09-01T20:45:00.000-05:00

Continuing to blog day-by-day about my time in Niger...

Wednesday (day 7) and Thursday (day 8) : I think I want to go home

Wednesday went well--our first time doing three surgeries in one day. Two women had their surgeries after lunch, so for Sarah and I on the ward it meant most of our work was stacked at the end of the day. Everything went smoothly, but after twelve hours, I had nothing left to give. And still we had to come back in the evening after dinner to check on the women for the night and pass out meds.

I've begun to realize just how few resources we have here. There's no one to come and replace me when I have finished my shift. It would be easy in circumstances like these to feel like everything stands or falls on me and how much I pour myself out. Of course I don't have the resources or sheer will power to accomplish these things; only God does. But can I recognize that? Can I seek Him in the midst of need? That's always, always the rub.

Hard at work in the OR

Thursday promised to be similar to Wednesday's routine--three surgeries, one before lunch and two afterwards. But when Sarah received the first patient back from the OR, it became rapidly clear that this would not be a good day. VVF surgery is an art, and unlike some other surgeries you are never guaranteed a good outcome. Things started poorly in the OR with scarred tissue that wouldn't hold stitches. By the time she was with us on the ward, she was wet. And all we could do was start her on a medicine and hope against all hope that the surgery hadn't failed.

This is the line we choose to walk in working with VVF. We exist moment by moment in the space between hope and despair, joy and sorrow, dancing and mourning. Most of the time we walk in light, rejoicing with the women as hope transforms them. It's easy to praise God in the light. But sometimes we seem to walk in darkness and pain. Only God can right some wrongs, and of course you have to wonder why He chooses not to do so. And when the answers are not clear (are they ever?) you have a choice. You can trust that He can and does work all things for good, despite appearances to the contrary. Or you can decide that because He allows pain and suffering in the world, He doesn't actually know what He's doing.

I choose to trust. But it doesn't make it any easier to sit and just be with a woman as her hopes shatter.

I choose to trust, but I also don't know how much of this I can take. It's all well and good when things run smoothly, surgeries succeed, women are dry. But on days like today, I think I want to go home.

next post (Friday) : queen of the orient

two surgeries and a stick shift

2010-08-26T18:51:00.001-05:00

I'm working on blogging about my day-by-day experiences in Niger, but the sailing has been a little rough recently so it's been a couple of days since I last posted. I'm making up for the silence with an exceptionally long post. Enjoy!

Tuesday (day 6): two surgeries and a stick shift

Spirits are high as we head to the clinic area. We have our first two surgeries of the week today. The rest of the week we'll do three surgeries per day, but seeing as it's the first day we want to make sure that everything works well.

Foure, our first VVF patient of the week in Danja!

When we arrive, Mariama (one of the local midwives working with us on the ward) tells us that our first patient, Foure, is all showered and ready for surgery. The OR team quickly heads off to starting prepping the OR. On the ward, Mariama, Hannatou (one of our translators), and Sarah and I pray with Foure, then walk her across the courtyard to the OR. Before Foure enters we have her step in a bucket of water to rinse the sand and dirt off her feet. Everything in this part of Niger is so sandy that your feet are always filthy, and the water bucket was Sarah's brilliant solution to that.

So she's off. Now we settle down to wait the several hours before her surgery is finished. We have plenty to do--go chat with the ladies under the tree, play with the adorable kids, and even a little nursing work making a plan for when Foure comes back from the OR.

In a western hospital setting, after surgery the patient goes to a recovery room (aka post-anesthesia care unit or PACU) for about an hour to be closely watched (think blood pressure checks every 5 minutes!) while the anesthesia wears off. After the recovery room the patient arrives on the ward where we check blood pressure every 30 minutes for a while, then hourly, then every 4 hours, and so on. But this is Africa, and this is not a hospital--not yet anyway!) Hopefully the hospital will be completed in the summer of 2011.) So the patients will come straight from the OR to Sarah and I on the ward. We ARE the recovery room!

Dr. Steve previously instructed us that our whole time in Niger is meant to be laid back, and he's given us the freedom to do what we feel is right and appropriate on the wards. We both have a lot of experience with VVF patients, so he's also trusting our nursing judgment to guide our practice. In light of this, Sarah's and my sophisticated plan for our post-op patients is this: check her vitals signs when she comes to the recovery room, aka ward. If everything is fine, we'll check her again later. If there's trouble, we'll check her again sooner. We're both confident (arrogant?) enough in our assessment skills to be able to catch any trouble before it actually becomes trouble.

A VVF patient is transferred from the OR to the ward.

After a while we hear people outside the ward, so we investigate, hoping Foure is out of surgery, which she is. She's being wheeled across the sandy courtyard on the stretcher, Greg the anesthesiologist at her side. We settle her into bed, and I check her vital signs according to our plan. And she's fine! Our recovery room plan is working brilliantly so far.

Foure back from surgery and doing well! (And I'm nursing in a skirt and a cap... Florence Nightingale would approve!)

While I check on Foure, Sarah gets Zina off to the OR for her surgery. Then we sit back to chat with the ladies under the tree again. I check on Foure, but she's dry and doing well so I have nothing to worry about.

The recovery room peanut gallery.

The rest of the day goes smoothly and Zina also does well when she comes back from surgery. After Sarah and I get both Foure and Zina settled for the evening and tomorrow's three ladies are brought into the ward, we head back to the guesthouse for dinner.

After dinner, Sarah and I drive back down to the ward to check on the ladies once more before we go to bed. Everyone is doing well, and we tell everyone "se anjima" ("see you tomorrow") before we head back to the car. Again, this is a very non-western hospital occurrence, where nursing shifts are 24/7. I've never left a patient before and just gone home. But there are some local nurses on overnight, and our team has a cell phone so we'll each take nights on-call.

I climb into the driver's seat. I've never driven a stick shift, but I've always wanted to, and now's a good time to learn. One of the unofficial policies Dr. Steve has is that everyone has to be able to drive on the compound. So Sarah talks me through it, I let out the clutch while pushing in the gas, and...success! I manage to stall a few times, of course, but for the most part I love the challenge and it feels surprisingly natural.

So... as the stars start to come out in the inky black sky, I am in the middle of Niger learning how to drive a manual car. Who would ever have guessed?

Just another chapter in this wonderful, wild adventure that God is walking me through!

tomorrow (Wednesday): I think I want to go home

under the tree, into the ward (screening day)

2010-08-21T17:33:00.001-05:00

Thanks for your patience with me friends! I arrived back on the ship from Niger last Friday and then we set sail for South Africa last Sunday... I'm writing to you from the middle of the ocean. But, with the comparatively-fast ship internet I can now post pictures! Enjoy!

Monday (day 5): under the tree, into the ward (screening day)

Today the rest of the team arrived: both surgeons and the anesthesiologist. After they'd settled in and eaten a quick lunch, we headed to the clinic area to start screening the women.

We found the women waiting under the tree as usual. Some women had previously been operated on in May and were returned for a check-up; some had been screened previously and were already on this week's surgical schedule; some had simply heard of the fistula center and came seeking hope.

The ladies brought their mothers, daughters, sisters...

Marouka and Aichatou

We set up our screening area in the maternity clinic, and one by one the women came through to be examined. I assisted the surgeons with the physical exam, handing them supplies and trying to anticipate their needs. We screened somewhere around 20 women, although I am not sure of the exact numbers. 10 will be operated on this week, and some of the others will return for surgery in November when the next VVF team comes.

Screening VVF ladies in the maternity clinic in Danja

At the end of the day we had a surgical schedule made up for the week, and we brought the first two women from under the tree into the ward that night. Similar to on the ship, we had to teach the women how to shower in preparation for surgery the next morning. One of the local nurses working with us explained that for many people in this region of Niger, you are considered clean if you have bathed your face, hands, and feet. This makes sense when you also consider the great distances that many people have to haul their water!

Tomorrow: the first two surgeries!

teaser

2010-08-15T17:57:00.000-05:00

... more blogs about Danja are coming, I promise! Here's a few pictures of "the ladies" to hold you over until I have a chance to write more.

VVF ladies waiting patiently under a tree for the team to arrive

Some of the women who would have VVF surgery (and some other family members)

A caregiver (aka mom) for one of the VVF ladies--Tuareg tribe I believe.

Thanks to Sarah for taking amazing pictures of the women!

the blind and the broken

2010-08-08T09:40:00.006-05:00

For a while I will have to blog day-by-day about Danja, Niger. So far my time here has been so rich and full that I think you might enjoy some details!

Sunday (Day 4): the blind and the broken (Hausa church)

There’s something incredibly rich about worshiping with believers in other cultures--each time I do, I see a picture of heaven where every tongue and tribe is represented.

Church today was in Hausa, the local language. June pointed me to the Bible verses that the pastor was speaking about, but other than that I had time to simply read, pray, and absorb what was going on.

Worship is more reserved and more laid back here in Niger than the churches I experienced in Benin. Each age group took a turn singing for the rest of the congregation, starting with the children, moving up to the adolescents, then the women, and then the men. But there was none of the booty-shaking, shoulder-pumping, exuberant dancing so prevalent in Benin and Togo. Instead, each group of singers stepped gently from right to left in time with the song.

"Reserved" does not by any stretch mean "boring" or "plain". I wish I could somehow portray to you the resonance of the drums the women played while they sang. As I leaned against the wall behind me I could feel every beat percussing through my heart and pulsing down my veins. One woman in particular had a beautifully haunting voice and I imagined the windswept desert underneath dark, starry skies while she sang.

One of the ladies here for VVF surgery sat in front of us, and I gained a firsthand knowledge of some of the shame they experience. Just a subtle hint of urine at first, but as the service progressed the smell became more and more noticeable. She strove to keep a little distance between herself and the people sitting next to her. When she stood to sing a damp stain of urine appeared below her right foot, and it broke my heart. But she held her head high and sang nonetheless, a beautiful picture of hope and strength.

Many of the people filling the church were patients; I saw many with bandages on arms or legs or eyes. I think the only difference at home is that many of our wounds are the hidden, internal kind... sins like pride, jealousy, anger. These wounds are easier to hide, perhaps, but potentially more damaging at the end of the day. I’m so thankful for a God who loves us despite our wounds, and who loves us enough to want to heal us, no matter how painful the treatment may be.

After church was over, I watched a woman let her children wander ahead of her on the path home as she led a blind man. He simply called out and lifted his stick, while she took hold of the end and began to lead him. A little thing, really, but completely beautiful to watch.

Lord, let me not forget: I too have wounds in need of Your healing, and I too am blind in many ways.

Come, restore my vision.

Come, heal my brokenness.

work, work, not dare to shirk!

2010-08-07T11:35:00.003-05:00

For a while I will have to blog day-by-day about Danja, Niger. So far my time here has been so rich and full that I think you might enjoy some details! Pictures to come later when the internet is more cooperative.

Saturday (Day 3): work, work, not dare to shirk!

Our objective today is to clean and set up both the operating room and the ward. The rest of the team is due to arrive on Monday, at which point we’ll screen the ladies and make up a surgical schedule. We are using temporary facilities here until the new hospital is built, so all our supplies are packed away in one closet in the OR. Turns out that the closet is also the local party palace for termites! Everything in the closet is covered with red dust, and there are substantial piles of termite leavings/poo. Not to mention that there are definitely bugs everywhere (in our house too, by the way)... spiders, mosquitos, beetles, ants, earwigs, and moths. We unfold the drapes for the surgical table, and insects fall out. We sweep them out from the cupboards. They are hiding between the catheters and the glove boxes... basically everywhere. We clean and bleach everything, and attempt to kill or shoo away as many bugs as possible.

Next we go to meet the ladies who are all sitting outside in the shade of a large tree. Some of them have been waiting for a week for our arrival, and all have brought mothers and children. They are thrilled to see us and warmly welcome us in Hausa. Of course none of us speak Hausa, but this is one of those times when words aren’t really necessary.

As a preface to the next little story, let me tell you about the bulls. We often see bulls grazing all over the compound, and we’ve been astounded by the fact that very small boys armed only with sticks are responsible for keeping them in line. Some of the boys look to be about 4 or 5, some perhaps 7 or 8. All are fearless as they boss around these massive horned bulls. So, now for the story. After cleaning everything in the OR and ward, we’re walking up to our house for lunch when one of the bulls starts to follow Sarah and I. Sarah peels off the the side and I walk faster, but the bull keeps following me. At this point I figure that if a small boy can keep a bull in line with a stick, then it’s really all about the attitude and about showing no fear. So I turn around to face the bull and put on my stern face and simply say “no!” The bull stopped, but he also didn’t seem inclined to wander away. At this point one of the boys came charging over, stick flailing madly, and shooed the bull away. Thank goodness for small boys with sticks!

My favorite part of today was going into town with James, the physical therapist from Australia. He took all of us girls to a local tea “shop” in Maradi which turns out to be a couple of benches under a pink and green umbrella with a tea kettle heating over a small wire basket of coals. Our tea, called “shiya,” comes in shot glasses and is sweet, a touch spicy, and wonderful. We sit on the benches, drinking our tea and watching the people passing by until the owner of the shop comes. He speaks small small (a favorite French-African phrase of mine) English, and proceeds to quiz us on which states we’re from (he’s stumped by Idaho). He tells us that he used to be in politics, but wanted a break so he quit and opened this little tea business. Now he wants to get back into politics, so he’s running to be the mayor of district two in Maradi. After two shot glasses of tea, we’re ready to leave, and we have to haggle with him to allow us to pay him--he insists that we should pay next time, not this time. He finally lets James pay for his tea, but he doesn’t accept money from us girls. I think the notoriety he gets around town for being the tea shop that the white women go to is perhaps payment enough, but I can’t exactly ask him, of course! It was just so wonderful to be able to sit and watch the world go by--something that I miss on the ship.

We end the day by going to the French Club for dinner and a swim. Some of the other SIM missionaries are there with their families, so I chat with them for a long time about living in Niger. As the light fades, we are preparing to leave when someone notices that there are some small lemur-like monkeys in the trees. It’s just dark enough that we have a hard time seeing them, but we watch their silhouettes leap from tree to tree until the mosquitoes finally chase us to the car.

It’s just another normal day around here-- cleaning the OR, a showdown with a bull, tea with an aspiring mayor, and lemur monkeys in the trees. Oh, and let me not forget the sheep in the trunk of the car in front of us as we drove home... the passengers were all dressed up like they were headed to a party when all of a sudden a sheep sticks its head up in the back window of the car, then settles back down again. (Maybe you had to be there to understand it, but it really was hilarious.)

Like I said, it’s just another normal day in Danja. It's just that normal looks completely different here!

Tomorrow: the blind and the broken (Hausa church)

come fly with me

2010-08-05T15:10:00.003-05:00

For a while I will have to blog day-by-day (internet access permitting) about Danja, Niger. So far my time here has been rich and full so I think you will enjoy some details! Warning: long post ahead! (And still not able to upload pictures.)

Friday (Day Two): come fly with me

After a night filled with thunderstorms, we wake up early in preparation for flying to Danja. We don our ankle-length skirts and make sure to pack our head wraps in easily accessible locations, since these things are necessary for women in this part of Africa. Our pilot, Ed, shows up at 7am to pick us up and we head back to the airport again, only this time we pass up all the commercial planes and head for a back hangar. I’ve been anticipating this for months now--we get to fly in a six-seater Piper Saratoga from Niamey to Maradi (Maradi is only 15 kilometers--a quick car ride-- from Danja).

Ed opens the airplane hangar and proceeds to pull (yes, pull) the plane out onto the tarmac. We’re all a little giddy, seeing this tiny plane that will somehow manage to hold us and our luggage. It's a little hard to scramble into the plane in our long skirts, but we manage. I have the immense pleasure of sitting in the copilot's seat in the cockpit. At my feet are pedals, at my knees the steering console, and above that are numerous dials and knobs. I buckle in and put on the headphones, and suddenly I’m listening in on the chatter between the flight controller and Ed as they confirm preflight details. I am literally giddy with excitement!

Ed starts the propeller, and we taxi to the runway. I can’t help but hold my breath as we smoothly lift off the ground, and the next thing I know I am watching the desert below, dotted with villages with footpaths to connect them. Sometimes the land below is green and lush looking, sometimes bare and sparse, but it’s always beautiful. I think I could watch the land scroll by below for hours. This Nigerien flying experience is such a beautiful gift from God!

After sitting with my eyes glued to the window for two hours, we land in Maradi, the second biggest town in Niger. As I step out of the plane I notice that we have an audience of farmers and their children, all watching us curiously. We’re met on the tarmac by Burt, the local SIM director, and a local airport official who informs us (Burt translating) that he would be happy to find us all good husbands. We laugh, and thank him for his offer, but politely decline. Although, on second thought, none of us have been able to find husbands yet on our own, so maybe we do need some help in that department!

We wrap up our hair in scarves and pile into Burt’s truck for the quick drive to Danja. Before we leave the runway, we meet yet another man who asks Burt in all seriousness “where are you going with all those brides?” Apparently all the single men have been living in Niger all this time... who knew?!?

Burt delivers us safely to the Danja hospital compound, and we get settled in the house of a family home for a year of furlough. We’ve met the other missionaries currently living on the Danja compound-- James from Australia is a physical therapist, and June from England is a nurse. Both are very warm and welcoming, and show us the ropes. In fact, we meet all the missionaries in this area because we're invited/requested to attend a monthly SIM prayer meeting. I'm amazed at the fortitude of these folks--these are the ones who live in the bush, so to speak, treating their own heart attacks (true story) and doing all sorts of other amazing things. It's interesting to meet people who have lived in Niger long enough that they call it home.

Talk about a full day! Once again, I'm exhausted, so I fall into bed, after tucking in the mosquito net, of course. Tomorrow we plan to clean the ward and the OR, meet the women here for surgery, and try to relax a little before the week begins.

Tomorrow: work, work, not dare to shirk!

there is no 27B

2010-08-04T16:11:00.002-05:00

For a while I will have to blog day-by-day (internet access permitting) about Danja, Niger. So far my time here has been rich and full so I think you will enjoy some details! Unfortunately I can't currently upload pictures, but will keep trying. Let me try to bring you up to speed, starting with last Thursday, the day I left the ship for Niger.

Thursday (Day 1): there is no 27B

My time in Togo came to a bit of a whirlwind close as I worked my last few shifts and said goodbyes to lots of people, including my good friend Ben from home and my dear roommate Steph from Cambridge, England.

The Danja team--Alainie, Ginger, Sarah and I--all piled in the Land Rover and proceeded to sit in traffic for a while before finally reaching the airport. Once aboard the plane, I discovered that according to my ticket I was meant to sit in seat 27B... but there was no 27B. Fortunately it was a misprint, but still I had to laugh at such a TIA (this is Africa) moment.

Our flight from Lome to Niamey, Niger took just over an hour. Definitely not long enough for any of us to process all the goodbyes we’d said, the fact that we were finally going to Niger, or that our time in Togo was over. At the Niamey airport, we stood in lines called “police” and “health” which you might know as passport control and yellow fever card control. After we collected our bags, we had to once again put them through an xray scanner. The duffel bag packed with medical supplies sat in the xray machine for a while, but fortunately no one hassled us about it.

We were picked up at the airport by the director of the Niger branch of SIM, who took us to a SIM guesthouse for the night. We had dinner with a lovely missionary couple who run the guesthouse, and also with another couple who had spent the last two months out at Danja working on building the new fistula hospital.

As I settled in for the night I could hardly believe I was in Niger; everything seemed so surreal. It was so hot that I simply lay there sweating for a while, listening to the downpour on our corrugated roofing, before finally falling into a restless sleep.

Tomorrow: come fly with me (in a very small charter plane!)

I never dreamed of Africa

2010-07-28T13:29:00.006-05:00

Over dinner with a friend this past week, I marveled at the journey that God has been leading me on over the last several years in particular. I never knew that following Him would be such an adventure, and I will be the first to remind anyone who asks that I certainly don’t deserve this kind of joy.

I never dreamed of Africa. I dreamed of traveling to Thailand with its rice paddies and elephants, and of India's tigers and kaleidoscope of colorful saris.

I never dreamed of being a nurse. Earlier dreams included bus driver, flight attendant, and dentist. In college I thought I would earn a biochemistry degree then launch into discovering cures for various diseases. After realizing biochem wasn't for me, I then proceeded to dream about becoming a doctor, a dietician, a physician's assistant... and finally, finally nursing.

Through all my 27 years I have struggled to place God at the center of my life. I’m no model Christian, not by a long shot. Yet somehow I always return to the fact that I am my Beloved’s and He is mine. Each time I wander away He comes to bring me back, sometimes gently whispering and sometimes using the megaphone known as Pain (my thanks to CS Lewis for a great metaphor).

I have no idea why He has chosen to be so gracious to me. Call me naive, call me rosy-eyed, call me idealistic, but I can’t help but think how stunning the grand adventure of life is with God! Most days are not page-turners, of course. There are chapters I wish I could have skipped. And I am holding my breath for some plot developments (romantic tension, anyone?). But I wouldn’t trade my journey for anything. God has written stories for each of us, and only as we walk through our own pages--and not those of others--are we truly content and truly alive.

I never dreamed of Africa or of nursing, yet tomorrow I fly to Niger to work as a nurse for two weeks at an up-and-coming fistula hospital in Danja. I have fallen in love with VVF ladies and with the transformation that happens in a woman when hope blossoms anew. I’ve fallen in love with the least and the lost. My heart beats for the outcast, the unloved, the lonely.

I never dreamed of Africa. And I certainly never dreamed that God had dreams ever so much grander, more satisfying, more everything than mine.

(Photo from Worldwide Fistula Fund)

VVF by the numbers

2010-07-20T11:32:00.000-05:00

I don't tend to like numbers much; I prefer words. Words make sense to me, whereas numbers have any number of troublesome qualities like imaginary and irrational.

But I thought I might share with you some numbers now that all the VVF surgeries are over and done with and all of our ladies are journeying home.

Learning how to make soap while staying at the Hospitality Center either before or after surgery. The Hospitality Center is for patients who are from too far away to travel back and forth to the ship.

Why am I using numbers instead of words to talk about VVF? Good question. The truth is that I've had such a different role this year than I did last year when I was in the thick of things, so to speak. I pantomimed questions to my patients when no one spoke their language. I emptied catheters by the hundred. I learned to see things with new eyes through relationships with patients like Eugenie. I shared in the joys and sorrows of women I knew by name, simply because I was their nurse.

But this year was different. I've had two jobs, both of which were administrative. As a charge nurse, my main responsibility was to look after the nurses and to keep the shift running as smoothly as possible. As the Assistant VVF Coordinator (big fancy title, I know!) my job was to help handle paperwork, keep track of data, and be a clinical resource for the nurses.

So instead of stories, right now all I can offer you are numbers. But believe me, the numbers tell their own story!

We did VVF surgery on a total of 99 women (many of them had more than one operation, too--that brings the total up to 119 surgeries on those 99 women).
Of those surgeries, 90% were successful (the fistula was closed and the woman was dry). That is exceptional, because VVF surgery is highly specialized and is always, always difficult.
Thanks to a generous loan of a bladder scanner (a specialized ultrasound machine that measures how much urine is in the bladder), we were able to detect and treat urinary retention in our patients. (Urinary retention is a common post-op complication and can cause infection or failure of the repair. Without a scanner, the only way to check for retention is to insert a catheter into the bladder, which poses a risk of infection. And of course it's miserable for the patient!)
Using the bladder scanner meant that we caught and treated the 22% of our patients who developed retention after surgery. Look at it another way: we saved 78% of our patients from needing catheters inserted after their operation!

(Let me pause to offer a belated apology for talking about catheters and bladders and urinary retention. I should probably consider having a "medical disclaimer" on my blog somewhere.)

So although the numbers don't tell the whole story, they do show this: all of the surgeons, all of the nurses, and every one of you who prayed for these women-- you did well. God used each of us to pour love and life and hope into their lives. I wish you could have seen them, standing in front of a crowded room in a new dress to praise the Lord for being dry. I wish you could have heard the drums pound and seen shoulders lift in dance and smiles radiate joy.

The numbers just don't do it justice.

I first met Rosali (in green) last year in Benin... her surgeries that year failed. But she returned to the ship this year and is now dry! Also pictured is Clementine, a patient discipler & counselor on board who loves the ladies with every iota of her being.

the road to Danja

2010-07-05T15:49:00.001-05:00

This is the road to Danja.

(picture from Worldwide Fistula Fund)

This is the fistula hospital under construction in Danja, and I'm going to work there for two weeks in August.

The fistula hospital is being built following the red outline. (Picture from Worldwide Fistula Fund)

Is your mouth hanging open like mine??

The VVF surgeon on board, Dr. Steve, is one of the surgeons behind the Worldwide Fistula Fund, and it's through this organization along with others that the hospital is being built.

Until the hospital is completed, surgeries will occur in other buildings on the compound. The compound also houses SIM missionaries and a leprosy clinic.

I'm so excited to see a different kind of Africa than I've experienced so far--the kind with sandstorms, camels, and turbaned nomadic peoples. But in researching it a little online, I've also found some tough news: Niger currently has the dubious distinction of being the least developed country in the world according to the Human Development Index.

A Nigerien VVF patient. (Picture from Worldwide Fistula Fund)

Please pray for me as I sort out the details of heading to Niger. I've booked a flight, but I also need a visa. Originally we thought that obtaining said visa required travel to Cotonou, Benin (where the ship was docked last year) because that is the closest Nigerien embassy. But we just found out there is a Nigerien Consulate here in Lomé (anyone know the difference between an embassy and a consulate?). So our passports are currently at the consulate, awaiting their official visas. I'm also praying that the return flight from Danja to Lomé goes smoothly, as I will arrive back on the ship just a few days before the ship is due to sail for South Africa.

And now for a quick topic change. One of the things I love most about blogging is the fact that I can give whoever reads my blog a small glimpse into another corner of the world. I can tell stories of God's faithfulness, of what He is teaching me, and of the work He is always, always doing. So I just want to say a quick thank you to you all who take the time to read what I write and who pray faithfully for me and who encourage me in a million little ways.

We are all part of the grand redemptive work that God is scripting, whether or not you realize it. May you live your life Soli Deo Gloria-- for God's glory alone--wherever He has placed you, whether it be in Seattle or Rochester or Houston or Togo. Or Niger.

the short version

2010-06-23T14:15:00.002-05:00

Last year I was so good at this blogging thing. Of course, last year I also only had one job, and I still had a job waiting for me back home too. This time around I have two jobs on board and I am unemployed and rootless back home. All of my belongings are boxed up and hopefully surviving the Houston summer heat and humidity in my parent's garage.

I've had on my closet door for months now an ever-expanding list of the things I need to blog about.

I am so hopelessly behind on my blogging that I'm reduced to catching you up on the last several months of big events in one fell swoop.

Meeting Ben at the airport

My good friend Ben from Minnesota came to work in the lab on the ship. He came bearing cards and even chocolate and music from our mutual Minnesota friends. It has been such a blessing to have someone on board who has known me for more than 6 months.

My blood is worthy of an A+

I was finally able to donate blood to a patient--one of my goals on board this year, since when I get home my blood will be blacklisted for a year or so due to my having been in a malaria-prone part of the world.

Upper Wli Falls, Ghana

I spent a glorious weekend in Ghana with some great girlfriends, hiking in one of the most beautiful places I've ever been. And by "hiking" I mean "rappelling down a steep hillside holding onto vines in a very Indiana Jones-esque way." It was glorious! And the waterfalls were amazing and totally worth all 6 hours, especially since I have a "thing" for waterfalls since an experience in Benin last year.

A tasty barracuda, teeth still intact!

I returned to Benin for a weekend of laying poolside, playing frisbee on the beach with headlamps at night, and wading in the ocean while watching the stars and digging my fingers and toes into the sand looking for bioluminescent bacteria (which, by the way, are amazing little sparks!).

Our first VVF screening (see previous post) went so much better than I could ever have dreamed. We screened 66 women and scheduled exactly enough for the first four weeks of surgery--exactly what we needed. It's amazing how God provides!

Since then, we've finished those four weeks of surgery and are in the final two weeks. We've been able to bring on a second VVF surgeon due to a maxillo-facial surgeon being unable to come. This past Monday we had our third and final screening, screening 51 women and scheduling 42 for surgery, once again filling perfectly our remaining surgical slots. God has wildly exceeded my expectations regarding screening, and He continues to do so each day that passes.

So there it is--the short version, minus the details. I can't promise that I'll have more time or emotional energy in the following weeks to do better at blogging, but know that I think of you all often.

and so it begins

2010-05-23T07:13:00.000-05:00

My online silence has been due in large part to an overwhelming lack of energy. The day-to-day routine of living on the ship has been so draining for me recently that I have just barely managed to half-heartedly start one or two blog posts. I have so much to tell you: a good friend came to the ship (and will stay to the end of the outreach!); I finally gave blood to a patient; I traveled to Ghana with some girlfriends and had a fabulous time; we had another little baby die on the ship. So many stories to tell, yet right now I must tell a story about the very reason I came back to the ship: the VVF ladies.

Tomorrow is our first VVF screening day, the day where about 75 women (that we know of) will come to the ship to see if they are surgical candidates. Women will come from all corners of Togo, some speaking languages that we have no translators for. Some will have walked for days to get to a bus, then endured 10 hours' drive while urine slowly dampened their skirts and tracked paths down their legs. They come from brokenness, shame, isolation, and unspeakable pain. They arrive at the ship looking for a miracle because what we offer is so much more than mere surgery. If by God's grace we are able to operate successfully the woman may have her very life back, returning to her home, community, family, husband, and occupation: all things lost due to the fistula. This is why we are all here: to be a part of the transformative work that God does here in West Africa.

Pre-screening a woman with probable VVF at a general screening

So today Maggie and I will head to the Hospitality Center (where the women from northern Togo are staying at the moment) to begin the long process of gathering histories from these women. Do you leak urine all the time, both day and night? Did it start after a difficult labor? How many years have you had this trouble? All of our questions help us to know if a surgery will help.

Maggie prays with a woman with VVF at general screening

Please be praying for Maggie and I and the entire team who will be screening tomorrow. We'll start at about 6 in the morning and work well into the evening. Pray that the women would be truthful with us; sometimes they are so desperate for help that they tell us what they think we want to hear rather than the truth. And sometimes they genuinely don't know the truth; we often hear "I fell asleep and when I woke up the baby was gone." Did they pass out from exhaustion? Did they have anesthesia for a cesarean section? It's hard to say. Many don't even know their age, because it's hard to mark the passage of time in a land with no seasons, only perpetual summer.

Pray for wisdom as the surgeon decides who he wants to operate on, and pray for compassionate words as we have to tell many women that we cannot help them. May each woman see in our love a reflection of God's immense love and compassion for them.

the least and the lost

2010-04-10T10:41:00.003-05:00

It's one thing to sail a hospital ship to a country in West Africa; it's another thing to find patients. It's a different matter altogether to find the right patients because we have such a small range of very specialized surgeries that we can do on board. Usually Mercy Ships solves this problem by having one or two large screening days, seeing 4,000-5,000 people in one day. This kind of large screening wasn't possible due to the elections in Togo, so we've tried a new process this year--screening multiple times a week, each time seeing only a couple hundred people.

I tried several times to go to one of the screenings, but each time something would come up to prevent my going. I finally had my chance two weeks ago (yes, I know, I'm behind on blogging!).

I am glad I wasn't the one actually screening the patients as I would not have known how to keep saying no to people. I did watch the screening nurses as they interacted with each person coming through the line, gently touching lumps and bumps, slowly moving burn-scarred arms and legs, peering inside mouths. Living on this continent with any kind of deformity or disability condemns you to a life of ridicule, scorn, and isolation. I couldn't help but wonder when some of the people coming through the line had last been asked to tell their story, last been touched, or last been truly seen as a person made in the image of a loving God rather than a shameful outcast.

People come with every thing imaginable: hernias, fungus over their whole body, goiters, neurological disorders, paralysis due to improperly done injections, burns, erectile dysfunction (yes, really), diabetes. Sometimes I'm pretty sure we can help, like the little boy who'd already had a surgery to have the tumor slowly creeping out of his mouth removed. Although the tumor was gone, somehow he was left with a slack jaw and floppy lips, unable to speak, eat solid foods, or even hold his mouth closed for very long. He got a card to come to the ship. So did the mama whose baby, mere days old, was born with a big gash in her lip, the cleft causing her to be unable to breastfeed properly. We can stitch that lip back together so she can eat and speak properly... so she can smile.

Sometimes we should be able to help but can't, like in the case of the little boy with severely bowed legs. This is the worst: we could straighten those legs out, but there's not any more room on the surgical schedule.

Sometimes we refer people to local doctors because we don't have the resources on the ship to treat cancer, or medical issues like fungus or diabetes.

And sometimes we can't help at all, which believe it or not isn't always a bad thing. It's a bad thing when you "only" have a little goiter no bigger than a walnut or a plum: we only have room for the watermelon-sized ones, the ones grown big enough to actually start compressing your windpipe and slowly strangulating you. Not being able to help is a good thing, though, in the case of a little girl who'd been badly burned. Her arm was covered in thick, scarred tissue... but her mother had worked hard to keep that arm flexible, so the little girl had full range of motion and therefore didn't even need surgery.

I watched people as they came through the line, the least and the lost, reduced to living lives of hiddenness, shame, and isolation. God knows each name, each tear cried, each insult flung their direction, each whisper about being cursed. God knew the exact moment the tumor began to push out the healthy tissue of the cheek, finally protruding out the mouth. God saw the baby forming in the womb and knew the baby's feet were clubbed. God saw the injection needle hit the sciatic nerve in the back of the leg, causing life-long paralysis.

I do not pretend to understand why God knows and sees all this and yet allows it to continue. I know deep in the innermost places of my heart that He grieves over His children's sufferings. I choose, although it is not easy, to trust in His promises: that He is always at work, that He will wipe away every tear, that He makes all things new.

Some people leave the screening area clutching a yellow card, their golden ticket to come to the ship and be assessed by the surgeon. Some leave with less than they came, their hopes laying broken at our feet.

Yet all leave having been touched, acknowledged, seen, sometimes for the first time in years. Those we turn away we pray with, cry with, hold. It doesn't seem enough.

We try to rest in the knowledge that God is sovereign, that somehow, some way, He has good purposes at work in all this despite what seems like insurmountable evidence to the contrary.

And we try to hold on to the names and faces of the ones that we say yes to, the ones that will come to the ship and become part of our lives for a time as we try to piece broken bodies back together.

We trust that God has indeed seen the plight of his people: the name that Hagar called God when He met her in the wilderness was the God who sees me. (See Genesis 16: 13-14)

walking to Ghana

2010-03-26T08:42:00.004-05:00

Up until recently, we've been fairly restricted regarding when and where we could get off ship (if we could get off at all) due to the potential for civil unrest after the elections.

So when I run into my Danish friend Jens last Saturday and he asks if I want to come with him and his "friend" James (Jens met James on a street corner in Lomé the other day), I don't hesitate. I throw on some walking shoes, fill up my water bottle, and we're off.

Jens is the kind of person that loves to interact with people-- all people, all the time. So it wasn't surprising that he'd made friends with James while out wandering in Lomé, or that he'd agreed to meet James for another day of exploring in town. Being from Ghana, James speaks English (helpful for Jens and I) but he also speaks Ewe, the most common local language (also very helpful, seeing as I speak a little French but no Ewe).

I shake hands with James, who promptly goes into raptures, unaccountably pleased that Jens has "finally" found a good woman to settle down with. It's no good trying to explain friendship and singleness to a West African; these are almost as strange to them as my white skin. So I simply wink at Jens while James eloquently wishes us long life and prosperity.

We start off by taking a taxi into town (last year in Benin we were close enough to walk to town; this year it would take a good 45 minutes to walk to town). I am so thankful that taxis are the norm here rather than the zemidjans of Benin. To own a taxi you must pass a driver's test (I think) and you must be registered. To own a zemi in Benin you need... nothing at all. In fact, you can have cataracts in both eyes and still offer yourself as transportation for hire (true story-- one of my friends last year took a ride with a partially-blind zemi driver).

Jens, James and I pile out of the taxi somewhere in town and start walking. I'm not sure what exactly James has in mind. We pass a large, modern building with multiple signs proclaiming "Musée National" and decide to go see this National Museum of Togo. As it turns out, the national museum consists of a small, hot room filled with various clay pots, smoking pipes, statues, and farming implements. Go down several steps into the basement and you can see pictures of all the various governors of Togo, which was ruled at various times by the Germans, the English, and most recently the French before someone finally decided the Togolese could run their own country. Needless to say, I hadn't exactly expected a Louvre-caliber museum, but it was still a little... well, African (not that I mind).

After our quick tour of the museum, James decides that we should see the border (Lomé is less than 30 minutes from the Ghanaian border, I believe). After another short taxi ride we again start walking, enjoying the sights and tolerating the smells. In between chatting with James, Jens and I practice my Norwegian. Danish is similar enough that he understands me perfectly, although I struggle to pick out his words sometimes as they are full of long, drawled vowels. As we're walking we notice that the street ahead of us abruptly ends, barbed wire fencing draped as far as the eye can see. On the other side of that fence is Ghana, which looks remarkably similar to Togo as far as I can tell. Every now and then there's large gaps cut in the fence and we watch as people carry fuel and other goods across the border (easier than going through the checkpoint, James tells us). There are weapons-toting guards lounging around on the Togolese side but they don't interfere with the border crossings happening in broad daylight.

(Togo on the left side of the fence, Ghana on the right, with an illegal gate cut into the wire fencing.)

The kids here in Togo are a little shy, and I find that I miss the wildly exuberant shouts and antics of the kids in Benin. The few kids who do venture a shy wave and softly call out "yovo, yovo" ("white person, white person"), Jens gently teases by calling back "ameyibo" which according to James means "black person" in Ewe. We get shouts of laughter and good-natured chatter from the mamas at this, and James interprets for us that the mamas are pleased that "this yovo, he speaks our language!"

We follow the fence south, towards the beach, until we come to a traffic jam of people and vehicles headed to and from Ghana. James tells us that once you pass under the black star you are in Ghana; I think I could have deduced that much from the "welcome to Ghana" sign just underneath the black star. I think about waving at Ghana, but decide that I would rather not attract any additional attention to myself. I get enough attention as it is being a white woman in an African country.

Now that we've seen the border, James suggests that we go to the big market. We flag down another taxi which deposits us at one of the entrances of the big market where you can buy nearly anything you want-- hair pieces, half a butchered chicken (or a whole live one), vegetables, antibiotics, TV's, fabric, "official" soccer jerseys, and "Dolce & Gabbana" sunglasses. Shopping in the market is very nearly the opposite of shopping at home. Here in West Africa, the tedious burden of actually having to look for what you need has been eradicated; instead, vendors clamor to show you their wares. Surely you are in need of a belt, my sister! You already have one? But surely two are better than one! And these are very good quality belts, my dear. I give you good price, ok?

We wander the market, occasionally running into other yovos from the ship. Not at all subtly, vendors admire Jens' beard (his beard would make an Amish man proud). Several men good-naturedly call him Osama. Jens laughs and somehow makes more friends even as he explains through pantomime that he is not Muslim; he just likes to have a beard. James explains that only Muslim men grow long beards here in Togo, but Jens isn't bothered by that one bit. Just a way to start a conversation, he tells me. And I can't help but agree because oddly enough he's managed to have several conversations about faith with the people we've met.

At this point James suggests that we head back into town to check out a "program" of some sort. In West Africa, "program" is a vague way of saying "something will be happening." I have had just the right amount of wandering and randomness for today, so I say my goodbyes to James and Jens in order to join up with some other Mercy Shippers out shopping at the market. A little womanly bartering and fabric-shopping seems perfect for the rest of the afternoon.

All in all I spend 6 hours of the day walking, letting the dust of the roads slowly sink into my pores and thinking that I can't quite account for the way things are so familiarly unfamiliar. I'm not necessarily at home here, but I've spent enough time in West Africa now to be able to really enjoy it.

I think I enjoy most of all the strange incongruities that arise here: I've just spent the day wandering around a town in Togo with a Danish carpenter and a Ghanaian fisherman.

language deeper than words

2010-03-17T16:41:00.001-05:00

Thank you for your patience with me, friends! There's so much to write about at the beginning of the outreach here in Togo that I've not known where to start.

The first weekend that the wards opened I worked as a charge nurse, a slightly different role here on the ship than being a charge nurse at home. But I love being back on the wards with patients; things happen routinely here that would never in a million years happen in a hospital at home.

Just one example of "only in Africa."

Photo taken last year in Benin.

Any of the nurses here could write a book on the myriad ways that nursing on board is different than nursing at home. I have just one small example for you... nothing spectacular, but it's just one of the reasons I love being here.

The first weekend that the wards were open I worked as a charge nurse in our orthopedic ward. As usual, the orthopedic surgeons came for their morning rounds to see each patient and discuss the plan for the day. We ended by seeing two little boys that were scheduled for surgery the next day. One boy was severely bow-legged, rather like this: < > . The other boy had the opposite problem, and his knees met each other in the middle, rather like this: )( . Interestingly enough, both problems are corrected by the same surgery where an angular wedge of bone is removed allowing the bones to be straightened out.

The surgeons proceeded to talk to the boys' mothers, trying to make sure that everyone understood the surgery. After some confusion over drawings and pictures, finally one of the surgeons sat down next to the patient in the bed and hitched his scrubs up to bare his knees. The other surgeon whipped out a pen and began to draw on the first surgeon's leg and knees, much to the amusement of the boys and their mothers. This is where we'll cut the bone; this is how the bones will be reset to straighten the legs; this is where we'll place the pins: all a flurry of penstrokes on the knee and shin of a surgeon. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing the entire time, for despite the best efforts of the surgeons the mothers looked increasingly confused. And when all was said and done, one surgeon walked out of the wards with his leg covered in geometrical blue designs showing bones, incisions, and wedges.

It almost didn't matter that the mothers didn't understand the surgery, because what matters most around here is relationship and simply being present in the lives of others. There is a language deeper than words, and in that language, the mamas heard we are here, and we are with you. We will take care of your boys. And when we bring them back to you after surgery and they have time to heal, your boys will be able to walk normally, without turning sideways to go through doors and without kneecaps rubbing together. We are here, and we are with you.

I need your suggestions at the moment to help me know what to blog about! Anything you're just unbearably curious about? Let me know in the comments or via email and I may use your question(s) as a jumping-off point for future blog posts.

(In other news, please continue to pray for the Togolese people. As I understand it, the election results preliminarily pointed to the re-election of the current president. The people of Lome have held some rallies and marches over the last weeks, and as a precaution we are avoiding certain parts of town where the opposition support is prevalent. But in the hospital, surgeries continue and ship life continues relatively unchanged.)

finally in Togo

2010-02-23T06:37:00.002-06:00

Friends, forgive me... I have been silent for far too long.

When I last wrote I was at sea, just barely this side of seasick and trying not to roll out of my top bunk. For the record: the seas calmed after two days, I never did roll out of my bunk, and we arrived safely in Lomé, Togo, on February 10th. I never did see dolphins, but I did see lots of flying fish (really quite amazing; go look them up online), several whales (just dorsal fins and the blow, but still amazing), and a sea turtle. I quite like sailing, especially standing at the bow looking for marine life while the wind wreaks havoc with my hair and the sun gently slides into the ocean.

(Togolese people welcoming the Africa Mercy into Lomé)

After arriving in Togo we promptly started cleaning and setting up the hospital. I spent more hours than I care to remember on my hands and knees stripping wax off the floors: a modern-day Cinderella lightheaded from the fumes of the wax-stripping chemicals. The wax stripper was so noxious that it it removed my toenail polish, peeled a layer of skin off of my hands and knees, and I don't even want to think about how many poor little brain cells it killed (I need those, you know!). I also spent a day working in the laundry room where I managed to give myself blisters on my hands while trying to wring out steaming hot laundry. (Lesson learned: put it straight into the dryer no matter how sopping wet.)

But it's done! Floors are freshly waxed, sheets and blankets crisply tucked into hospital corners on beds, supplies restocked, and every available surface (including the ceiling) double-bleached. We're ready for patients.

Somewhere in amongst all this cleaning flurry I had a chance to meet some Togolese health officials who have been researching the social and emotional effects of VVF. Thanks to the researchers we have a list of women that we may be able to provide surgery for which is greatly encouraging.

Speaking of VVF, I am slowly growing into my new job. I've realized just how deep an appreciation I have for order, planning ahead, and a good orientation-- all things I wish were a little more prevalent at the moment. But I have enjoyed the organizational and planning aspects so far, and I like being able to see the big picture and plan accordingly.

Prayer requests:

Patients arrive at the hospital on Wednesday and our first surgeries are Thursday. Please pray for a smooth start as many of the staff are new. We also have about 75 Togolese volunteers who will be working with us as translators in the hospital, so please pray for good teamwork as we all try to help each other figure out how this whole thing works.
Mercy Ships is having lots of small patient screenings (small meaning anywhere between 100-500 plus people) as opposed to one large screening as in years past (with several thousand people). There are many people that we must say "no" to as the ship has very specialized surgeons and we only have so many surgical slots. Our hope and prayer is that people will see the love of God in us regardless of what answer we give them.
I would appreciate prayer as I continue to grow into my various jobs (I have three, two of which are new). I am being trained as a charge nurse this week, and will alternate working as a regular nurse and a charge nurse on the wards for two months (after which I will go to VVF full time--VVF surgery starts late May).
The Togolese elections happen March 4th--please join with the people of Togo in praying for peace. I don't understand the political situation here but we are all praying for a peaceful election, results period (results are announced several days to a week afterwards) and for a peaceful transition of power.

walking to beautiful

2010-02-05T08:15:00.000-06:00

I'll be serving in a different role with Mercy Ships for this year's outreach in Togo. Last year in Benin I served as a ward nurse, taking care of patients before and after surgery.

But this year? This year I am in a new role, something altogether thrilling and terrifying all at once: VVF Specialty Care Co-Coordinator. Basically that's a fancy way of saying that my friend Maggie and I will work together to coordinate the VVF program, trying to keep things running smoothly. Maggie and I will be some of the first people these women meet as they come seeking hope and healing, and we'll walk with them through the peaks and valleys of their time in the hospital.

I love each and every one of these women--they are so incredibly strong and beautiful and I learn so much from them, things both simple and profound. See some of my previous blog posts to learn more about VVF and some of the joys and heartaches that come with working in VVF.

And I highly, highly recommend watching a documentary called A Walk to Beautiful that you can watch entirely for free online. Filmed in Ethiopia, "A Walk to Beautiful" follows several women suffering from VVF as they journey from their remote homes towards a VVF clinic, searching for hope and healing.

(Gnuipanga, a VVF patient last year in Benin, just before a dress ceremony--photo by Mercy Ships communications team)

More than anything I can ever say in this blog, this documentary paints a perfect picture of why I am so honored to work with these women.

adventures at sea

2010-02-02T12:40:00.000-06:00

(Africa Mercy sailing away from Tenerife)

I've been holding seasickness at bay for the moment by regularly taking anti-nausea meds. It doesn't help, though, that I have leadership meetings in one of the topmost rooms of the ship (topmost = rocks the most) for 4 hours every day this week. I'm going to the meetings early so I can sit centrally and look out the windows on the bow at the only horizon that doesn't buck wildly, appearing and disappearing like so much magic.

We all stagger about drunkenly; even walking down the hall is a challenge when you ricochet off the sides like a bowling ball off the gutter guards. Suddenly crossing the dining room from one side to the other requires enormous amounts of skill and energy--first you climb your way up the incline, then dig your toes in as the floor suddenly pitches and you're racing downhill.

"Keep two feet on deck," they say--to which I might add, "and one hand on the railing." I'd hate to fall overboard, to be sure, but I'd also hate to take a tumble down the stairs, so I hold on tight as I strategize how best to ascend or descend.

In my room, I wince as I hear things smash about inside cupboards and closets. The mirror on our wall swings like the pendulum of a grandfather clock, and I scheme about how to measure the angle of our incline by tracing its path on the wall. At night I wedge one knee tightly against the small guard rail on my top bunk, praying I don't roll out. (I did roll off the top bunk once at summer camp in Montana, waking up with a scream when I hit the ground. After all, how many of your falling dreams actually turned out to be the real thing?)

This little flat-bottomed ferry was never meant for the open seas. Yet we chug steadily along, somewhere off the coast of northern Africa, headed towards Togo. And we are reminded:

The voice of the Lord is over the waters;

the God of glory thunders,

the Lord thunders over the mighty waters.

Psalm 29:3

en route (one day in Paris, and a quick stop in Barcelona)

2010-02-01T12:28:00.000-06:00

Continuing my journey from Houston to meet the Africa Mercy in Tenerife, I spent one day in Paris. Last time I was in Paris (on my way home from Benin) I was ecstatically overjoyed at every little thing. This time I enjoyed Paris with a quieter joy, content to simply wander and take pictures. A few of my favorite pictures are below for your viewing pleasure.

No grand stories this time of my day in Paris, other than it was bitterly cold. I managed to stop my teeth from chattering long enough for a quick picture while on Pont Neuf.

I managed to capture in a picture some light breaking through the clouds over Paris,

the light as always a reminder to me that God has already defeated the darkness.

I once again sought a few moments of rest in Notre Dame,

which drew my eyes toward the heavens and my heart toward God.

I found my way to the iconic Arc De Triomphe which from all accounts is simply stunning at night. Since I had no intentions of wandering around Paris after dark my myself, I was content to visit during the day.

My last stop for the day was the tallest point in Paris, Montmartre (the Hill of Martyrs), where the Sacre-Coeur watches over Paris. I enjoyed the contrast between the sacredness of the cathedral and the marketplace worldliness just below the cathedral. The street below was filled with people visiting shops and restaurants or taking a quick spin on a vintage carousel.

From Paris I flew to Barcelona for a quick layover before boarding a plane for my last flight of the journey into Tenerife. I wish I'd had a day in Barcelona to wander around and soak up the sun, but then again I hardly speak a word of Spanish so perhaps it's better this way. As it was, the sun streaming in the terminal windows was a nice respite from the cramped, dim plane rides.

I'm currently sailing on the ship from Tenerife towards Togo... using the computer can make seasickness worse (depends on the person) but I hope to post some pictures from Tenerife soon. And I'm still hoping for dolphins and whales and flying fish... none so far, but I did glimpse a sea turtle coming up for air in the 30 seconds I ducked outside for my own breath of air today.

to sail, or not to sail... that is the question!

2010-01-31T05:29:00.000-06:00

I'd hoped to post some of my Paris pictures before this, but those will have to wait (along with pictures of lovely Tenerife!)

Today the ship is scheduled to sail, but whether or not that will happen is unknown. We've had some bad weather come in and the skies are dark and ominous. The captain already anticipated some rough days at sea, but leaving right in the middle of bad weather would just add to that.

(Africa Mercy docked in Tenerife... before the bad weather came in.)

Welcome to life on a ship... and welcome to life in missions. Flexibility is absolutely key. Although "TIA" (This is Africa) technically that doesn't apply yet, it's the same kind of feeling.

We've all prepared for the rolling and heaving in store for us by tying everything down, locking things in cupboards, and wedging the rest tightly into nooks and crannies so it won't slide all over the floor. Something is bound to break loose, though, and either smash into a million pieces or simply make an incredible racket.

We've all stocked up on anti-nausea meds, hoping to not need them but preparing for the worst.

All of us on the ship would appreciate prayers for:

*wisdom for the captain in knowing whether or not to start sailing today or wait for better weather
*for the engines to run smoothly without problems
*for health and strong stomachs for us all-- seasickness affects everyone differently, and to varying degrees
*for beautiful weather on the sail!

When the ship sailed from Benin to Tenerife at the end of the last outreach (I'd already gone home to the States), people had lots of pictures and stories of dolphins, flying fish, water spouts, beautifully starry night skies, and glorious sunsets over the open ocean. I'm hopeful for my share of those blessings this sail!

en route (Houston to Paris)

2010-01-27T14:40:00.003-06:00

(Where in Paris did I take this picture? Guess in the comments)

I'm safely ensconced in my lovely little cabin onboard the AFM, reveling in the simple fact that I have within my view the following items: a mini-fridge, white Christmas lights, three chairs, a side table, and a window(!) framing the night-lights of Tenerife. I have moved up in the pecking order on the ship and am in a four-berth this year (four women living in one room with one bathroom and the amenities listed above). This arrangement is rather blissful compared to last summer when I lived for six months in a room with 5 other women and no window and no chairs, sitting area, or fridge, etc.

I had safe and uneventful travels from Houston to Paris (where I spent a day wandering around frozen to the bone--but hey, it was Paris, so I won't complain!), then from Paris through the Barcelona airport to finally arrive in Tenerife, a city in the Canary Islands (owned by Spain, but off the coast of Morocco and Western Sahara).

I promised last time that I had a packing/luggage story to tell, and I do. My luggage allowance appeared to be one bag weighing less than 23kg for charge with the option to add another bag for $40. Sounds great, right? However, I ended up calling Air France to clarify whether that $40 would check the bag from Houston to Paris or all the way through from Houston to Tenerife... and thank goodness I did call! Turns out that since I was staying a night in Paris I would then be under Air France's European baggage rules, which allow for one bag of only 20 kg-- every kilo over that would cost me 15 euros. That second bag would have cost me $485, not including the $63 fee for the "extra" 3 kilos on my first bag.

At any rate, I managed to completely pare down what I was intending to pack to just the bare minimum: 20 kilos checked, plus a carry-on. Nothing that I would have packed in that second bag would have been worth the extra money--at $21 a pound, I will just make do or live without. So I am living on a mere 70.5 pounds of stuff for the next 8 months.

I've decided that you meet the most interesting people on international flights, provided you speak a little of the language or are willing to make yourself understood with gestures. When I flew to Benin last summer I sat next to a Beninoise musician (apparently a "real" one with a band and all). This time, on the leg from Houston to Paris I sat next to a Tunisian (that's in North Africa) businessman who travels to market some sort of new technology for collating MRI images. He was just friendly enough for me to learn that he's Muslim and considers Tunisia one of the more open Islamic countries (which it must be since he was watching episodes of Sex and the City on the plane... go figure). I was able to share with him what I am doing with Mercy Ships, and we talked of our families and places we'd like to travel to.

On the flight from Paris to Barcelona I sat next to a French electrical engineer who traveled to 25 countries last year on business--he does something with machines that package carbonated drinks. And from Barcelona to Tenerife I sat next to a sweet old couple--he wearing suspenders to hold his pants around his round middle and she opening and closing a fan, the kind with painted wood and black lace all accordion-folded together. Unfortunately for me this sweet old couple spoke not a word of English or French, and I can do nothing other than count to ten in Spanish. But at any rate so much fun to watch them interact.

Next post: pictures from Paris which was lovely, but freezing cold and I have decided that I don't really enjoy hauling my luggage up and down all those stairs to get in and out of the Metro. But I was able to snap some good shots in Paris despite the cold and all the luggage-lugging. Can anyone guess the locations of each of the teaser pictures in this post? (Sorry, no prizes, only the knowledge that you are incredibly more cultured than the rest of the population.)

(Where in Paris did I take this picture? Guess in the comments)

bon voyage

2010-01-24T01:25:00.000-06:00

I am 95% packed, cross-eyed from trying to stuff all the necessaries into nooks and crannies.

More about the ordeal of packing later--I have a little horror story regarding that, but need some sleep before I can tell it properly. (Sorry if you are the curious type as you'll just have to wait.)

Here's the plan: leave Sunday afternoon. Fly overnight to Paris (attempting to sleep on plane) and spend day traipsing around cold, foggy, still-lovely-regardless-of-the-weather Paris. Spend Monday night in hostel. Leave Paris Tuesday at noon via Barcelona to Tenerife, where someone from the ship will pick me up at the airport.

(Paris and the Seine River by night, taken from the Eiffel Tower)

I would appreciate prayers for:

*safe travels, and also for hassle-free flights as I am flying with a reduced fare and have to carry papers proving my humanitarian status as well as my exemption from a visa

*safety while exploring Paris

*that my duffel bag will remain completely intact (as compared to my return from Benin last year--that duffel was ready to rip in about 4 seams, and had to be tossed after I arrived home)

*for an easy transition back to ship life: almost no space, few belongings, two minute showers, new roommates, and lots of new crew

Thank you all so much for your encouragement and prayers along the way--I'm excited to get settled in and start telling you more about what I'll be doing this year. I probably forgot to tell you, but I have a new & different job from last year... sorry but details on that will have to wait too. This is already longer than I intended!

Off to bed for one last night at home. Next post will be from either Paris or Tenerife!

how to contact me when I'm in West Africa

2010-01-21T08:31:00.001-06:00

While I am volunteering overseas with Mercy Ships, there are several ways to stay in touch with me:

1) Email (theartofreflection [at] gmail [dot] com) and facebook are the fastest.

2) Via phone at (954) 538-6110 (extension 4337). However, it's generally easier for me to call you as I am 5 hours ahead of central time in the US. I've gotten really good at calculating the time differences when I call home so that I don't call in the middle of the night.

3) I love letters and mail! It only takes about 2 weeks for mail to reach me, believe it or not. Just be aware that if you send a package (or anything heavier than 1 ounce), it costs me $5.60 a pound to receive it... so please just be mindful of the weight! You can send letters and packages to:

Lindsay Nelson
M/V Africa Mercy – Nursing Department
PO Box 2020
Lindale, TX, 75771-2020

I look forward to hearing from you and sending you fun post cards from interesting places.

ways to support me

2010-01-20T00:30:00.009-06:00

The countdown is well under way: I leave January 24th-- this Sunday!-- to return to West Africa to serve as a nurse with Mercy Ships.

(Relaxing after church in Benin last year with some friends)

Curious minds want to know: "how can I support you as you volunteer overseas?"

I'm so glad you asked!

First and foremost I must tell you that your prayers are essential. The longer I work in missions the more I learn that prayer is critical to everything. I'll keep updating my prayer requests on this blog--simply click on "prayer requests" under the "common threads" area on the right side of the page. This will bring up every post with prayer requests, starting with the most recent ones. And if you would like me to pray for you, just shoot me an email. I would love the chance to walk in faith with you in this way!

Secondly, I cherish each and every email, facebook message, letter, and phone call... no matter how short & sweet or long & detailed. Just the reminder that I am not forgotten is a huge encouragement to me! See "how to contact me in West Africa" in the "welcome!" section in the top right hand corner of my blog.

If you feel led, you can also partner with me financially. I not only volunteer my time and nursing skills, but I also pay crew fees each month to Mercy Ships--it's what keeps the ship up and running. If you feel led to support me financially, the link above will take you to a secure webpage on the Mercy Ships website. (Unfortunately, because I am a short-term missionary, any gifts made in my name to Mercy Ships are not tax-deductible.)

And finally, please check out the Mercy Ships website. You can read specific patient stories and learn about the organization's history, mission, and values. And there's a list of open positions if you are interested in volunteering! You don't have to be a medical person (or dental or vision) to serve with Mercy Ships--we also need teachers, bakers, housekeepers, hairdressers, engineers, computer specialists, human resources, accounting, retail, hospitality, carpenters... you name it! I would love to serve alongside you.

Thank you to each and every one of you who reads my blog--it's such a huge encouragement to me to know that people care about me and what I am doing. I can't wait to share with you how God will work in Togo this year!

rootedness

2010-01-05T09:30:00.003-06:00

Shortly after I was born, some family friends gave my parents a McIntosh apple tree. Their instructions were to plant the “Lindsay Macintosh” and watch as both tree and daughter grew.

I don’t know why I thought of the apple tree recently except that I've been thinking about the concept of rootedness. I think of rootedness as a deep sense of knowing who you are and where you belong.

I thought that living on a floating hospital ship would give me feelings of being uprooted and ungrounded (maybe unmoored would be a better word, since it's nautical and all). When asked where I am from--a frequent occurrence on the ship--what should I say? Am I from Minnesota, even though it never felt like home? Am I from Houston, even though I only ever lived there for several months over a summer’s break from college? Am I from Seattle, which was the last place I felt truly at home? I was born and raised in Idaho, but have no emotional connections there any more.

Where is home? I don't know.

But I do know that I am rooted and established in love...God's love. (Ephesians 3:17) In His love I know who I am and where I belong, regardless of where I put down physical roots. And that is enough.

As the Lindsay McIntosh tree grew, it eventually bloomed and bore fruit. I am thankful that in this season of life I too am in the stage of blooming and bearing fruit. God has been moving in my life, working in my heart when I thought all was barren, bringing me to a place of fruitfulness. God has shown me that he has a much larger plan for me than I could ever have dreamed for myself.

As I anticipate going back to the Africa Mercy to work in Togo and possibly South Africa, I am thankful for a God who chose me, called me by name, and scripted a unique role for me in his grand narrative of redemption.

soli deo gloria

2010-01-01T00:24:00.005-06:00

I don't make New Year's resolutions. When I was younger I thought everyone made resolutions, so I did too. But I never once looked back at what I had resolved to do and each year slipped quietly away without any progress in those areas.

Instead of resolutions, this year I've picked one phrase to serve as a reminder of why I have chosen to walk the paths I'm walking. To bring me back, as often as necessary, to the simple truth that it's not about me:

Soli Deo Gloria.

It's an ancient Latin phrase meaning "glory to God alone ."

I won a giveaway at a beautiful blog called Bliss last summer. As a general rule I never ever win anything, so needless to say I was thrilled. I was additionally pleased to learn that I'd won a gift certificate for some lovely jewelry created by Lisa Leonard. (Just needed to give a little credit where credit is due to both of those ladies!)

Anyway, the point is this: I used my gift certificate to order a piece of jewelry that I would never otherwise have bought, and in a moment of genius had it inscribed "soli deo gloria."

My hope is that each time I put it on, I'll be reminded that everything in my life--particularly this year as I return to West Africa to serve as a nurse--is meant to bring glory to God alone.

So far, the necklace is serving its purpose. As I packed up all my belongings and said goodbyes to dear friends in Minnesota, the soft clink of the pendant around my neck whispered it is worth it--all the work, all the pain, all the uprooting. It is worth it. Go where God calls.

As I shed silent, bitter tears at the reality of the losses I'm experiencing (and causing to those dear to me, which is even worse), God spoke to my heart, saying I am worth it. I am with you. You are not alone.

One of my hopes for this year is that God would teach me that He is enough, and that I would learn more and more to live a life that brings glory to Him. Sounds grand, I know, but God has whispered this idea to my heart and I want to listen to His promptings.

Will you walk with me in this? I'll need your gentle reminders from time to time... this is such a learning process.

And if you would like to share, I would love to know your hopes for the new year--maybe you have chosen one word to hold on to, a phrase to live by, or resolutions to strive for.

priceless

2009-12-30T21:12:00.003-06:00

...............................................................................................

Pandora radio: free

prayer cards with envelopes: $25

stamps: $45

ink cartridges and computer paper: thank you Mom and Dad

2 full days of writing, folding, sealing envelopes: about 16 hours that I will never get back

writer's cramps: included free with all of the above at no extra charge

88 support letters finally, finally in the mail: PRICELESS.

Linked to the Gratitude Community over at Holy Experience... as we recount the multitude of gifts that the Lord showers down.

Lord willing, this is the plan

2009-12-08T01:40:00.000-06:00

Here's the proposed plan and timeline so that people who are interested know what's going on in my life... and to give some advance warning that I might be a little discombobulated during all this!

Dec. 11th: start the drive from Rochester to Houston (so thankful that Eva and Chinwe are coming along!)
Dec. 12th: arrive in Houston
Dec. 16th-22nd: fly to Seattle to see both sides of my extended family
Dec. sometime after Christmas: drive to Nashville to see Marshall
Jan. 13th: fly to Rochester for Rachel's wedding (I'm singing in the wedding, too!)
Jan. 17th: fly back to Houston to spend one last week with family
Jan. 24th: fly to meet the Africa Mercy in Tenerife, spending one night in Paris on the way
Jan. 26th: back on the Africa Mercy!
Jan. 31st or so: begin to sail to Togo

first snow

2009-12-07T23:39:00.000-06:00

It's snowed all day today, small crystals that have only just barely managed to cover the grass. It looks beautiful, but I still feel chilled.
My apologies for being absent for a while. When I first began to blog, I promised myself that I would only blog if I considered my thoughts "worthy of public consumption." And frankly, I have been challenged to write anything worthwhile while I am here at home... it is so much easier to come up with things to write about when I am on the Africa Mercy.

Brief update: I spent Thanksgiving weekend packing up my belongings and last Monday the moving company came and hauled it all away, excepting a few clothes and my ancient computer. On Tuesday I ordered a laptop, my first ever. Having a laptop will be such a blessing when I am back to living on the ship, and of course I am thrilled to give my 8-year-old, virus-infested desktop a kick to the curb.
But today I have been (emotionally and mentally) frozen, wandering around the house in a sort of twilight. My eyes keep returning to the empty place where my coffee table used to sit. My vintage bookcase is missing too, as are the few books that I keep because they have been formative in my life.

My mind is immobile, caught by the snare of "shoulds" and "must-do's" on my mental list.

And time stretches thinly in front of me: seven days. In just a week I will get in the car and drive south, towards warmer climes and my family, but leaving behind friends I love and a place that has been home for three years.

In my joy of coming home to Minnesota I somehow managed to forget that this is no longer home, and that I would be saying another round of goodbyes all too soon.

But I'll be happy to bid goodbye to the snow, and hello to my parents in Houston.

(I wrote this last Thursday and neglected to post it... so I am posting it now, as is.)

freedom and redemption

2009-11-23T11:22:00.002-06:00

Frankly I don't feel thankful today.

I feel overwhelmed.

The sheer number of items on my to-do list seems to have multiplied in the last week, and my heart says I am tired. Tired of complicated. Tired of mundane but necessary. Tired of planning ahead. Tired of dealing with things that I never anticipated; for example, my CPR certification expires August 2010... but I'll be out of the country at that time, so I'd better take the class (in my "spare time") and renew it now.

All of this logistical quagmire has a beautiful purpose: this is the journey I must walk in order to return to the Africa Mercy in January. I'm exactly where I should be, following God's calling... but I'm tired.

I thought about not posting today (rationalizing that no one would notice the absence), but immediately after that thought occurred to me so did another: thankfulness may sometimes be a feeling, but it is more often a choice.

I've been reading in the Old Testament, in Exodus. I've been underlining just how often God does things "so that you may know there is no one like the Lord your God." It's on every single page, in every single chapter. But is it in my heart and mind?

Consider Moses' question and God's reply, from the last part of chapter 5 and parts of chapter 6:

"O Lord, why have you brought trouble upon this people? ...you have not rescued your people at all."

"I am the Lord. ...I will free you... I will redeem you... I will take you as my own... Then you will know that I am the Lord your God."

So today I will choose to be thankful for a God who frees me, who redeems me, who takes me as His own, and who desires me to know Him.

Today I'm joining in the gratitude community over at Holy Experience.

light in the darkness

2009-11-18T11:31:00.000-06:00

Notre Dame, Paris

Lord, you have brought light to my life;

my God, you light up my darkness.

Psalm 18:28 NLT

Entering the hushed stillness of a cathedral always instills in me a sense of wonder. My breathing slows, my mind stills, my eyes widen, my heart responds.

In the darkness hundreds of candles flicker and dance. I've been known to gently drop my coins in the box and light a candle as a way of entering into the holiness of the place.

Something about light captures me, perhaps because I have walked in darkness. But Jesus says:

"the people living in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned."

Matthew 4:16, quoting from Isaiah 9:2

So I choose to celebrate the light, especially at this time of year when daylight lessens and nights lengthen.

Light reminds me that though the darkness is black indeed, the Light of the World has already overcome.

Linked to Tuesdays Unwrapped at Chatting at the Sky.

Monday morning sunshine

2009-11-16T12:09:00.000-06:00

Continuing to list the many gifts that God lavishes so abundantly...

46) bonfires with friends
47) quiet misty mornings
48) bald eagles
49) high ropes courses, challenging both mind and body

(Photo by Amanda Martin)

50) friends who challenge and encourage

(Photo by Amanda Martin)

51) heated floors in the cabin
52) playing Ticket to Ride with friends
53) cold, clear nights perfect for looking at the stars
54) scraping my windshield for the first time in a long time
55) celebrating Rachel's upcoming marriage with friends at her bridal shower
56) game night with old friends... up waaay too late, but we successfully saved the world
57) homemade waffles this morning
58) Monday morning sunshine
59) a quiet house--doubly precious after all my time surrounded by people and noise aboard the Africa Mercy
60) friends who ask questions and really listen to my answers about my time with Mercy Ships
61) being able to speak at Salt and Light church group last week about what God has been doing in my life
62) looking into a week filled with time to figure out details, fresh chances to reconnect with friends, and time to just be present.
63) being underinsured(!)--I was able to receive a vaccine I needed for $12 (usually $200). Thank you Lord for federal grant money!

When you begin looking for the gifts that God gives, you realize just how graciously he gives: beauty, light, warmth, relationships, fresh air, practical provisions.

I challenge you to begin seeing your world through grateful eyes. Awaken wide-eyed with wonder to every little gift. Feel free to join with me in the gratitude community at Holy Experience.

ah, Paris... je t'aime

2009-11-13T12:05:00.009-06:00

Oh Paris, how I love you (sigh).

As you can tell, I had a lovely time in Paris while en route from Benin back home to Minnesota.

I love Paris even though it rained in the afternoon and I then proceeded to spend a good eight hours wandering around Parisian streets in thoroughly wet and freezing shoes.

It's surprisingly easy to get around in Paris. From the airport, simply hop on the Metro train and it will take you right into the heart of Paris. After I got off the Metro, it was a quick walk to my hostel where I dumped off my luggage, ate breakfast (chocolate hazelnut spread on bread and a cup of tea), and discovered there was a free walking tour that included all the highlights of Paris I'd hoped to see.

We met at the Font St. Michel and proceeded to walk to Notre Dame, along the Seine River, through the courtyard of the Louvre (utterly gorgeous architecture, see photo at left), and through a park which displayed an odd mingling of classic French statues and that kind of modern art which can only be described as "strange and slightly disturbing." We stopped for lunch (salmon and cucumber baguette for me) and coffee... I caved and bought a Starbucks. I know, I know--it's completely un-French to drink café au lait (coffee with milk), much less with any flavoring! But it had started to rain, I was freezing cold, and I wanted something hot to hold in my hands, not a tiny little demitasse cup filled with straight espresso.

After lunch we continued bravely on despite the rain, although I must admit I have a hard time remembering what all we toured because I could only think about my coldness and wetness. We ended the tour at the Petit Palais, which like many other old, grand palaces in Paris now housed a museum. We were within walking distance of L'Arc de Triomphe, Napoleon's Tomb, and the Eiffel Tower.

At this point, I had made friends with a couple guys on the tour, and we ducked inside the Petit Palais (see photo at right of a beautiful staircase inside) to warm up and figure out what we wanted to do next.

Now, if you had told me six months ago that I would end up seeing the sights in Paris with a couple of guys I had never met before, I would have told you in no uncertain terms that you were crazy.

But, it was nice to have someone to take pictures of me at all the landmarks. And they were nice and not at all creepy.

So, the three of us--me, an accountant from India/England, and a Texan student studying in Italy--spent the rest of the day happily getting lost (which can only lead you to interesting doors, churches tucked in small neighborhoods, and great patisseries), exploring inside Notre Dame, and eating dinner at a quaint bistro.

You can't help but be reminded of the grandeur of God when you are in churches like Notre Dame. Everyone is hushed, and the whole place is permeated with a sense of mystery and holiness.

After a leisurely dinner, the three of us took the Metro to the Eiffel Tower. We hoped to be able to climb up to the top--600 some steps--but apparently you are not allowed to after dark, so we settled for riding the elevators up.

After dark the Eiffel Tower puts on a continual light show. When we first walked up it was golden, but within minutes the entire tower was sparkling (perhaps a million little camera flash bulbs?).

The ride up in the glass elevators was well worth the price of the ticket! I am not particularly afraid of heights, but I found myself holding my breath as the elevator kept climbing...climbing...climbing.

But this was the view from the top.

I've decided I could live quite happily in Paris.

After we were safely back on the ground, the three of us walked to the Metro and headed back to our respective hostels. Incidentally, I ended up having a room to myself at the hostel, an unexpected but welcome blessing. After a good night's sleep and another simple-but-decadent breakfast, I wheeled my luggage back to the Metro and headed to the airport... and home.

feeling loved

2009-11-11T11:11:00.001-06:00

I have been given two blog awards recently... I'm definitely feeling loved!

Thank you to Angela who writes a lovely literary blog for the Over the Top blog award!

The rules for accepting this award are to copy and change the answers to suit you and pass it on. Answers can only be one word! Pass the award to your favorite bloggers and alert them they have been awarded.

1. Where is your cell phone? purse
2. Your hair? straightened (for the first time in 6 months)
3. Your mother? lovely
4. Your father? consistent
5. Your favorite food? mac&cheese
6. Your dream last night? none
7. Your favorite drink? tea
8. Your dream/goal? master's?
9. What room are you in? bedroom
10. Your hobby? singing
11. Your fear? loneliness
12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? adventure!!
13. Where were you last night? birthday party
14. Something you aren’t? short
15. Muffins? chocolate
16. Wish list item? pedometer
17. Where did you grow up? Idaho
18. Last thing you did? read
19. What are you wearing? pajamas
20. Your TV? unused
21. Your pets? plants
22. Your friends? amazing
23. Your life? blessed
24. Your mood? jittery
25. Missing someone? Mercy Shippers
26. Vehicle? Honda
27. Something you’re not wearing? perfume
28. Your favorite store? TJ Maxx
29. Your favorite color? all
30. When was the last time you laughed? today
31. Last time you cried? unsure
32. Your best friend? my joy
33. One place that I go over and over? library
34. One person who emails me regularly? Eva
35. Favorite place to eat? Panera

I'd like to pass this award on to two blog friends I've recently "met" who have gone out of their way to encourage me:
Tea @ Homemaker's Heart
Michelle @ Shhhh....I'm Thinking!

The second award came courtesy of Tea, who writes a lovely blog about family and faith. Thank you Tea!

Here are the rules that come with the Superior Scribbler award....
1. Each Superior Scribbler that I name today must pass the award on to 5 most-deserving bloggy friends.
2. Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author and the name of the blog from whom she has received the award.
3. Each Superior Scribbler must display the award on her blog, and link to this post, which explains the award.
4. Each Blogger who wins The Superior Scribbler Award must visit This Post and add his/her name to the Mr. Linky List. That way, we'll be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who receives This Prestigious Honor!
5. Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on her blog.

I'd like to pass this award on to several blogging friends whose blogs are always well-penned:
Eva @ Life and Prime Numbers
Angela @ BusyBees42's Weblog
Roo @ Where Her Feet Land
Deb @ Talk at the Table
Andrea @ One Journey Among Many

my blessings overflow

2009-11-09T09:26:00.001-06:00

This past week saw me saying au revoir to friends aboard the Africa Mercy, bonjour to lovely Paris, and je suis la! (I am here!) to my friends as they welcomed me home at the airport.

All in all I am thankful for more things than I can count this past week, but I will at least list the highlights.

24:: Debs, who graciously sewed my duffel bag together in not one, but three(!) places after I discovered holes just moments before I was meant to leave for the airport to fly home

25:: safety pins to reinforce Deb's sewing, and packing tape around the entire duffel bag for added peace of mind

26:: additional packing tape at the hostel in Paris, where I discovered yet another rip in the duffel (oh I wish I had a picture to show you!)

27:: the previously mentioned stitched-pinned-taped duffel bag did NOT explode while in transit home. (Did I mention that I also frequently prayed for this duffel to arrive intact?!)

28:: a free walking tour of all the highlights of Paris

29:: the Paris metro

30:: the Eiffel Tower at night

31:: dear friends meeting me at the airport at home

32:: hugs that left me breathless

33:: my fabulously comfortable bed

34:: glorious fall days just right for a sweater and a scarf

35:: my favorite Stella Mare gardenia candle (a little whiff of heaven)

36:: my houseplants thriving in a sunny windowsill

37:: Paris Romance tea (how fitting!), Earl Grey, chai, and other favorite loose leaf teas

38:: celebrating with friends for Chris' birthday--lots of games and food

39:: freshly mulled apple cider

40:: friends who have asked me about my time in Benin, who listen, who sense the joy in my eyes and voice, and who make me promise to have an open house so I can show pictures and tell stories

41:: friends who mention that they have been reading my blog (so encouraging!)

42:: Eva, who came home early from the cities just so she could see me and give me the. longest. hug. ever.

43:: puttering around the house and chatting with Rachel

44:: Ron offering me an entire SNL night (church young adults' group) to talk about my experiences with Mercy Ships

45:: time to finally reply to comments on my blog from friends old and new

God's gifts are incredibly, overwhelmingly abundant. Please add your voice to the gratitude community found at Holy Experience.

bittersweet

2009-11-04T08:16:00.002-06:00

This is it: my last day. Today is a day for packing (I have not saved it for the very last second, Mama), goodbyes, and one last walk into Cotonou to buy some cards.

But yesterday? Yesterday was a day for dancing.

Through no fault of anyone in particular, yesterday's shift--my last one in Benin--certainly followed the idea that one should "go out with a bang."

It was one of those shifts where I just couldn't keep up with the myriad changes happening with each of my five VVF patients. Nor could I keep up with the hundreds of little technical things that you have to do with VVF patients to make sure that their surgeries have a good chance of succeeding. All of the nurses who worked yesterday's shift were overwhelmed.

But in the midst of all the catheter problems and opening abdominal incisions and dressing changes, we had another dress ceremony. Four ladies danced yesterday to celebrate being dry and to give testimony to a hope reborn. For once, there were not crowds of crew members or communications people taking pictures of it all. Yesterday was just the VVF ladies, the nurses, and the disciplers. But we still sang and clapped and praised God for the way he works miracles in our lives and in our bodies.

In the middle of a terrible, horrible, very-bad day, I paused to listen to the stories of the women.

I have had this trouble for 12 good years.

I had to travel for several days to come to the ship.

I thought my life was over; I thought it would always be this way.

I listened to the stories of the women--Irene, Animutu, Sekinatu, and Mariama--and it crashed down on me that God is sovereign. I was in the middle of a stressful shift, but I caught my breath as I remembered that God calls each of us by name. He knows each of our stories. He wove each of us together.

And for the first time, I got off the sidelines and joined the ladies dancing in the middle.

(Photo by Mercy Ships communications team)

(When I next blog, it will be from home... see you all then!)

in which I have magical powers

2009-11-03T11:47:00.002-06:00

Yesterday I discovered the joy to be found in keeping a little mystery in life.

I was working yet another shift taking care of VVF patients. For a change, I had enough spare moments to unpack and put away our fresh supplies. I was holding a large cardboard box when I noticed Eugenie taking in my every move.

Eugenie watched, completely enthralled, as I took the tape off the box seams, opened the flaps, and began to flatten the box so I could throw it away. As the box collapsed completely, she gasped and her eyes widened in shock. What magic made this large object change shape and almost disappear?

I reopened the box, forming it once again into a rectangle. I showed Eugenie the reassembled box, intending to help her realize that the box simply folded in on itself, no magic required. I slowly opened the flaps again to collapse the box, and Eugenie shook her head in wonder, mouth agape. Louisa, the patient in the bed next to Eugenie, was by this time laughing with us, fully a part of our fun. Apparently this cardboard box phenomenon was nothing new for Louisa!

I shaped the carboard once more into a box and called the other nurses over to share in the moment. I then offered the box to Eugenie so that she too could learn the "mysteries" of flattening boxes. But Eugenie couldn't take the wonder any more and disappeared underneath her covers: this was all just too much.

As we all shared in the joy of the moment, I realized that this is yet another reason why I love working here: I learn to see things from a different perspective. Simple things that I take for granted, like breaking down a box, can be a source of wonder and amazement to someone who has never seen such a thing.

I would never have guessed it, but that simple cardboard box provided the best tears-in-your-eyes, genuine, rollicking bellylaughter I've had in a long time.

Eugenie continues to decline to participate in the wonders of box-flattening. Since no one really speaks her language (there are 52 tribal languages in Benin), I am not sure what she thinks about the whole experience.

But I think that sometimes in life we need to preserve the little mysteries, not rush to explain them, lest we lose our sense of wonder.

Shared as a part of Tuesdays Unwrapped at Chatting at the Sky.

what beauty looks like

2009-11-02T15:38:00.005-06:00

This is Gnuipanga, or Panga for short. She's one of the VVF ladies I've been taking care of recently. There's another dress ceremony tomorrow, symbolizing the new life and new hope that these women have after a successful VVF surgery.

Isn't she beautiful?

Thing I am thankful for #23: the radiant smile a woman smiles when she has regained hope.

(Both photos taken by the Africa Mercy communications team)

Join us as we count our blessings over at Holy Experience as part of the Gratitude Community.

at the setting of the sun

2009-11-01T14:55:00.000-06:00

I sat in the dining room yesterday evening watching the sun slide into the waters of the Port du Peche. It's strange to be able to number the times I will be able to do this on one hand.

I fly out of Benin on Wednesday, stopping for 24 hours in Paris before arriving in frozen and wintry Rochester on Friday evening.

Goodbyes are gloomy affairs, especially when I consider the indisputable fact that I will never see some of these people again, at least not in this life. And "let's keep in touch" is at times simply a well-intentioned euphemism for "I hope you have a nice life."

I was reminded by Maggie that the goodbyes are worth it. I'll take the small pain of saying goodbye to someone lovely over the rather large loss of never having known that person.

Even as I prepare to say goodbye to some very dear friends, I am also thrilled beyond words to be going home both to friends close enough to be family and also my "real" family. Knowing that there will be a group of people waiting with open arms at the Rochester airport makes it so much easier to leave behind people I care about here.

Of course, it also helps to know that I will be back on the Africa Mercy in late January, sailing from Tenerife to Togo for the outreach and then sailing down to South Africa. Which, incidentally, requires sailing across the equator and around the Cape of Good Hope--how amazing is that?!

Want to meet me at the airport? I get into Rochester at about 6.30 pm this Friday, November 6th. I imagine my first order of business will be to head home to sleep (in my own bed!), but I would love to see you regardless.

I wonder, when I open my bags at home to unpack, will they smell of Africa?

gazing out in hope

2009-10-26T14:22:00.001-05:00

Yesterday's twelve hour shift was twelve hours of difficult. I've been caring for some of our VVF ladies, and while I love the work, at times it requires more than I am able to give.

For the sake of all my non-medical readers, I won't go into details about my shift yesterday. Suffice it to say I spent most of the day cleaning up after some ladies who were not feeling too well. I had to search high and low for every single supply I needed to take care of my patients. I had a million little tasks to do, each competing for priority. And at the end of my shift, when I accidentally knocked over a container of urine onto my flip-flop shod foot (this is why you have to wear closed-toe shoes in hospitals at home!), all I could do was laugh. It was either laugh... or cry with frustration.

And so last night I didn't set an alarm for this morning, sleeping in until my body chose to wake up. Today I have done little except be with friends, read a good book, and work on a Bible study. When I finally got online this evening to check my email and catch up on some blogs, I realized that today is Monday. Multitude Monday over at Holy Experience. And as I was reading what others in the gratitude community were thankful for, I came across this gem at a blog I enjoy: gazes out in hope.

Gazes out in hope. What a beautiful word picture.

Yesterday's shift was a tough one, but I think about the VVF ladies and am reminded of their strength and hope. These women hope for a life reborn: freedom from shame and belonging once again to their families and husbands. While we may provide the free surgery to fix the hole in their bladder, only God can fix the hole in a wounded soul. He is the Hope-Giver and the Healer, and for that, I am thankful. I am also thankful for:

15) the gratitude community: as we share our stories together, we are reminded of God's goodness.

16) waking up one day last week with a worship song in my head: "holy, holy, holy/ is the Lord God almighty/ who was and is and is to come/ with all creation I sing/ praise to the King of kings/ you are my everything/ and I will adore you."

17) the study of the book of Esther by Beth Moore. I am learning, I am seeing God's hand at work, and I am seeking to know Him more. And I am finally--finally!--enjoying being in my Bible.

18) a quiet room to myself tonight, a rarity on this ship on which 400 people live.

19) God's quiet reassurance breaking through my fretting about how it will all get done

20) a beautiful story of redemption told by my dear friend Eva.

21) Akouvi, a VVF patient. Although her surgery failed, and she continues to leak urine constantly, she continues to smile, laugh, and even tease me as we communicated yesterday through broken French and translators.

22) anti-malarial medications for baby Jenga. In God's gracious timing, his mama Mora is currently a VVF patient, so we have been able to give her surgery and also treat his malaria... which could otherwise have been deadly.

This week, may we each continue to gaze outward in hope.

hope reborn

2009-10-20T10:08:00.003-05:00

Today two women had their VVF surgeries, the first two surgeries of a two week season. I had the pleasure of caring for both of them and was reminded of just how much I love these women!

VVF stands for vesico-vaginal fistula, which is something that typically occurs during childbirth, and typically only occurs in developing countries with little access to health care. (In the developed world, the problem is fixed immediately in the hospital.)

Sometimes in Africa women with complicated labors will labor for many days to a week. Part of the problem is that many of the women, especially in the most isolated and rural areas, are physically very small. Although they may have had enough food growing up (or maybe not), all the energy and calories go towards the heavy work of hauling water and fuel for cooking, instead of going towards growth. Another part of the problem is that sometimes the nearest road is many hours' walk away and the hospital further still. So a woman may labor for days or weeks(!) with only her family and the villagers for help.

After a while, the constant pressure of the baby inside the birth canal can cause tissue to die, and a hole forms between the bladder (or sometimes the bowel) and the birth canal. The end result is that for the rest of her life, the woman constantly leaks urine, stool, or both. Tragically, the baby almost always dies in the process of the difficult labor.

A woman who leaks urine is shunned by her family, outcast by her community, and usually abandoned by her husband. Her worth as a woman is intrinsically tied to her ability to bear children and raise a family. She often thinks of killing herself with poison.

Somehow she hears about a ship that has come to Benin to help her; somehow she endures hours of walking and bus rides; somehow she survives the ridicule of strangers; somehow she finds her way in an unfamiliar city to the Africa Mercy and is screened for surgery.

She arrives in the ward with her lappa wrapped tightly around her, eyes downcast, trying to make herself unnoticeable.

I welcome her with a smile, help her get washed and give her a bed with clean sheets and pads to help her stay dry. I explain the surgery: what it will be like and what she should expect. And we pray together before she goes into the operating room--that she would know Jesus' love, that God would guide the hands of the surgeon, that she will have a successful outcome.

She comes back from the surgery, sleepy and worn out... but she smiles at me as I help her get back into bed. She is dry--so far so good--but only time will tell if the surgery really worked.

Today, her name is Justine, and her name is Rosalen. Tomorrow, there will be three new names: three women having surgery, three women hoping for a new chance at life. If the surgery works, she is given a new dress to symbolize her new beginning, and we celebrate with dancing and singing praises to the Lord. Then she returns home, hopefully back to the now-open arms of her family and husband.

(Women dancing for a dress ceremony after successful VVF surgery)

The surgery isn't always successful, so we walk a fine line between dancing and mourning on the wards during our VVF surgery season.

Our VVF program on Mercy Ships is called Hope Reborn, completely apropos for a surgery that can give a woman new hope and new life in her community. We also talk with each woman about God's love for her, so sometimes she is also born into the family of God while she is here! Many women are already Christians when they come to the ship, but have not been truly loved or seen for years--sometimes decades--due to their condition.

Watching these women bloom as they discover they are loved and they are not alone is one of the most beautiful things I think I've ever been part of.

Today, at the end of my shift, the other beautiful thing was the pad underneath Justine: it was dry.

(For more information about VVF, watch the movie A Walk to Beautiful, or read the book The Hospital by the River. Both cover the work of Dr. Catherine Hamlin, a missionary in Ethiopia who first brought VVF to the public eye.)

(Linked to "Tuesdays Unwrapped" at a lovely blog called Chatting at the Sky.)

thankfulness

2009-10-19T09:31:00.001-05:00

Continuing a thread from last week, I am listing things I am thankful for. Want to join? Head over to Ann Voskamp's lovely blog, and be part of the conversation.

6:: a perfect cup of Earl Grey tea with a splash of milk and a hint of honey
7:: competing solidly on team "Lok and Keys" at the Benin Games (the Mercy Ships version of the Olympic Games)

(Lok is in the middle surrounded by the Keys; photo by Mariechen)

8:: iced bissap, also known as hibiscus tea
9:: a gorgeously sunny day at Bab's Dock yesterday... water volleyball, water frisbee, swimming, napping in the sun
10:: everyone who supports and partners with me so I can serve with Mercy Ships--I made a list today in order to write thank you notes, and it is a very long list!
11:: knowing I am headed back to Minnesota to see friends in about two weeks
12:: knowing I am headed to Houston in December to spend the Christmas season with my parents
13:: knowing I will also fly to Seattle to see extended family and friends over Christmas
14:: knowing I am coming back to Mercy Ships in January for the outreach in Togo

What one thing are you most thankful for as you begin a fresh week today?

the meaning behind the title

2009-10-17T13:33:00.005-05:00

(lovely image found here)

My blog title, "The Art of Reflection," originally comes from this thoughtful quote by Saumel Taylor Coleridge:

There is one art of which every man should be a master--the art of reflection.--If you are not a thinking man, to what purpose are you a man at all?

Of course, this is true for women as well!

What does it mean to reflect? It simply means to think. Wrestle. Process. Wonder. Feel deeply. Be inspired. Learn. Grow.

Being a thoughtful, reflective person is an essential part of growing personally, spiritually, emotionally, relationally... you name it. One of my hopes is to live as authentically and purposefully as possible. I think that's only doable when I am able to pause and reflect on what happens, what my heart says, what God whispers.

"The Art of Reflection" is also a reminder that as Christians we are created Imago Dei, in the image of God. I am to reflect Christ to those around me. I blog to share what I am learning, thinking, and praying about... I hope as a visible 'image' of how God is at work in my life. I invite you to share in the conversation (I always enjoy reading your comments), and join with me on the journey!

Please share your thoughts as well. In the last week, what have you found yourself reflecting on most often?

a warm welcome!

2009-10-14T15:48:00.001-05:00

Since I've noticed that some new folks are reading my reflections, I thought I might just take a moment to say hello and introduce myself a little.

My name is Lindsay, and I'm so glad to meet you! I'm a nurse currently working with Mercy Ships on the Africa Mercy, a floating hospital ship currently docked in Benin, West Africa. Before I coming to Mercy Ships I worked at the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota for three years.

I believe that reflecting on what's going on in your life--especially on what God is doing--is an essential part of personal and spiritual growth. My blog is a place to share what I learn as I seek to follow God's leading and where I can dialogue with you on your own journey. And now that I am (temporarily) living overseas, the blog is also a place for me to share stories and pictures from West Africa... and process the joys and challenges that come along the way.

I'd love to get to know you, too--feel free to introduce yourself below, perhaps by answering one (or all!) of the following questions:

What do you do for a living?
What's been most on your mind recently?
Where would you most like to travel to, and why?

You can always get in touch with me via email at theartofreflection@gmail.com.

gratefulness

2009-10-12T09:46:00.005-05:00

I've journaled for years, and while some of my writing has been about things I am thankful for, I have never actually listed my blessings. I may or may not be consistent in this weekly exercise, but I have so many things I am thankful for that I just have to start listing!

1. My loving, supportive parents. What would I do without you? Even when I choose paths that increase the physical distance between us, and literally guarantee that I won't see you for birthdays and Mother's or Father's Day, you are able to say "we love you. Go where God leads."

2. The amazing library on board ship. From a great Christian fiction section to newly-discovered nonfiction gems like The End of Poverty by Jeffery Sachs, it has all I need to keep my little bookworm-heart happy.

3. I live in an age of technology... so that while I may be in Benin, I am able to keep in touch via phone, email, and internet with friends and family. I think I might have jumped ship before now if I hadn't been able to cope in this way!

4. The faithfulness of dear friends who keep in touch, sending emails longer than my arm and pretty postcards that made them think of me. And nameless friends who will dress up in pinata and fox suits, lugging guitars and accordions to busy street corners in town, just to create photos that will make me laugh (*cough*Eva*cough*Chinwe*). And my dear "landlady" Rachel, who sends me sweet stories of "our" house and opens bills and deposits checks for me while I am away from home. And Ang, who sends me pretty little baubles just because.

5. The warm, sweet smell of freshly laundered clothing.

I could keep going, but said laundry needs to be promptly removed from the dryer...

What are you most thankful for right now, at this moment?

God alone knows why

2009-10-09T11:17:00.001-05:00

Wednesday was a difficult day. I showed up for my evening shift and the charge nurse, unaccountably solemn, gathered the nurses together while she sent the translators over to another ward.

Daniel, one of our translators, was killed instantly when his motorbike collided with a truck Wednesday morning. He was married with two little girls, and his face lit up whenever he spoke about them. He could make trumpet sounds with his mouth to accompany himself on the guitar or piano.

I have memories of Daniel playing "trumpet" while Patrick played the guitar and sang, calming restless patients as they tried to settle down to sleep the night before surgery.

Yesterday I drove with some other nurses to visit his house and express our sorrow with his wife and family. Between the nurses and day volunteers, we were too many for one car so some followed behind on hired zemis. At the house, we were too many for the seats, but we stood and sat and prayed and cried and sang together. We reminded each other that we loved Daniel, but that God loves him more than we ever could. We reminded ourselves that God alone knew the number of his days, and God alone knows why the number of his days was so much shorter than we might have wished.

We reminded each other that God is the father of the fatherless and the husband to the widow. Never before have those words had such profoundly real implications to me as I sat and watched Daniel's two little girls seek their mother with questions in their eyes--who are all these people, and why are they in our house? Why is everyone so sad?

And we kept coming back to one theme: thankfulness. Surprising, perhaps, under the circumstances... but never more true.

We are thankful for Daniel and for his life, and for the ways in which we were allowed to share it. We are thankful for the way he loved his wife and family. We are thankful for the way he interacted with patients on the wards, with laughter and with guitar and with smiles and songs.

And we are thankful that Daniel is in heaven, finally fully alive, making people do double-takes as they search for the trumpet.

welcome home

2009-09-29T20:09:00.004-05:00

On the ship, you end up saying more goodbyes in a month than you usually do in a year or two of regular life. Saying goodbye comes with the territory when people come to serve for just a couple months. Sometimes I will spend multiple evenings a week out on the dock, passing out hugs and well-wishes and waving as the Land Rovers carry friends and coworkers away to the airport.

Each time I wonder how it will feel when my time comes to leave. (I have five weeks to prepare for that eventuality.)

Goodbyes are hard, even though I have only known some of these folks for two months. But when you eat and work and play and cry and talk life with people--which is otherwise known as "living in community"--you can become quickly attached to people you have only known for a month or two.

It's good to remember that for most people, I am not really saying au revoir (goodbye). Rather, I am saying tout à l'heure (see you soon). Because even if I never end up being able to visit South Africa or New Zealand or Australia or Norway or Switzerland or England to see these friends again, I will in fact see them again... and what a grand reunion that will be!

It's also good that every now and then I don't have to say goodbye, but instead I get to say bon arriver! Because that's what you get to say when friends like Maggie come back to the Africa Mercy.

Welcome home.

lessons in trust

2009-09-20T14:47:00.011-05:00

Before I came, I mentally equated coming to work with Mercy Ships to taking a spiritual cliff-dive: step up to the edge, take a deep breath, and plunge off into the unknown. The truth is that God gives of Himself abundantly. He took the tiny amount of faith and trust I had and covered the rest with grace, and when I look back I wonder why it seemed such a trustfall to come to Benin. It turns out to have only been a small step of obedience. Who knows what steps of obedience may be required of me next, but each time His grace will be sufficient.

I wrote that in July after I had been here in Benin for a couple months. Since then I have continued to think about what it means to trust God, really trust Him, not just say I trust Him and continue to try to hold it all together anyway.

In Natitingou, my friends and I went to swim at a waterfall one day. Rainfall the previous day made the waterfall beautifully strong, churning the water in the pool below to a cloudy brown. And it was here that I had the chance to scramble up the side of the waterfall, first holding onto a tree root and then climbing up the rocks themselves. Guided by a friend who had been there before, I bypassed a ledge on the side of the waterfall and plunged under the waterfall itself to climb onto one of several ledges behind the waterfall.

There were three of us total behind the waterfall, and the plan was to jump out all together. At the countdown, the other two jumped, and I remained standing on my ledge with the water pouring over me.

Now I am not afraid of heights, but I don't like falling. So jumping is hard for me...especially when I am standing behind a screen of water that prevents me from seeing my surroundings, how far it is to fall, and what lies below in the water.

I stood there with the water rushing over and around me and thought about how this was a living, breathing picture of exactly what God has been teaching me over the past year about what it means to trust.

Trust requires letting go.

Trust requires moving from the known into the unknown, even when you can't see where you are going.

And trust requires actually stepping off the ledge, not just thinking about it.

Toes gripping the slippery black rock, I stood under the rush of water contemplating the grandness of a God who gives me waterfalls to teach me lessons in trust.

Eyes closed, heart pounding, I jumped.

And loved it, so much so that I proceeded to climb up the waterfall so I could jump off once more, just for good measure.

Trust is a lesson I am trying to learn well, although I'm not sure it will ever be easy. Thankfully God is giving me ample opportunities to practice.

(You can see three ledges or levels in the picture... we jumped from the lowest of the three.)

Natitingou

2009-09-19T11:15:00.000-05:00

Natitingou is easily one of the most beautiful places I have ever been, and absolutely the most beautiful place I have been thus far in Benin. Especially when compared to concrete-and-zemi-smoke-saturated Cotonou.

Two weeks ago I left straight from a night shift to sit on a bus for ten hours with some other nurses as we headed up to the far northern part of Benin to stay with some missionaries.

I find I can't really write about the weekend, except to say that it was truly refreshing and rejuvenating. I needed the beauty, the mountains, the streams, the waterfall, the flowers, the hiking, the red dirt roads, and the fresh air.

Here are a few of my favorite pictures from the weekend. Head on over to facebook to see the rest if you are interested.

This is not what you think of when you think of Africa, is it? Welcome to Benin.

Looking out over the valley the first evening.

Me and Esther, hiking in the hills surrounding the valley.

Driving just to see the sights in Sombaland... so much fun!

Sunset on the last evening, too beautiful for words.

things I've left unsaid

2009-09-08T14:39:00.005-05:00

My blog is more like a journal than a newspaper. In other words, I write more about my thoughts and feelings than the "straight facts" of what is happening here on the Africa Mercy. There's a reason for this.

In my opinion, the things I am learning make for more worthwhile writing than the minutiae of daily life here. I know, I know: unless you live on the Africa Mercy, you have no concept of what passes for normal life onboard, and with a few word pictures you would be better able to picture my life here.

I wrote a while back about some of the things I will never be able to put into words. My experiences here have profoundly impacted how I think and what I value... but I find it near impossible to be able to write about that much. And in addition to those things I can't put into words, I have realized that when I write I am also leaving a great deal unsaid.

I don't blog about specific patients like some nurses do, for example. It's not because I don't want to. It's just that each person's experience living and working on the ship is different, and that includes caring for different patients. Ali, for example, is a pediatric nurse and thus has ample opportunity to write about the adorable little kiddos we take care of on board.

I am not a pediatric nurse, however. In my case, after about five weeks of VVF patients, I had a six or seven week stretch of almost exclusively hernia patients. Hernia repairs are simple and thus the patients would be in one day and out the next, leaving me with little time to learn their names much less hear any of their stories. From a nursing perspective it was a mindless six weeks of work, and I had to often remind myself that although hernia repairs are simple operations, they can be just as life-changing as some of the more specialized surgeries. For example, if a man is unable to work due to a hernia and thus unable to provide for his family, repairing that hernia gives him his livelihood back and keeps his family from going hungry.

In a nice change of pace, I've been working in plastics (surgeries to repair deformities or contractures, often involving skin grafts) for the last couple of weeks. Plastics patients stay at least a week so I have been able to learn their names and listen to some of their stories. Maybe I will write about some of their stories; maybe not. Somehow it seems too personal, too intimate. But I know you are deeply interested in the kinds of patients I care for, and I also know that you have perhaps wondered at the lack of patient stories on my blog.

For the time being I will point you to the writing of some friends who are able to capture much better than I some of the individual stories of beauty, heartache, and healing that we see on a daily basis on the wards.

Naomi from Australia writes a short but good compilation of several stories complete with pictures that are worth more than a thousand words.

Adrienne from Canada writes about some of the VVF ladies that came to us earlier in the outreach.

And Ali from the US writes about a beautiful little baby who came in malnourished and with a tumor as big as her head... and left transformed.

uncharted waters

2009-09-04T16:37:00.002-05:00

I ought to be sleeping before tomorrow's early morning shift. Instead, I am wide wake and pondering the fact that I was supposed to arrive back in Rochester, MN, tonight. Since I extended my time here in Benin, I will instead return in November, just in time for a bitterly cold MN winter. (I timed that well, didn't I?)

It's strange to sit here as the ship sways gently back and forth, thinking about the changes the last three and a half months have wrought in my life.

I never imagined when I signed up for Mercy Ships that I would end up staying nearly six months. Six months! It seems such a long time and yet it is slipping away so quickly.

I did not know that I would cut myself adrift from Mayo without a plan in place for what to do next.

I never dreamed that my options for next year would include the following: moving to the Austin, TX, area to be closer to family, or travel nursing somewhere in the US, or heading to Togo on the Africa Mercy.

I love how God's plans for me are always grander than what I dream for myself.

From here on out, the waters are uncharted.

the art of letting go

2009-08-16T15:17:00.003-05:00

Needless to say, letting go is a skill learned only through repetition.

Letting go is especially challenging for a woman who loves to plan ahead, loves to strategize, loves to think in multiple scenarios, and loves to (try to) be in control.

A quote that I have been thinking about for a couple months now from Seeds of Sensitivity by Robert J. Wicks: "It is only when you move into the future without God that you experience anxiety."

I am choosing to move into the future with God, which necessarily means letting go of my plans and expectations. I am choosing to trust that God's dreams for me are ever so much grander than I could ever dream.

And I am choosing not to give in to thoughts of "what in the world have I done?!"

What I do know: it's time to once again step up to the edge of the cliff, take a deep breath, and trust.

I don't know what I will be doing after the new year, an uncertainty which is a totally new experience for me. I may be looking for a job somewhere in the neighborhood of San Antonio or Austin, Texas; I may be back on the Africa Mercy for the Togo outreach; I may be travel nursing in Australia. Or goodness only knows what else.

It's a dangerous business... going out of your door...You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to. (JRR Tolkien)

a collection of short stories

2009-08-11T06:09:00.005-05:00

I know, I know: it's been a while since I have posted a blog...at least one that actually says something rather than only just barely hinting at my thoughts.

But I was thinking today of some of the things that have happened that are small enough in and of themselves, but that will give you some insight into what my life is like here.

For example, I have managed to electrocute myself while in Benin. Not exactly what I pictured my parents hearing from Mercy Ships before my remains were repatriated (my traveler's insurance covers this, did you know that?) back home to the States. The story is this: after my last string of night shifts, three other fellow night-nurses and I headed to a lovely resort called Awale Plage in a sleepy little town called Grand Popo not far from the Togolese border. (Both pictures in this post were taken at Awale Plage.) We spent three days and three nights in utter relaxation. The first day we breakfasted on ripe mangoes brought with us from the ship, read novels while listening to the rain run madly off the corrugated roof, and watched tiny little geckos stalk and eat ants. After the rain let up we walked on the beach discovering cuttlefish and sting rays and one lone green piece of perfect beachglass. The next morning the sultry African sun reappeared so we donned our togs (swimmers, bathers, swimsuits) and lay on woven reed mats to watch the waves crash on the steep shore. It was on the evening of the second day that I electrocuted myself while reaching to turn off the light over the bathroom sink. Turns out to have been a charged piece of metal posing as a power toggle. I gasped, removed my tingling index finger from the light, and promptly went out to tell the girls what happened to me. We laughed long and hard about the fact that of the assorted typical ways to die in Africa (zemidjan accident, various parasites, exotic diseases, sunstroke, etc.) electrocution didn't even make the list.

Speaking of zemidjans, in the interest of truth in reporting I fear I must confess that I have ridden a zemidjan...twice. I left that little tidbit out of my chronicles about vodun fetishes in the Dantokpa market, but the truth was that it would have been nearly impossible to walk the distance from the ship to the market and back in the heat of the day carrying heavy wooden drums. The other truth is that I couldn't help but love the wind in my hair even as I clenched my hands around the back of the bike and prayed for safety. That being said, I am not going to ride any more zemidjans. The risk is just too high.

The other little tidbit that illustrates a small portion of life on the ship comes from this past Saturday morning which found me queuing up for breakfast in the dining room status post night shift. You have no idea how ridiculously excited I was to have a pancake, and orange juice, and--get this!--pineapple flavored yogurt! It made my entire day. The food here is generally amazing, so don't misunderstand me. But breakfast typically consists of toast and cereal and some artificially flavored fruit drink. About once a week we also have a bitter-tart plain yogurt which I have not yet been able to render palatable. Food on the ship can be a strange mix of feast and famine: we may have smoked salmon for sandwiches, but we have not had cheese for the past two or three weeks and we don't know if/when more will be coming. But I will miss the sunflower seed bread, the tubs of mangoes in various stages of ripeness, green oranges, and ripe pineapple.

One other thing I will miss when I go back to the states will be the African greeting, which starts as a handshake and ends with a snap of the fingers as your joined hands separate. This happens anywhere from two to four or five times during the course of the interaction.

And finally, the most important part of this post: I have extended my time here by a couple months so I will come home sometime in mid-November rather than early September as originally planned. I just couldn't picture coming back in a scant three weeks. I am learning so much and growing so much, and despite some of the quirks of life here I am really thriving living in Christian community. And I love the work that I am doing on the wards and that Mercy Ships is doing in Benin. (Read the latest Mercy Ships newsletter here.)

It's not that I don't miss being home; I do. I miss camping and trips to Eva's sister's "cabin" and spontaneous ice cream excursions. I miss the farmer's market and weeding in the backyard. I miss canoeing in the river and biking to Pine Island.

But as wonderful as those things all are I want to be a part of what God is doing here in Benin for a little while longer. I have appreciated the many emails, cards, packages, phone conversations, and the knowledge that I am being prayed for continually. If you would also be interested in supporting me financially for my last couple months, you can take a look here.

Tout a l'heure, or until next time.

things I will never be able to put into words

2009-07-27T15:17:00.009-05:00

Assuming I can read your mind with some degree of accuracy, you will want to know certain things when I get home.

For example, I have not taken what you might call "classic missionary in Africa pictures"--myself surrounded by a sea of smiling black children; cuddling little ones with enormous liquid dark eyes; tiny sleeping brown babies tied with a bedsheet onto my back. Those things have happened, to be sure. But the things that are worth taking pictures of are exactly the kinds of things that it is impossible to take pictures of. And I am trying to the best of my ability to not perpetuate the unconscious voyeurism that comes so naturally when you view African snapshots from the comfort of your living room at home.

I will not be able to come home and talk about how Africa itself has changed me, or how Africa is in my blood, or how I may be white outside but have an African heart (all things that various friends have said upon returning home from Africa).

But while I may not be changed in exactly those ways, the fact remains that I am changed.

Before I came, I mentally equated coming to work with Mercy Ships to taking a spiritual cliff-dive: step up to the edge, take a deep breath, and plunge off into the unknown. The truth is that God gives of Himself abundantly. He took the tiny amount of faith and trust I had and covered the rest with grace, and when I look back I wonder why it seemed such a trustfall to come to Benin. It turns out to have only been a small step of obedience. Who knows what steps of obedience may be required of me next, but each time His grace will be sufficient.

Part of what has changed me is the conversations I am having here: conversations of a depth that universities back home struggle to foster. Gather people from all corners of the world to live together in community, to work towards a common purpose, and with love of God and others as a common motivation, and certain types of conversations will flow naturally.

I have talked about what I think about President Obama; what I think about black people; what my friend Christian thinks about white people; why Americans are typically so ignorant of what is going on in the rest of the world; what other countries think of American foreign policy, especially the war in Iraq (I'm unable to comment with any intelligence at all on this last one).

I am learning about what really constitutes luxury; what disease in the body can do to a person's heart and soul; what fear can drive people to do; how so much of my lifestyle at home is bought at great cost to other people; what it looks like to dream of opportunity but have no real hope for it to actually materialize.

I am learning what it means to ask questions with humility. I am learning just how much I do not know. I am learning to listen, I am learning to slow down, I am learning what it looks like to honestly care for another person, and I am learning of the faithfulness of God despite appearances. God is faithful despite poverty, despite disease, despite shame, despite ostracization, despite fear, despite brokenness.

I am learning to trust that when all is said and done, God is the answer to the unanswerable questions.

first night

2009-07-19T17:24:00.002-05:00

I spent my first night on African soil last weekend in a small town/village called Dassa-Zoume, about 4 hours' drive from Cotonou. Dassa is known for its basilica, 41 hills, and a nearby river with hippos, among other things.

After spending literally hours working out the logistical nightmare of trying to arrange transportation, hotel rooms, and a hippo tour for 14 yovo nurses, we woke up bright and early on Saturday morning to shoulder our luggage and walk down to the port entrance to wait for our transportation.

In true Beninoise fashion, we sat and waited. And waited. And waited for nearly two hours for our pre-arranged transportation to arrive. As we were attempting unsuccessfully to call the interpreter who had arranged everything for us, another two interpreters--Daniel and Charalampous--rode by on a zemidjan, telling us that they would take care of everything, just give us 20 minutes.

And also in true Beninoise fashion, they returned in the allotted time with our new transportation--an old ambulance redone as a very large taxi. We were amazed that in only about half an hour it was possible to come up with transportation for such a large group of people!

After 4 hours bumping down the (mostly) paved road, we arrived in Dassa at L'Hotel du Auberge. What a treat! Each room was outfitted with a double bed, a fan, private bathroom with a sink, shower, and flush toilet (the old-fashioned tank-above-the-toilet variety). The sweet citronella scent permeating the air, screens over the windows, and a mosquito net over the bed made the ambiance complete.

We set out to explore the town, heading first in the direction of the Catholic basilica. It draws thousands of pilgrims each August as they commemorate the appearance of an image of the Virgin Mary in a grotto several hundred years ago. After exploring the church grounds, we asked some local women where we could hike in the hills, as some of the 41 rocky hills that surround Dassa are sacred. We started off down a path that turned out to lead directly through the yards of some of the townspeople, so we started attracting attention rather quickly.

After making friends with some of the children we met as we traipsed through their front yard, they showed us a small boulder we could climb in their backyard. It had a fair view of the town, but we wanted to keep climbing.

As we climbed, we scrabbled through a jungle of trees and stickery vines and tried to avoid stepping on the hundreds of large snails and giant millipedes(!). At times the rocks were so slippery that we had to haul each other up... with the help of four of the kids, who were amazingly strong. Finally there came a point where those of us in flip flops had to turn back while the rest forged ahead in search of a better view. We hadn't really thought to hike right away or I certainly would have worn my tennis shoes!

Andrea and I headed back down, making friends with the kids who hollered "yovo, yovo!" as we passed. After a lovely cold shower, we ventured into the 'backyard' of the hotel where some ostriches were fenced. Only in Africa!

After the rest of the group arrived from their climb we assembled for dinner at the hotel--we'd been instructed by the hotel staff to order 2-3 hours ahead of time, and the same thing for everyone: roasted chicken and fries. Dinner was eaten by candlelight as the electric lights attracted all sorts of giant flying insects which being true women we did not appreciate. Toughest chicken I have ever eaten, but despite that it was very good when coupled with fries and a Youki pamplemousse (grapefruit soda bottled in Cotonou, similar to a Fresca), not to mention a fabulous chocolate mousse.

After dinner it was time to tuck ourselves in under the mosquito nets to sleep before our 0600 departure to look for some hippos!

That next morning, our transportation was (thankfully) prompt... however, instead of the two vehicles we had contracted for through the hotel, there was only one: a rusty, beat-up blue van. One of the nurses who speaks French told our driver that since there was only one vehicle, we would not pay full price. We then crammed 13 yovos and two Beninoise into this tiny, uncomfortable, falling-apart piece of blue junk. There was a significant hole under the gas and brake pedals in the front through which the road sped by underneath. Several people sat on the floor, several had to sit facing backwards on a makeshift seat behind the front seats, and the rest of us crammed onto bench seats. For a tall woman like me, the seats were sufficiently high that I had to sit hunched over or risk a head injury. So off we went, until of course we had to stop at a roadside stand so we could get some (illegally imported, varied quality) petrol. Then onwards.

I thought a journey of 25km (16 miles) would not take us more than a half hour to an hour, allowing as always for what we fondly call "African time." However, goodness only knows how far we traveled, because it certainly took almost 2 hours in that wretched van to reach the river. Along the way, we had the additional boon of breathing in the acrid fumes from the petrol, and the unexpected adventure of a small creek having washed away a good chunk of the road. We all piled out of the van, and the driver attempted to drive over the creek. No luck. Now the van was stuck in the mud at a forbidding angle. Fortunately some men had come along on zemis, and they helped push the van back out of the mud. The second attempt over the "river" was the charm, thankfully, so we once again all piled into our assigned niches and we were off again.

(Side note: one of the zemi drivers was carrying a baby goat like a woman would carry a purse, with its legs were tied together and it was strung over one shoulder. The poor thing cried as it went past us, hauntingly similar to a child's cry. I realize that goats are animals, and they are also very tasty, and there are not really pets in this part of the world. But still! It was a little disturbing.)

After jostling around for nearly two hours, we finally reached the village near the river where we were supposed to meet some local men to paddle our canoes and act as our guides on the hippo-search. However, there were no canoes: someone had died in the next village over and the body was currently being transported somewhere. So we stood by the river and hoped for additional canoes to come along. Of course, the presence of yovos had roused the entire village--or at least most of the kids--to come and stand with people with the strange white skin.

(Keep in mind the absurdity of the whole situation from a Beninoise point of view. Not only are there 13 yovos in a rather remote village in south-central Benin, but that a group of Beninoise women would never ever EVER set out for this kind of trip--not just the hippo part, but the whole thing. It's just not done. One of our translators on the wards had already told us, smiling as he did so, that he didn't think we could possibly want to go to Dassa on our own, without an interpreter and (reading between the lines) without a man to navigate the bumps for us.)

So on the banks of the River Ouémé we stood hoping for more canoes. While waiting, we marveled at the industry of some ants who had literally dug a long, winding trench with raised sides in the ground, stretching as far as the eye could see in each direction. During our marveling at the ants, we realized that we ourselves were being explored by said ants. And the ants were biting. "Having ants in your pants" took on an entirely new, unpleasant, literal meaning.

So now we are standing, paranoid about the ants, and (of course) feeling all sorts of real and imagined critters crawling on us. And at about this time, a few canoes arrive to start our trip downriver to look for hippos.

One canoe held nine yovos (plus two men to paddle... the total weight must have been close to a ton! In a single, carved wooden canoe; amazing!), and the other canoe held only three yovos (one decided to wait it out on the banks) plus two guides. Down the river we headed, the men paddling leisurely and the yovos white-knuckling the sides as we adjusted to the back-and-forth motions of the canoe.

After about an hour, our guides pointed the canoe towards the banks and told us to get out. So we waited on the bank, watching mystified as the guides "called" the hippos by banging on the sides of the canoes with their paddles. Why hippos would be attracted to that, I don't know. Certainly none showed up. After a while, our French-speaking nurse negotiated with the guides to take us downriver further to where the hippos supposedly lived--a big, mean daddy hippo, mama hippo, and a baby hippo. Convicing the guides took some work, as they kept explaining that we did not want to get too close and that we would not see more than a hippo's back anyway (they don't stand up on their hind legs or shake hands in greeting, apparently).

But downriver we went again, the guides telling us to be quiet and still, yet singing and talking loudly themselves. After a while they skirted around a little island in the middle of the river and pointed to a small gray area raised out of the water. Apparently, it was a hippo sleeping. We sat for quite a while waiting, but the thing (pile of rocks?) never moved, not even when the guides "called" it with violent pounding on the sides of the canoes again.

We finally grew tired of the sun, waiting for the "hippo" to move, and the swaying of the canoes and decided to call it a day. Our guides paddled us back to their village where we happily climbed back out onto dry land and jammed ourselves back into the blue van for the long ride back to our hotel.

And that's it for the Dassa weekend, folks! We arrived safely back at the hotel, where we had to haggle with our drivers over the cost of the ride to the village. We had told them upfront that we would not pay the full price for only one vehicle when we had contracted for two. On top of that one of the men insisted that he ought to be paid extra for acting as our "guide" when we had neither wanted nor contracted for a guide... nor did he do anything other than ride in the car with us. Anyway, we settled things and piled back into the relative comfort our ambulance-turned-taxi to head back to Cotonou.

All in all: a lovely weekend away from the ship, an African-style adventure, and a lot of quality time with my yovo friends. What more could a girl want?

what to do in Cotonou

2009-07-09T09:06:00.006-05:00

The last two days have been a nice respite from being cooped up on the ship. Yesterday I walked with some girlfriends to the nearby Hotel du Lac, where for 2500 CFA (US $5) you can relax and swim in the piscine (pool). We enjoyed jumping off the high dive (not terribly gracefully on my part, I admit, but it was fun!) and swimming around. On the way home we went into a supermarket which sold everything you might ever need, from sausage and cheese to underwear and foie gras. We gambled successfully and did not get rained on all day!

Today we walked to the Centre de Promotion de l'Artisanat (CPA), also known as the craft market. Getting there is quite the experience as you have to walk quite a long ways along the waterfront, dodging in and out of the crowd of semitrucks waiting to pick up cargo at the port and the inevitable mass of zemidjans. Add in lots of muddy puddles, men randomly peeing in public, semis jacknifing while trying to make u-turns, a multitude of roadside vendors, and noxious black clouds of exhaust, and you have a fairly good idea of the obstacle course we walked! The craft market turned out to be inside an area surrounded by a sculptured and painted cement fence. I expected hordes of people jostling around, lots of hissing and shouts of "sista" and "yovo" (white person), but was pleasantly surprised at the calm. No crowds of people and very few aggressive or persistent vendors...definitely more my style than the Dantokpa marketplace which was a zoo.

Highlights of the day: practicing French with the vendors; bartering for my one purchase; explaining (in French!) the words of an English hymn to a painter, who then proceeded to sing the first few lines of the song to me; stopping on the way back home at a quaint little boulangerie where for $1.60 I enjoyed un chausson de pomme (apple pastry).

One thing I still don't understand is why it is acceptable to just shout out "yovo!" as we walk by. At home, it would never be all right to holler "black person!" or "foreigner!" or "tourist!" at people as they walked by.

I do know that the longer I am here, the more comfortable I feel being out and about. Cotonou will never feel like home, but it has mercifully ceased to be the full-on assault on the senses that it was initially.

life on and off the ship, aka a newsy update

2009-07-04T12:51:00.006-05:00

My work schedule has not been the most conducive recently to getting off the ship, and the rainy season has not helped either. Many things become significantly more complicated or even impossible once the unpaved roads can no longer absorb the rainfall.

Despite that, though, I have been able to get off the ship some recently. I do have pictures, but can't upload them at the moment so will try to add them later.

Earlier this week I took a tour of some of the off-ship ministries. We stopped first at the Hospitality Center which is a warehouse converted by Mercy Ships to sleeping space for patients either before or after their surgeries, as well as the evaluation and follow-up site for some of the eye patients and for the orthopedic patients who have a lot of rehab.

Next we visited one of the sites of the eye team, which rotates around 5 different locations depending on the day of the week (this helps with the logistics: imagine trying to queue, evaluate, and treat 400 blind or visually impaired people... and that's just at one site, on one day!). Some people just need eyedrops or steroids; others are referred to the ship for cataract surgery. Some are given "prescription" glasses--I say "prescription" because what happens is that patient tries on a pair or two, and if their sight is improved then it's a match. Obviously we don't have the facilities or equipment to create custom lenses for everyone, nor is that high on our priority list (helping the blind see by removing their cataracts definitely trumps eyeglasses). Even a moderate improvement with eyeglasses is still an improvement.

Last on our itinerary for the day was visiting the dental site in Akpakpa, which is a little way outside of Cotonou. Some NGO built the Benin government a really nice facility that was intended for a labor and delivery ward/maternity clinic, but the government doesn't have the money to pay staff to work there, so this really nice compound has been sitting empty... until Mercy Ships. The Beninoise government offered MS the use of the building and it has worked really well apparently. The team is able to run generators for their electricity, sterilization equipment, etc. A lot of teaching happens here (dental hygiene, how to prevent cavities, etc.) as well as extractions and cleanings. Interestingly, some people have really nice teeth here, and others have severe cavities and infections of all sorts. Many of my patients use a stick to clean their teeth--it looks like a really thick toothpick, but with a blunt end which is chewed until soft and then rubbed on the teeth.

The biggest adventure on this tour was the drive to and from the sites--since we are in the rainy season, things get unpassable really quickly. Dirt roads quickly turn into lakes and rivers, and I was thankful we were in a utility vehicle, as the water was probably waist high in some areas! Below: a truck headed towards us as it begins to head down into one of the "puddles."

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Today I visited an orphanage called Jardin d'Eden with a group of Mercy Shippers. I'm not sure who runs the orphanage, but the kids ranged in age from probably 4 or 5 to about 15. Everything today was tied to the story of Joseph as he went from being the favored son with the robe of many colors to being sold into slavery to interpreting dreams for pharoah and being reunited with his family eventually. I was really impressed with the way the lessons were all related to the story--everything from singing, doing a skit, coloring, and games all served to help the kids remember the story.

As often happens when anyone from Mercy Ships is out around town, a mother who lived nearby brought her little boy to us. A little spitfire about two years old, he burned part of his arm 6 days ago, probably in a cooking accident. It's unfortunately all too easy for kids here to accidentally pull a pot of steaming food from the cooking fire down on themselves. (Incidentally, I have not seen too many burn patients, but the surgeon who does those cases will be returning soon so I might.)

What do I know about burns? Next to nothing. But I was there along with one other nurse, so we were called upon to give recommendations to the mother. Through a translator, we talked about how to keep the wound clean with clean water (boil water, add a spoonful of salt, and let it cool), how to keep it moist (she was already applying a cream meant for sunburn which was not probably ideal, but it was probably helping), and how to cover it to keep the cream in place and to keep the dirt out. I don't know anything more than that, but hopefully that should be enough to keep the open areas clean, moist, and free of infection so it will heal. Fortunatelythe burn was not very deep, so I think he will end up with scars but not lose use of his hand or arm.

I could definitely use a primer on first aid with an emphasis on bush medicine. Although I am not in the bush, even in Cotonou people with very basic health problems and accidents and cannot necessarily go to the doctor. They can't afford it. So a whole range of problems--from the "little" things like ear infections and cuts, to bigger things like burns, days-long labor, cleft palate, tumors, and flesh-eating bacterial infections--are essentially untreated apart from whatever can be found over the counter or through the local herbalist or the equivalent.

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This afternoon about 85 of the Americans onboard went to the US Ambassador's house for a Fourth of July celebration. We had originally been told we would go to the US Embassy, but no such luck! All the US citizens of Cotonou were invited, so there were maybe 100 people total for a potluck meal and socializing. It was very low key, but it was nice to be off the ship and in a lovely backyard with food and music and plumeria trees (I had a flower in my hair but I lost it before coming back to the ship). I met some MS folks I hadn't met before as well as some people who work for the US Embassy in various capacities. Overall a nice dinner, and it was fun to have some classic foods like corn on the cob. In order to have corn on the cob, they had to buy a plot of land and plant the seeds themselves--you just can't buy sweet corn around here. I think there is feed corn, but not sweet corn! A little hilarious, the lengths that people will go sometimes for particular foods. :) But I enjoyed the corn anyway.

Nothing much else to add at this point. I continue to enjoy work, and the way things are scheduled means I might work 6 days (64 hours) one week and 3 days (24 hours) the next. But going off ship is limited by transportation or, more accurately, the lack thereof. You are limited either by the heat, the rain, or by how far you can walk... or, by how complicated it is to get someone to drive somewhere. But I have a long list still of things I want to see and places I want to go! And of course life in the wards is always an adventure.

Tout a l'heure! (See you later/until later!)

a time to mourn and a time to dance

2009-06-20T17:46:00.002-05:00

To work in the wards on the Africa Mercy is to be confronted by extremes--despair and joy, poverty and riches, darkness and light, mourning and dancing.

I watched in tears as one of the VVF Coordinators held the hand of one of my patients and explained to her that we were sorry, but we would not be able to do the surgery that we had planned. I watched as the interpreter and the VVF Coordinator took their turns explaining the situation to her, and I watched the light die out of her eyes and her entire body slump in defeat as understanding broke her.

I watch as some of my ladies who have been through VVF surgery realize that they are still wet; the surgery did not fix the hole in their bladder. Most are stoic, still thankful that we tried to help. But with many women you can see that hope has left them in the same way that husbands and families have abandoned them.

And yet a few days ago I danced in the hallway with the women as they marched up and down the corridor singing and clapping, enjoying some time outside the ward.

I held a beautiful three month old baby named Louise, whose birth caused her mother's fistula. Louise is cause for joy because most of the complicated, prolonged labors that cause a woman to receive a fistula also cause the baby to be stillborn.

I made my hands into fists and moved my arms as if I were gently pounding on a tabletop, a motion that means "it is good!" after I removed the pad underneath one woman. Her eyes widened as she understood the implication of my action-- she was dry!-- and she signed back to me "it is good!"

It's hard to have to live with both the joy and the sadness. It's also hard to know that although we are able to help many people, there are thousands more that we cannot help. Mercy Ships had to turn away 1150 people during a recent screening day because we had no more room on our surgical schedule.

It's easy to think about all the "if only's": if only we had additional specialty surgeons. If only we had more operating room nurses and ward nurses and pediatric nurses. If only we had enough staff to operate all six operating rooms and open all 75 beds. If only we had more room on the surgical schedule. If only we had more resources: time, money, equipment, staff, you name it.

But when I look into the sleeping face of little Louise, I know I am thankful to be a part of how God is healing people and changing lives here in Benin. I am thankful that God gives me grace to live with these kinds of extremes. I am reminded that the joy of the Lord is my strength (Nehemiah 8:10).

this little piggy went to Dantokpa market

2009-06-13T06:33:00.011-05:00

(Photo taken by my friend & fellow crew member, Giles Smalley. Check out Giles and Adrienne's blog for their perspectives regarding Mercy Ships.)

My bunkmate is a highly adventurous Aussie woman named Margot. She was given AUS $50 by a coworker to buy musical instruments to give to children in a local orphanage. Yesterday, Margot invited me to come along with her as she went to the market with Matthieu, one of the ward translators, to search for said musical instruments.

An acquaintance who served two years with the Peace Corps in Benin warned me that I might be so overwhelmed by the market that I might cry. For the record, I did not cry. But I did pray.

You can find nearly anything you want at the Dantokpa market: beans, chilies, vegetables and fruits, assorted seafood, herbs (I recognized aloe and eucalyptus), eggs, live hens and doves, chipmunks (or a close cousin), cement chunks, dish soap, DVDs, fabric, cow patties or coal, and musical instruments. We would never have found our way without Matthieu, who stopped to ask directions at least twice as we wound our way through the muddy, narrow aisles, watching both where we stepped and also all around us as people bustled in every direction.

We paused to let a man pulling a wheeled metal cart pass us. His cart became stuck briefly on a large concrete chunk, and to make matters worse the nearest woman selling her wares began to tug his cart in the opposite direction, preventing him from continuing on his way. Apparently she was angry that he had chosen to pull his cart so close to her corner. A shouting match ensued, settling down only after the man violently yanked his cart off the concrete block and the woman threw a bowlful of water at him, narrowly missing me as I scurried to get out of the fray.

We finally found the two stalls that sold musical instruments, and I settled onto a concrete stoop to people-watch while Margot decided what she wanted and Matthieu did the haggling. I received many stares--some curious, some less-than-friendly--as I sat there, but almost no one stopped to show me their wares, so I simply took in the general 'ambiance.'

It's hard to even know how to describe what I saw displayed for sale in the market stalls across from me. Will you believe me when I tell you what I saw? Monkey heads and skulls, dead songbirds and vultures, dessicated lizards, hippo feet, hippo skulls, live fish in water bottles, long shanks of golden and black hair (lion mane?), leopard skins, and all sorts of other dead and decaying things.

Margot asked Matthieu about these things, but the most he could say--or would say--was that they are used in traditional religious ceremonies.

While many of my patients wear a double strand of beads around their waist as a protective fetish, this little trip into the market opened my eyes to the more macabre side of Vodun, also known as Voodoo. Benin is called the birthplace of Vodun, and although only 18% of the population practice it, that still amounts to about 1 million people. Often traditional Vodun beliefs are syncretized--I think of it as layered--with Catholicism or Christianity. (For an in-depth, academic explanation, including a brief discussion about what the response of the Church should be, check out this link.)

So with the hot African sun beating down on me, I sat on the concrete stoop and thanked God that the war has already been won. I prayed for the people of Benin--strong, dancing, passionate--who reflect Imago Dei, the image of God. I prayed for the people involved in this kind of belief system--that God would break through their darkness and make Himself known, for He is light and in Him there is no darkness at all (1 John 1:5).

And after a little while, Margot and Mathieu called me over to help carry their purchases: assorted drums, rattles, bead-covered gourd shakers, and what can only be described as cow bells. I wrapped a heavy yellow and red wooden drum under my arm and followed them back out of the maze of the market.

I've thought about it, and I did not feel an oppressive sense of evil or darkness while I was there. Rather, I felt sadness that today, in 2009, people are still living in belief systems that require darkness and death. It was hard to see all the dead animals--beautiful creations of God--rotting and laid out in rows for use in ceremonies. And I was once again thankful for a God of infinite power and love, who calls His people out of the darkness and into the light.

Not all of the patients that come to Mercy Ships are Christian. Some are Muslim, and some have layered traditional religion plus Christianity. But we tell people over and over that we have come because we love Jesus, and we tell them that through Him we have new life and freedom.

As one of the translators said during the VVF dress ceremony I went to this week, "God has seen your sufferings and has made a way through the sea for this ship to come."

We have come on this ship as people with a story: a story of how God has led each of us, both individually and collectively, out of darkness and into light. He has cast out fear with His perfect love. And as we seek to love and heal the people we meet, we pray that they too will come to know Him.

The war has already been won.

chasing after the new

2009-06-07T10:26:00.002-05:00

Just a few thoughts today...not nearly sufficient to encompass the experiences of the last week, but they are all I have at the moment.

I am afraid I will end up disappointing some of you regarding my lack of pictures. I'm struggling with the reality that I am here--on the M/V Africa Mercy, docked in Cotonou, Benin--and you are not. I can take picture after picture and write detailed lists of the people I am meeting and what I am seeing, eating, smelling, etc., but it will not be enough to bring you here with me to walk the dusty roads of downtown Cotonou together. I will try to share Cotonou with you to the extent that I can, but please bear with me when I get frustrated by the inability of words and pictures to convey even a fraction of what I am experiencing here.

I mentioned something fundamentally important in the previous paragraph--did you catch it? Read again, and this time notice where I am living--on the M/V Africa Mercy, which just so happens to be docked in Cotonou, Benin at the moment. You need to understand that I am living on a ship with 300 some other people from all over the world, but I am not living in Africa. I happen to be taking day trips into Africa, but that is not the same thing. At the end of the day I come back to the ship: back to AC, a library, computers, a warm (albeit quick) shower, Starbucks coffee, regular meals, and the latest rugby match on the TV. I leave behind the oppressive heat, the open sewers, the acrid smoke of the zemidjans, the dust and trash, and the sense of my 'otherness' that shadows me when I am off the ship. It is a little strange to be experiencing not one but two new environments at once: ship life, and Beninoise life.

In a semi-related vein, I was thinking today about the process of transitioning from "new" to "normal." Life here has generally transitioned from being exhilaratingly new to being (relatively) familiar and normal. I sat in church today--the same church I attended two weeks ago-- and realized I wasn't feeling the same thrill of newness as before. I then realized how easy it is to chase after the new things in life, always needing "new" people, experiences, and places to be happy. Potentially dangerous, too, to continually be running after the feelings of novelty and excitement that accompany new experiences. If I once start to feel that I have seen all there is to see here at this moment in Benin, that is also the moment I start wanting to go somewhere else so I can feel the pulse-pounding newness again. Instead, I want to be characterized by consistency, and by contentment with the old and the familiar. I'm reminded of Paul, who spoke about being content whatever the circumstances. I'm also reminded of God, who as I AM is the same yesterday, today, and forever.

The challenge is to be faithful in this place, at this moment in time.

why I can't stop smiling

2009-05-30T14:20:00.005-05:00

So I had said that I would write about my trip into Cotonou with my roommate, who was looking for shoes...but really, all I might write you already know or can guess. It was dusty. Dirty. Crowded. Chaotic. No, I did not get run over by a crazy driver or a zemidjan (the crew calls them "jimmy johns"), thank you Jesus for that! No, I did not buy anything--this time. Yes, I ignored about a million hisses and the Beninoise version of catcalls. Yes, it was hot--blazing hot. This is the one place where I could really use the words of the wicked witch of the west: "I'm melting, I'm melting!!" Because that's what happens when you go outside in Benin.

So since you already knew (or guessed) all of the above information, let me move on to more important things. Like, for instance, why I can't stop smiling.

I love it here.

I just finished 12 hours on the ward with my VVF ladies, and I love what do. The integration of faith and life and work here is wonderful. We pray before the shift starts; disciplers come in to preach and pray and sing with the patients; we watch the Gospel of Luke dubbed in Fon and the patients hang on every word. Sometimes we pause in the middle of a shift and gather--nurses and translators--and pray for particularly complicated surgeries that are in progress. Every time I walk a patient down to the OR for surgery, the OR nurse, a translator, and myself gather around the patient and pray... and each time I nearly cry. One of these times I won't be able to hold it in!

And we laugh--a lot. Honestly, who wouldn't laugh at my crazy pantomimes for questions like "have you pooped today?" and "does it hurt down there?"

This is what nursing is supposed to be like. Cups of water. A little pain medicine. A lot of laughter. Singing. Holding hands. Bringing hope and healing to women who have spent large portions of their lives ashamed, abandoned by their husbands, and outcast from their families and communities.

I know it will not always be easy or fun or successful. Nor will I always feel like I am making a difference here.

But today... I love it. And I can't wait to go back in the morning.

float nursing

2009-05-29T10:25:00.004-05:00

As Eva pointed out, I am truly a float nurse now: nursing, on a ship... get it?!? :) So here's the obligatory nursing update.

After two shifts of orientation--one day, and one evening--I worked my first shift alone yesterday. I've been working in B ward, which is adult general surgieries and the VVF ladies (see my previous post for a little more about VVF). Most of the adult surgeries so far have been hernia repairs. It's been nice to have some relatively "familiar" patients--ie, adults and fairly routine diagnoses (well, excepting the VVF).

Warning: the following is probably only going to be interesting to my fellow nurses.

Nursing aboard the ship is different as night and day from home. Typical day: care for 6-7 patients, some pre-op and some post-op. Often I will discharge several patients, which involves a lot of teaching (through an interpreter of course)--how to make clean water (boil it, add salt, let it cool); how to care for the incision; no lifting the kids or "mama-papa business" for 6 weeks. Between the nurses and the translators, there's a lot of staff working--there's a translator for every 1-2 patients! Couldn't do a thing without them. For example, when patients are first admitted, the intpreters explain things like how to use the toilet, shower, and sink in the bathroom. Some of the patients who come have never seen stairs before, much less the ocean or a ship. About half the patients speak French, but even with those patients I often use an interpreter because most questions I need to ask are too complicated for my French.

I mostly give vitamins, iron, acetaminophen (called paracetamol here), and ibuprofen, with the occasional codeine thrown in for good measure. I have yet to give an antibiotic, IV medication, or morphine, although those not uncommon here. I think I will be able to get away without learning how to draw blood or "cannulate," which I know as "putting in an IV" or "sticking" someone. My other new favorite phrase used by some of the staff from New Zealand and Australia is "bung your tubing," which of course sounds slightly off-color to us Americans! It just means to cap your tubing.

Our supplies are largely donated, which means there's quite a variety of things, especially in the bandage department. Lots of our IV pain meds come in ampoules. Antibiotics have to be drawn up from a multi-dose vial or reconstituted. If I ever have a patient who needs a mixed IVF, for example D5NS, I will have to mix it myself.

The wards go something like this: A Ward is orthopedics (straightening bowed legs, burn contracture release, etc.); B ward is general surgery and VVF; C ward is currently not in use due to lack of staff; D ward is maxillo-facial surgeries (the thyroidectomies, cleft palate/lip surgeries, and tumor removals). There is an ICU but I think it is only occasionally used. I can be assigned to any of the wards (except the ICU) at any time.

Day shift goes from 0700-1500; evenings from 1400-2200; nights from 2130-0730. Weekends are the familiar 0700-1930 or 1900-0730 shifts. Today has been my only day off for a while, as I work days this weekend then nights Monday through Wednesday (yes, that totals 54 hours in 5 days). I have 4 days off afterwards, but am not sure what I will do. Probably take one day to just sleep in and recuperate (which is what I did today), then hopefully a trip somewhere on one or more of the other days. There are binders where you can sign up for all sorts of things: going to church off the ship, trips to local hotels/beaches, or trips to other cities. This weekend, several friends are going to Abomey, several hours' drive away, to visit the palace and some sort of historical museum. I would like to do that at some point, as well as visiting a village a few hours north of here that is built entirely on stilts over a lake.

My next post--which will happen tonight or soon-- will be about my first excursion into town with a roommate who wanted new shoes for the dinner with the President. Incidentally, the dinner was postponed for unknown reasons... hopefully it will be rescheduled while I am still here!

church in three languages

2009-05-25T02:50:00.002-05:00

So I attended an Assembly of God church yesterday in Seme Podji, a town/village about 25 minutes away from the ship. About 8 total crew went, and as we bounced along in the back of a Land Rover I met some of my coworkers in the wards--two nurses from Sweden and one from New Zealand. All were really wonderful women, and I look forward to getting to know them more.

Church was a lovely affair--women on the right, men in the middle, and then children and visitors (us!) on the left. Clothing was a mix of western clothes and more "traditional" wear--big beautiful, colorful prints for both men and women. I will definitely have a two-piece outfit made of some beautiful fabric... maybe even one of the elaborate hats if I am really feeling brave. The kids sitting in front of us were definitely distracted by us! A couple of their mothers kept coming over and reminding them to behave.

The service was led by the youth/young adults, and they did several songs (plus dancing of course), two dramas, and there were about 4 offerings taken (you have to dance up the aisle, drop your money in the box, then make your way back to your seat). As I have no CFA (local currency) yet, I didn't participate in the offerings. Because it was a youth service, it was longer than usual--it went a total of 3.5 hours! I was glad I brought water with me as I might have melted otherwise. The windows let in the occasional breeze, but it is always blazing hot and humid here.

After church was finally(!) over the pastor had us over to his house and his wife made spaghetti for us--a very good, spicy spaghetti with some sort of fish in lieu of meatballs. We also had peanuts (seem to be the main appetizer at least in my experience so far), sodas, and at the pastor's insistence, an apertif made of some mint pastille liqueur which looked and tasted rather like mint mouthwash. Some of my fellow crew members put up a bit of a fuss about it (mostly on the way home) which was both unecessary and embarassing. When people go out of their way to be gracious and hospitable, the least you can do is eat and drink--at least try-- what is put in front of you unless there are really good reasons not to. If nothing else, no need to comment at great length about the taste (which, being nearly identical to mouthwash, was obviously not terrible!). Anyway, probably only the first of many times that I will be embarassed for the tactlessness of fellow travelers when in a foreign country.

Anyway, on the whole church was very good, but after we got back at 4pm I was so exhausted that I kept wanting to fall asleep and finally allowed myself to go to bed at 9pm. Sleep and hydration are my friends at this stage of the game!

settling in

2009-05-23T12:51:00.005-05:00

Je suis arrive aux Cotonou!

No need to go into details, but suffice it to say that all my flights went well, although I only slept about two hours en route to Paris from Chicago. From Paris to Cotonou I was seated next to a man with whom I conversed in French for about two hours. Despite my rusty French, we got on quite well and I was pleased to remember as much French and follow the conversation as well as I did. I hear that many of the surgical patients come from the northern part of Benin, though, and there are 52 languages (not just dialects, but languages) in that part of the country. So the communication often happens through more than one translator--English to French to one or two other languages. Sounds like quite the process!

After a brief orientation to the ship this morning (much, much more to come later), my group ended up running into the director of the MS hospital, who invited us to go visit the Hospitality Center with him. The Hospitality Center is a new thing this year for the vesico-vaginal fistula (VVF) patients. When women have extremely prolonged/difficult labors, one side effects can be to develop VVF, where the bladder and uterus develop holes or connections between the two. The end result is that the woman is unable to control her bladder, thus is constantly wet, and therefore is ostracized from her family and community. Mercy Ships will do about 120 or so VVF repair surgeries while here in Benin. But back to the Hospitality Center-- it's a ward of sorts off the ship where the women stay pre and post op--no medical procedures are done there--to ease up on the number of "hotel" patients in the wards. After touring the center, we were treated to a tour of Cotonou by land rover, then went out to lunch at a nice place along the coastline. Anyway, all in all a great day and definitely way above what other orientees receive.

Tomorrow I've signed up to go to a local church with some other crew. Monday launches more orientations, safety drills, and goodness knows what else. I think I start in the ward on either Monday or Tuesday. And, get this-- I heard from the hospital director that the President of Benin is going to have us all come to dinner this Friday as a way of saying thanks for the work we do. I have to say, that would be pretty amazing!

Anyway, I think that's all for now. I promise not to give blow-by-blow updates all the time...but at the start, that's really all I have to write about for now. I'll update more later, of course!

surreal

2009-05-21T01:28:00.003-05:00

"Surreal" is, of course, the only word that seems to fit right now.

I'm packed, I checked the list twice, and all that remains is to throw in my toiletries in the morning, zip it shut, and go.

Quick update about my grandpa: I had a really, really good conversation with him about a week ago. As far as I can tell, he still doesn't think it's a good idea for me to go gallivanting off to Benin...but he did say that he would be thinking of me, and that he hoped it went well. I am very much encouraged by the fact that we had a good dialogue.

Just fyi: my phone will not be coming with me to Benin. In fact, it will be turned off and my service temporarily suspended.

Also fyi: I will be about 7 hours ahead of CST. I think.

In case you want to send me anything--and I would love, love, LOVE to receive mail while I am in Benin--here's the info about both email and snail mail from the Mercy Ships website.

Please note, internet connection is very slow so please discourage friends and family from sending large attachments. Large downloads, Skype & Web Cams and streaming video are not allowed.

Letters, packages, etc will be forwarded regularly to the ship. Please advise your family and friends that it could take several weeks for mail to reach you in West Africa. If you are sent packages (or anything over 1 ounce), you will be charged $5.60/ pound ($0.35 per ounce or 28.4g)

Mail can be sent to:

Lindsay Nelson
Mercy Ships
M/V Africa Mercy – Nursing Department
PO Box 2020, Lindale, TX, 75771-2020

I also think there's a rule or two about declaring the contents of packages...but I don't know the details. Will update as I know more. And even though I will have to pay a little to receive anything remotely heavy (ie, over an ounce), I will be more than happy to do so... as long as you don't mail me bricks or rocks or textbooks or other similar items. (Besides, what would I do with a brick/rock/textbook, anyway?)

I'll arrive in Benin late in the evening of the 22nd, after traveling for about 24 hours total.

Ok, enough details. Off to sleep one last night in my own bed!

abandonment

2009-04-21T14:02:00.003-05:00

Along with rereading some Henri Nouwen to help prepare me for Mercy Ships(see my last post), I've also been rereading The Ragamuffin Gospel by Brennan Manning. I could write volumes about the wisdom I've found within the pages, but this particular passage resonated with me today:

Abba, I abandon myself into your hands. Do with me what you will. Whatever you may do, I thank you. I am ready for all: I accept all. Let your will be done in me and in all your creatures. I wish no more than this, O Lord. Into your hands I commend my spirit. I offer it to you with all the love of my heart, for I love you, Lord, and I give myself, surrender myself into your hands without reserve, with boundless confidence, for you are my Father. (118)

This is my guiding hope and prayer for not only this summer, but for the whole of my life. I know that "all the love of my heart" is not yet what it ought to be, but such as it is, it is Yours, and I trust that You will continue to teach me. I do not yet know "boundless confidence," but I do have faith small as a mustard seed. I do not fully know what it means to "surrender myself into your hands without reserve," but I do desire to know.

What I do know is this: that you are my Father. I will choose to rest in that. You are my Abba. I will choose to trust in your love, and let that be enough.

thoughts about love and living the abundant life

2009-04-02T19:26:00.006-05:00

As part of my preparation for my time in Benin, I have been rereading some of the books that have been meaningful for me in the past regarding being in ministry. One of my absolute favorite books in this category (perhaps in any category) is called In the Name of Jesus, written by Henri Nouwen. Nouwen walks through a story in John: "Before Jesus commissioned Peter to be a shepherd, he asked him, 'Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these others do?' He asked him again, 'Do you love me?' And a third time he asked: 'Do you love me?' (John 21:15-17). We have to hear that question as being central to all of our Christian ministry..." (36)

Jesus is first and foremost concerned with if I love him. Not what my skills are and how to best use those in my vocation. Not with the expansive list of my many mistakes and flaws.

Implausible, isn't it, that the God who created the universe--the One who thought up stars, music, and beauty--is concerned with whether or not I love him. Yet living this implausibility is the essence of the Christian journey.

I do love, help me overcome my unlove.

After Jesus asks Peter three times if Peter loves him, he then asks Peter to do two things: to feed his sheep, and follow him. The task of feeding, shepherding, and caring for God's people is an act of obedience in response to God's love. It's easy to get caught up in trying to serve, though, and not be able to hear God's whisper: "Do you do this because you love me?"

Nouwen later makes another intriguing point regarding service. "The task of future Christian leaders is not to make a little contribution to the solution of the pains and tribulations of their time, but to identify and announce the ways in which Jesus is leading God's people out of slavery, through the desert into a new land of freedom." (87)

I can hardly articulate how much I love this thought. I am called to follow and serve, but not to save the world, wipe out poverty, or be the solution to any of the world's myriad problems. I am called to serve in order that I might bear witness to what God is doing in our midst. We are a people in slavery to our own jealousy, greed, lust, and brokenness. When we chose to doubt God's goodness towards us so long ago in the garden, we consigned ourselves to a life of bondage. Yet Jesus became Emmanuel-- God With Us-- in order to break those chains and set us free. He came that we might have life, and have it abundantly; not by half-measures, but by cups that overflow.

Lord, I do love; help me overcome my unlove. Give me eyes to see where you are at work in the world leading people out of darkness and brokenness. Give me courage to proclaim it to others. And give me the strength to stay yoked with you on this journey.

what it looks like to give yourself away

2009-03-23T15:38:00.010-05:00

Most people, when they find out that I am going to be serving with Mercy Ships this summer, express some variant of a single reaction: "oh, that's so cool; you must be so excited." Occasionally someone will ask me what will be challenging about the whole experience. I really appreciate these people because they understand that Mercy Ships is not just a chance to travel to somewhere warm and sunny in order to meet new people and feel good about helping them. My time with Mercy Ships will be hard. Really hard. And I expect that not only will God teach me through this summer, but He will sustain me through it and chip away some of the rough edges in my life.

The different reactions of two particular people have caused me to do a lot of thinking. One is a coworker with whom I have had several good conversations about faith. This particular person is also a believer; because of that and the fact that we have had multiple discussions about faith and missions, I gave this person one of my support letters. Several days later, my coworker approached me during a quiet moment at work to let me know that they were going to pick up extra shifts at work in order to be able to support me. I backpedaled, extremely uncomfortable. I tried to explain that I don't really need the money that badly, that I have some money saved that can go towards my crew fees. My coworker persisted, though, and after a brief talk all I could say was thank you. And as I have tried to figure out just why the thought of someone picking up extra shifts to support me financially makes me so uncomfortable, I've realized that I don't like being on the receiving end of someone's generosity. I don't need the money, I told this person, essentially saying I can do this on my own; please please please don't sacrifice for me. But the more I think about it, I also realize that my coworker is a beautiful picture of Biblical giving: giving sacrificially and beyond your means. It is a lesson for me in grace and humility in being able to accept the generosity of others. And ultimately, it is a reminder to me of the ultimate sacrifice of the greatest Giver of all time, who "did not regard equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant." (Philippians 2:6-7)

The other person whose reaction to my Mercy Ships plans has caused me to do a lot of thinking is my grandfather. My grandpa is a strong, independent, and competent man, but he is not a Christian. I sent him one of my letters so that he would know what I was doing this summer. I thought (wrongly, it turns out) that I had at least mentioned my plans when I saw him at Thanksgiving last year. After being unpleasantly surprised by the contents of my letter, Grandpa called my mom to express his concern and displeasure. The gist of it is this: he's worried about me. He doesn't want me to get some horrible tropical disease, or to be hurt/kidnapped/threatened in any way. And he doesn't want me to "throw my life away" in the bottomless pit and the huge mess that in his mind, is all there is to Africa.

I've tried twice to call him, wanting to listen to his concerns and to talk with him. To try to reassure him that I know this isn't the safest thing I have ever done. I know there are risks involved, and I will try to lessen those as much as I can. But the way I see it, life itself is a risky business, especially when you throw Christianity into the mix. God has not asked me to live a safe, tame, comfortable-yet-Christian existence. Instead, I am asked to take up my cross and follow him; to lose my life that I might find it. My going to Benin this summer is in response to God's callings. But I haven't been able to say any of these things to Grandpa yet because he won't answer my phone calls or call me back. It's reminded me that Christianity appears utterly illogical and foolish to those who don't believe. It makes no sense for God to send his only begotten Son to die that I might have life. It makes no sense to lose your life that you might find it. It makes no sense to go to the people of Benin who live with great hurt, poverty, and disease, and know that I will not be able to truly fix those wrongs. None of those things make any wordly sense at all, yet I know in my heart of hearts that they are true.

Lord, you are the Great Giver. Soften my heart towards the things you are teaching me before I ever leave for Benin. Give me your words of love and truth so that I can talk articulately with people about what you are doing in my life. Grant me humility to accept the generosity of others. And Lord, help me to use this opportunity with my grandpa to show him Your love.

I wasn't born here...

2009-01-23T23:20:00.002-06:00

...but I got here as fast as I could! (Texan saying...transplanted Texan, that is)

Because I only go home to see family once a year, and because I have never written a top list, and because Eva will approve:

Top 11 Things I Love About Coming Home to Texas (in no particular order)

1. At 6pm in January it's a balmy 70 degrees.
2. I eat with the 'rents at Taco Cabana, where I proceed to split a margarita with Mom, and it's everything summery and cold and amazing.
3. "Uncle" Dave and "Aunt" Kathi come over "just for 10 minutes," and they leave over an hour later.
4. I wake up each morning to more sunshine than I have seen all winter in MN...
5. ...and it was 82 degrees today.
6. My mama's noble goal is to try all the BBQ places in Texas. Today it was Pappa's Barbeque, and it was probably the best BBQ I've ever had. That is, until we go somewhere else next week.
7. Two parakeets and two cats coexist in the Nelson household, proof that my mama can at times suspend immutable laws of nature.
8. I went shopping in the pantry for more tea--not quite enough to prompt war with England, but enough to keep me fully caffeinated for at least a year (as if I were running out of tea at home, ha!).
9. Cajun food from Boudreaux sometime next week: gumbo, po' boys, or catfish with fried okra.
10. True Texans drop their "H's," for example, "I'm goin' 'ome to 'ouston."
11. Even though I only lived here for a scant three months one summer, it still feels like home because my parents live here.

I promise I will blog on 'ope, but it will 'ave to be next week sometime.

economy of thought

2009-01-20T20:47:00.004-06:00

I've been thinking a lot recently about all the bleak economic predictions recently. After all, everyone is talking about it...at least when we're not talking politics or about the inauguration. Below are some really worthwhile thoughts (originally came to me in an email from SPU), with my comments afterwards.

Counter-Cultural in Tough Economic Times

Christians do not get their sense of identity or security form what they have or what they earn, but rather from the fact that they have been identified as children of God and loved by him. As Christians we should approach the current economic crisis differently. We should, in fact, stand out as counter-cultural.

Let me suggest three ways in which Christians should be distinguishable during these times:

First, Christians must be slow to join the "blame game." We should approach this situation with humility in part because it is incredibly complicated and very difficult to figure out who actually should be blamed. Christians should also recognize that no one of us is eligible "to throw the first stone" since all of us have played a part in fueling this crisis. Moreover, we must remember that while Christians should legitimately seek justice, justice is never about vengeance. It is always about redemption.

Second, in times of turmoil and perceived scarcity, the world is likely to "circle the wagons" with everyone trying to protect his or her own. Individuals are likely to be less charitably minded. US domestic programs that are intended to reach out to people at the margins are likely to be under political pressure. Everyone expects foreign aid to be decreased.

But Christians have always been known for their generosity and we must continue this open-handed approach to the needy in our world--particularly at times like these. In the first century, the church was known by the surrounding community precisely because of its generosity. This century should be no different.

Finally, Christians always have the opportunity to choose to operate out of hope rather than fear. We have a hope that is grounded in the assurance that in the end God will have his way. His shalom will prevail. Let us live as beacons of hope in what might otherwise be dark times.

Jeff Van Duzer
Dean, School of Business and Economics, Seattle Pacific University

I intend to post several other blog updates in the very-near future, one of which will deal with the idea of hope. And this is what God asks us as Christians to do—to be people of hope despite the circumstances; to give in plenty but also in lack. It frightens me to think of the ripple effect looking out for "Number One" might have during such times. If as Christians we all stop or significantly reduce our giving, what becomes of our missionaries who are on the front lines? What happens to the humanitarian agencies that are faced with increasing numbers of people in desperate need? What does it say of us as the church, God’s visible representation of Himself on earth, if we simply stop giving because we are more concerned about ourselves than our neighbors? Can we even claim to be the Church if we are not generous?

Let your light so shine; live as the "beacon of hope" that Van Duzer talks about. May the world see Christ in you as you give of yourself, your money, and your time.

two questions, two answers

2008-10-20T19:38:00.004-05:00

I wanted to post my responses to two questions that I have been thinking about recently. If you wondered what I was hinting at in my last post, you will find your answers below:

1. Please explain why you wish to serve with Mercy Ships:

The short answer to this question is summed up in a quote from The Glorious Pursuit by Gary L. Thomas: “It’s not that I want more tally marks of service; I want to know more of Christ, not in head knowledge but in heart knowledge.” This book has been transformative in my life recently, shaping my thoughts about what it means to know and have a relationship with Christ. I want to truly know Christ more, and I believe that kind of heart knowledge comes through seeking to follow His example by loving people, healing the sick, and reaching out to those in poverty.

To give more depth to my answer, I will say that many things in my life have been nudging me toward applying to work with Mercy Ships. Over about the past six to eight months, a variety of books, sermons, conversations with friends, and conversations with God have prompted me to do a lot of thinking regarding what it means to know God and follow Him.

One result of that thought process is that I’ve developed an increasing awareness that the particular skills, gifts, and education God has given me—including my skills as a nurse—are meant to be used to bless others. I want to use my nursing education and skills for God’s work; I want to labor for what satisfies (“Why spend your money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy?” Isaiah 55:2). Although I have been working at Mayo Clinic as a nurse for the last two years I feel that my life and work are largely self-focused, and thus have not been a source of great satisfaction to me. I have become insulated from poverty and need, but I want to purposefully move towards a life in which my focus and passion is intimacy with God and being a part of His work.

Similarly, I have also been thinking about service as an act of obedience to God, and as a way of seeking to know Christ. In the Bible, James states that faith unaccompanied by action is dead. I want to “love not with words or tongue but with actions and in truth” (1 John 3:18); not in order to “win” God’s affection but in order to worship Him and seek to be more like Him. God Himself commands us to love others in practical ways. Isaiah 58 lists some of the things that God considers pleasing acts of worship: loosing chains of injustice, setting the oppressed free, feeding the hungry, and in general meeting the needs of those around us. Mercy Ships is involved in just that kind of work and worship and I want very much to be involved in that.

2. In Mercy Ships, we seek to follow the example of Jesus. Please explain what Jesus means to you:

• Creator: formed me and knows me intimately; continues to work in my life. I am made in His image, as are all people.
• Lover: desires relationship with me; despite my failings and sins, looks on me with love and desires me to become more like him. His love is transformative and is making me into a new creation.
• Lord: Jesus is ultimately in charge, not me (although this is hard for me to live out). He has plans for good in my life, and wants me to obediently follow where He leads.
• Light: I have walked in darkness, but I have seen a great light and I will never be the same.
• Redeemer: of my broken life, but also of broken relationships and this broken world. He will make all things new and all things right.
• Savior: I am no longer condemned by my sin to spend eternity apart from God; Jesus’ death on the cross and His resurrection have given me eternal life!

what satisfies?

2008-08-19T00:37:00.008-05:00

Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy? Isaiah 55:1

I can, at times, be more than just a little dense. I can often look back and recognize God's hand at work in my life, nudging me through people and events to deal with issues in my life. Most recently I have been nudged towards thinking about what I'm doing with the time, money, and abilities that God has given me. At first this might seem similar to some of my past posts about my ongoing career indecision, but it is actually quite different. I've been approaching the question from the wrong angle, looking for what would make me happy and fulfilled. The real question is: how can I align more closely with God's heart and his work? That is what truly satisfies.

One of the many little "nudges" I've had recently was in this past Sunday's sermon, which I highly recommend but won't recap here. Aptly titled "It Won't All Fit," you can find it online at http://www.cccrochester.org/sermons/index.html if you are interested.

After church, I went out to a coffee shop and journaled copiously; some of those thoughts are echoed below.

I'm not sure but what my plush, comfortable life is quite empty and hollow. I may be a nurse, but it's easy to 'take care' of people without truly caring for them. My life here in Rochester is entirely my own, and entirely about what pleases me. I work as a nurse--which ought by definition to be a calling to care and heal--but I am not present in my work. In one of my college classes we discussed how God created work as a good thing, sacred even. Work ought to be an act of worship, but I find that I have not been worshiping through my work. Being at the Mayo Clinic has been more about the adventure than about faithfulness to God's calling. I've been laboring on (and for) things that do not satisfy.

I'm also holding on to so many things in life. Possessions, certainly, but much more than that. I jealously guard my time, especially my leisure and sleep time, and resent any intrusions. By choice I've become so comfortably insulated that it is hard to hear the still, small voice of God. What do I need to let go of in order to be able to more clearly hear His voice? What a radical question, and one to which the answer could very well be much more radical than I would like.

Not that it is impossible for me to labor for valuable things here at Mayo; not that it is impossible for me to discern the voice of God while living in Rochester; not that I 'need' another upgrade or adventure in my life. What I do need is a realignment of my values and priorities in order to better pursue intimacy with God. I don't want to love with my words or tongue but with my actions. After all, the gifts that I have been given are not for my benefit but for the benefit of others.

I'm not sure where this questioning will lead me, but God is working in me and I cannot remain unchanged.

lost: a moment of clarity

2008-06-18T13:32:00.006-05:00

I had it all figured out: I would stay here in Rochester, work part-time at Mayo, and work on getting my Master's in Nursing degree (Nursing Education Specialist focus). That would hold me for another three years. The feeling of having finally, finally made a decision was exhilarating.

And yet literally one day after that decision was made, I was thrust back into a tailspin of indecision, second-guessing, and doubt. Once again I am in the purgatory of trying to figure out what to do with my life.

What caused the internal change? A talk with Sarah, although Roo I hope you know that I do not blame you in the slightest--you just happened to be the catalyst this time. Sarah told me how she is enrolled in a master's program online; she told me how excited she is to take classes like "Holistic Mission;" she told me how this is such a perfect fit. And it IS a good fit for her...only I want it to be a good fit for me too. Not that program in particular but more just the whole public health and development idea.

What kills me is that I feel like I'm settling, somehow, by getting a MSN. It's easier, certainly cheaper, and much more practical. It's also one enormous gauntlet to run--it will get me where I want to go, but I have to submit to a whole lot of ugliness in between. Two entire years, in fact, of awful classes which happen to be the very core of academic nursing: nursing theory, health policy and finance, advanced pathophysiology, research, advanced pharmacology, etc. Talk about soul-killing. Does it seem too much to ask that I actually be interested in the subject matter I'm studying for a master's degree? At least I know what I could do with a MSN--unlike the MPH, where the potential careers are vaguely defined at best.

But the MPH route is much more exotic, more unknown/exciting, and definitely more global and broad-minded. There are some hard questions to be asked, though: at the end of the day, am I going to live overseas and work for an NGO or government humanitarian organization? It seems unlikely. Am I going to live stateside, working for some big beaureaucratic machine like the UN or USAID, probably in DC or wherever those kind of organizations are centered? Again, unlikely.

Ultimately I am frustrated at the narrowness of nursing as I know it, and I do realize that the nursing I know is only a small slice of the whole continuum. In the hospital setting nursing is so very reactionary, both in my day-to-day work and also in the larger sense of dealing with exacerbations of chronic illness. There is little to no place to see growth or change on a large scale--success is by definition getting someone mostly back up to par so they can go back home and make the same poor choices again. Or success is finally getting someone placed in a nursing home.

Being frustrated with nursing makes me more than just a little wary of getting a master's degree in it. It also makes me second-guess having gotten a bachelor's degree in it, which is both disheartening and futile. I will choose NOT to regret that decision, not after five years of bitterly hard work.

I feel like I need to step back and get some perspective but am not sure how to go about it. I also think I need to let go of the idea that the MPH would be a good fit for me, almost in the same way that as an undergraduate I let go of the idea of being a literature major. I need to let go of an idealized, romanticized picture of what my life could be in order to joyfully, willingly accept the idea of what my life SHOULD be.

It makes me think of an Emily Dickinson poem I read in high school. I understand parts of it, but not all of it. Here it is nonetheless:

Renunciation—is a piercing Virtue—
The letting go
A Presence—for an Expectation—
Not now—
The putting out of Eyes—
Just Sunrise—
Lest Day—
Day's Great Progenitor—
Outvie
Renunciation—is the Choosing
Against itself—
Itself to justify
Unto itself—
When larger function—
Make that appear—
Smaller— that Covered Vision— Here—

a short list of things I love...

2008-04-15T21:41:00.002-05:00

...just because I can.

jazz music. candlelight. earl grey tea. pears. my Roo. white Christmas lights. how the leaves change color in the fall. peonies. green & black's maya gold chocolate. Italian architecture. a really good tall nonfat caramel latte with no whip. ambiance (think B&O Espresso). swing dancing. Compline. my handful of old books. tomato basil soup. falling asleep in the sunshine. speaking Norwegian. decoupaging when I happen to be in the mood. good conversation.

when it is dark enough, you can see the stars (Persian proverb)

2008-03-22T17:56:00.004-05:00

Three Cups of Tea is a book that I savored over my own cups of tea the last two days in the hours between working and sleeping.

How simple is this world I live in, and yet how complex. On the surface the book is about education, how to lift families out of poverty, and about the power that women have to change their communities--if they are allowed. Yet on another level the book is about what it means to be truly human, to deeply love others (despite lacking a personal relationship with the God of the universe which so often inspires such love), and about how the hope of something better is the ground in which real change blooms in the human heart.

Thanks to the kindness of a friend, I have also been reading a book entitled something resembling Making Decisions by the Book, with "the Book" literally meaning the Bible. My main lesson learned so far is how much extraordinary freedom God has given his people regarding decisions in life. Despite all I have previously heard about free will, I have been laboring under the idea that I want to choose the path that God wants me to choose--as if there was only one right path, and that God was going to mystically guide me onto it through various circumstances and gut feelings (sentiments such as "God opened the door" and "I really feel a sense of peace" come to mind here).

Oh how simple, and how complex. Here I am peering at the rest of my life’s journey, trying to discern through the fog some landmarks to start me down the "right" road. I really would like a road map, please.

A map might save me from the indefinable pulls I feel in my heart and mind towards intangible ideas such as "education," "health," "international development," "a master’s degree in public health." A map would, perhaps, point me directly down one path or another and spare me this internal struggle. And yet I can see that the map is only created as I travel and not ahead of me. Places I have not yet been cannot be mapped, except by One who in His wisdom chooses not to despite knowing both the destination and the journey.

I’m not afraid, exactly. What I am is unsure and perhaps, in truth, a little wary of the choices ahead. I want so much to do things the "right" way the first time around. What if there are no second chances?

At the end of the day I am slowly learning that I need much prayer--not asking God to show me specifically which way to go, but rather asking for the wisdom to make choices in my life that are honoring to Him.

Here’s to the grand adventure unfolding even now...

today's gem

2008-02-14T20:30:00.003-06:00

One conclusion from today's musings: I am not a stellar floor nurse. Good/decent/passable perhaps, but not stellar. Moreover, I don't think it is possible for me to be a stellar floor nurse...and I am honestly rather relieved.

I am not very good at what I like to think of as "trench work." By this I mean things like being a floor nurse, the one providing the service to the patient. Not that I can't do it but rather that I am not exactly well-suited to it.

The only way I can think to explain this in concrete terms is, unfortunately, with a scenario that only those from SPU will understand in any real sense. Let's be honest: I was not a good SMC. Now it does not necessarily follow that I was a bad SMC, but it certainly was not one of my shining moments. However I think (and I'm hoping desperately that I am not totally off-base!) that I was a pretty darn good RHMC. At the very least I can say that it felt much more natural.
The difference lies not so much with the content but with the processes involved; the type of work involved. I thrive in situations that allow me to teach, enable, empower, encourage, mentor, and guide people--and this is key!-- who are motivated, intelligent, passionate, and likely to succeed.

For a long time I thought I just wanted to teach/mentor/guide etc. and that it didn't matter the person on the receiving end. In fact I thought that it was more noble to go to those who were really needy--those with poor situations or few resources and the like. To work in the trenches or on the front lines, so to speak. (This sounds suspiciously like a savior complex: to come bearing a metaphorical light to those in darkness.)

And this is what it means to work in the trenches--to stand in the midst of brokenness and try to assuage it.

But I realized today that I am not good at that. I am too easily frustrated with things beyond my control; I am too easily defeated; I do not have the willpower or the motivation or the drive to stand in the brokenness. And that's ok.

While I don't believe that God is heavily invested in my self-actualization, neither do I think that it does anyone any good (and it might in fact do harm) for me to try to do what He has not created me to do. In a spin on my Foster and Hicks learning, an owl cannot make a very good dam.

My conclusion is this: I should not work in the trenches (aka try to build dams). What I can do, however, is support those who do that kind of work. I can teach, encourage, brainstorm, analyze, problem-solve, mentor, equip, provide emotional support, and see the bigger picture. And that can be my part of mending the brokenness in the world.

What a gift and a blessing it is to finally understand this part of myself! What a struggle it has been with feelings of inadequacy and frustration, and what misery to feel deep ambivalence towards a job that I thought was a calling.

And what then is my calling? I don't know, but I do know that God will open a window--if He hasn't already.