Happy birthday, mom.

Today would be your birthday...which also means you've now been gone six months.  I will still call the house just like I have for the last 20+ years but it will be to check on Vern, not to wish you happy birthday.  Almost a year ago, I stood on the sidewalk outside the house, breathing in the fresh country air.  "Make sure you're still here when I come back", I said as I wrapped my arms around you.  I knew there was a chance that was the last hug you'd ever give me, so we lingered a moment.  I took a deep breath in, capturing your scent - the smell most dear to me, the smell that I will forever connect to a sense of deep, protective comfort.  I blinked back the tears as we started to pull away from one another - you'd seen me cry a million times, but this didn't need to be one of those times.

"I love you kiddo.  I'm so proud of you."

"I love you too, mom."

You have been "mom" to me for so many years that it's hard to remember where it all started: I think my first memory of you is from the start of fourth grade.  School was still held in Fergie's basement, and I remember seeing you at the back of the room (probably taking pictures).  I think it was your height (or lack thereof) that I noticed first - I loved that you were so short.  I think that's the only memory I have of you as an outsider - it wasn't long before you were just "Diane", then "mom".  Pathfinders started soon after, and I quickly realized you were unlike any other woman I had ever met.  You didn't wear makeup, your preferred method of hemming your jeans was what you called the "walk down method", and your sense of humor was compatible with mine.  In retrospect, I think you were the first woman I ever truly identified with - when you told me that you became an archaeologist because it meant you could wear jeans and play in the dirt, I knew I'd met a kindred spirit.  As the years went by, I only learned to love you more.  Being around you instilled in me the belief that being a girl didn't mean I could not do something myself, or dream big.  You taught me big life lessons, too: it was reassuring to know I wasn't the only girl in the world who struggled to relate to and understand her mom...and years later, when Grandma Helen adopted me as well and I got to know her better, it gave me hope that someday my own mom and I could reconcile.

There are a million memories that go through my mind if I just sit here for a moment, and a million things will always remind me of you: arrowheads, wolves, huskies, the smell of Bengay, the sight of red Gatorade.  I remember you running out during the Warm Lake Camporee and pointing out that we were sitting under shade tarps being held up by metal poles...in the middle of a lightning storm (good call on sending us all scrambling).  I remember crying in the parking lot of the church the year I lived with Fergie - you wrapped your arms around me and I felt so safe...and after I soaked one of your shoulders you just gently switched me over to the dry one.  I remember the look of relief on your face when I finally stumbled back into the campground during the Anthony Lakes Camporee - I had gotten lost from the group during an epic game of hide and seek in the middle of the woods.  I remember the night you gave me Blue Eyes, the little stuffed husky that had gotten you through tough times, and which you were trusting to help me through tough times - I felt so loved, cared for, understood, and supported.

I could always count on you for so many things.  You always loved me and took care of me.  You always told me you were proud of me.  I could always count on you to tell me when/if you were disappointed in me, but it was always in a good way - it was always said in a way that made me know that I screwed up and that you'd expected better, but it also always communicated that you believed in me and knew that I could do better.  You always listened.  You always advised.  You always comforted.  You always reminded me of how far I had already come, encouraging me to keep moving forward.  I have more cards/postcards/letters from you then from anyone else - no matter where I was, you always found me and kept the line of communication open one way or another.  Because you loved me, you always loved the people I loved even if you never met them - care packages with Sarah Kate's name also on the recipient line always meant more to me than things sent just for me.

You fought so well, mom.  You faced diagnoses and your own mortality with a grace and faith that was unwavering.  It breaks my heart that you suffered for so long...but I was and am so very proud of how you always ultimately trusted your path to God.  I will forever thank God that I had the chance to say goodbye - we had a lot of hard conversations over the years, but that one was hands-down the hardest.  The end became very imminent, and hearing you say the words "I'm dying, kiddo" ripped my heart apart in a way I never imagined possible.  After we'd said our goodbyes I hung up the phone not knowing how to feel or what to think.  The next day I called to check on the guys...and you were suddenly lucid.  I had you in my life for 21 amazing years, but it was the last 10 seconds I will always cherish most: hearing you ask to speak to me, and exchanging one final round of "I love you"s - I hung up the phone feeling a peace I hadn't felt the day before.  I hung up the phone thinking the words that were always true, and for which I will forever be grateful to you for - I hung up thinking:

"my mom really loves me".

Our fearless leaders, cameras at the ready as always.

I'm pretty sure this was taken at the 1998 Camporee -
the one where I got a concussion from the port-a-potty door...?

Airing some dirty laundry...

When I initially considered joining Mercy Ships, I had no problem identifying one of the things I knew I would struggle with most: personal space (or rather, the sometimes absolute lack thereof).  As a quite introverted person, I recognized that this was a valid point to consider, but I figured I would survive: what doesn't kill you (or cause you to kill others) makes you stronger, right?

Here on the ship, there's a special little room where introversion, fear of confrontation, and good will toward your fellow man all go to die: it's called the laundry room.  The Africa Mercy is a great place to live, but I'm going to be honest: "laundry rage" is a real thing, and sometimes it's enough to make you want to page the Duty Chaplain (or the Duty Nurse/Emergency Medical Team when you really get your buttons pushed and what to lay the smack down).  Tonight, I sat at the dinner table contemplating whether I really wanted to risk doing laundry this evening or not.  I was tired, it had been a long day, and I was already struggling with the seemingly inordinate amount of people in the dining hall.  Sadly, none of these things would magically provide clean clothes for me, so I decided to keep my evening laundry spot and brave the madness.  Screwing up my courage, I grabbed my laundry bag and headed up to the torture chamber laundry room.

Abridged version of events: people are sometimes incredibly inconsiderate, some of us are anal about being on time and respecting other's laundry times, and some of us REALLY DON'T LIKE STRANGERS PAWING THROUGH THEIR UNDERWEAR, ESPECIALLY WHEN EVERY OTHER FACET OF OUR LIFE SEEMS CONSTANTLY ON DISPLAY!!!!".  Random crewmate: when you pulled my laundry out early and indelicately left my delicates on display on the floor in a laundry basket for our 400+ other crewmates to see, I was unhappy.  I kept myself in check, and I politely and kindly let you know that you're not to pull someone's laundry out until their time is up.  Having reviewed our conversation in my head multiple times, I am quite certain that no part of what I said ought to have communicated what you apparently heard: "when you decide my time is up, even though I am standing right next to you and my time is clearly not up, I'm totally fine with you pawing through my underwear again so long as you don't use a basket this time and just dump my clothes on the dirty floor".

Before they had time to dump all my clothes on the floor, I stopped them, grabbed my clothes, and retreated to my cabin.  As I took deep breaths to calm down, I immediately recognized the root of my frustration: I felt powerless.  This is something I have been REALLY struggling with the last couple of weeks, and watching my underwear tumble out onto the floor really brought that struggle out.  As I stood in the sacred privacy of my cabin folding my clothes, I realized that I am not completely powerless.  If nothing else, I can always control how I choose to respond.  I can choose to remember that "u" comes before "i" in "community"...even on nights when "u" are why "community" is so dang hard.  I can choose to do my best to put your needs before mine whenever I can.  I can choose to treat your underwear with respect and dignity.

Living in community is hard - really hard...but it is also tremendously beautiful.  I can get bent out of shape about the negatives, or I can be grateful for all the positives that redeem my outlook on living in community day in and day out.  Living in community is one of the things which we as Christians are called to.  Ultimately, it's what we're all aiming for in a wonderful place called Heaven.  As introverted as I am, I hope that Heaven is absolutely brimming with people, and I hope you're there...although I hope you'll forgive me for being grateful that there won't be laundry rooms in Heaven!  In the meantime, will you be patient with me as I iron out my sanctification, one laundry load at a time?

Sin & hope; bowlines & anchors.

Tonight, I stood on the dock watching the bowlines slack and tense as the ship gently rocked in her berth.  As I stood there in the darkness, watching the silhouette of my home bobbing up and down in the water, all I could think about is how my humble home is the perfect analogy for sin.  Allow me to expound a bit...

The last few weeks, my life has felt pretty rocked by sin and it's consequences.  I've sinned.  I've been sinned against.  I've watched lives be destroyed by sin, and I have watched lives be redeemed from sin.  Like it or not, sin is literally everywhere we go (mainly because we are everywhere we go, and let's face it - we're all hot, sinful messes).  Not only is it everywhere, but so often we either cannot see it for what it is, or we simply choose not to care.  As ugly and terrible as sin is, sometimes it is so easy to dismiss it as part of life and fumble our way through the ensuing consequences; I can think of a million and one sins in my own life that I would rather refer to as habits/tendencies/character flaws because it just makes them seem more innocuous.  In short, we allow the toxic effects of living in a flawed and fallen world to somehow become part of our normal routine.

So what does this have to do with the giant, white ship I call home?  Well, the funny thing about living on a ship is that it's actually really easy to forget that you live on a ship.  The first day or so, it seems like you can feel every little list and roll, but soon your mind adapts and the only movements you ever really notice are the big, jarring ones (when we're in the harbor, that is - sailing the Indian Ocean is a completely different and utterly nauseating story).  From the inside, everything seems perfectly level and calm; however, step off the ship and it is a completely different story.  You can watch the ship float forward and backward, and side to side.  You can hear the Yokohama fenders respond to the pressure as the ship is pushed into them.  You can watch the bowlines rise and fall as the bow moves toward and away from the shore.  You don't have to know a single thing about ships to know that the one you're staring at isn't staying still.

So tonight, as I watched my floating home bob around and as I considered that no one on the ship could feel the movement I could so clearly see, I realized that my sin is just like that.  From the inside, I may not always see or feel the effects of sin on my life...but from the outside, my sins are often pretty hard to miss.  So what is the solution?

For the ship, the solution was to drop anchor.  Our wise and experienced Captain decided we needed to plant one of our anchors in a very precise and calculated manor.  Once the anchor was where it needed to be, life became much more comfortable and stable.  The ship still moves, but we are much less at the mercy of the sea.

The solution for my life is the same: drop anchor.  In the Bible we are told that we have an anchor which provides security and stability for our soul: hope.  Not just any hope, but the Christian hope, a hope which is found in Christ:

"So when God desired to show more convincingly to the heirs of the promise the unchangeable character of his purpose, he guaranteed it with an oath, so that by two unchangeable things, in which it is impossible for God to lie, we who have fled for refuge might have strong encouragement to hold fast to the hope set before us. We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that enters into the inner place behind the curtain, where Jesus has gone as a forerunner on our behalf..."

 --Hebrews 6:17-20a (ESV)

Life here on Earth will always be rocked by sin - that is just the reality of life in a fallen world.  But even when life is hard, like it has been the last few weeks, my anchor is planted.  There is no wave or storm which can ever break the chain securing me to my "sure and steadfast anchor";  because of Christ's mercy, I will never be at the mercy of the sea of sin which surrounds me.  

Will you help me remember this?  When you're standing on the dock, and you see my bowlines being pulled taut or hear my Yokohama's groan under the pressure of a big wave, will you remind me that I am held firmly in the safety and refuge of the harbor by my Anchor?  Will you love me enough to do that?

A new adventure awaits!

When I was little, I dreamed of Africa.  Today, I live in Madagascar, on a giant, white, floating hospital ship.  Somewhere between those two sentences hides the real story...the hard story..the really, really good story.

If you had met me four years ago, you would have met a very different person: orange hair; 13 piercings; a tired, suspicious, slightly empty look in my eyes.  I looked like I hadn't had a good night's sleep in years...because I hadn't.  See, what a lot of you don't know is that I used to have PTSD.  To be honest, I don't really know how to explain this well, if you didn't know me then.  I wish I could have others explain it to you, like:

• the roommate who was awoken multiple times every night by my nightmares.
• the high school students who would hug me at youth group, startled by feeling me fly out of my skin because I didn't see them coming.
• the close friend I punched in the stomach before I even realized what I'd done, because he encroached too much on my bubble.
• the housemates who found the empty bottles of liquor all over, week after week.
• the pastor who sat across from me in his office, graciously and lovingly responding to my confession of the latest 10-day binge.

This was my life - day in and day out, night after sleepless night.  I knew Jesus, and I was doing my best to follow Him...but I had this enormous weight tied around my neck, and it seemed like it just kept pulling me deeper and deeper beneath the surface.  I felt like every single day was a fight, from start to finish...and I was beyond weary.  

As a last-ditch effort, I met with a friend of a friend; I had no idea at the time how those three short meetings over as many days would change the entire course of my life.  Not only did God meet me in a powerful way during those days, but He completely removed the PTSD, opening the doors to a life of freedom, peace and joy I literally could never have imagined before.  Soon after those crazy, amazing three days, I learned that my full name means "Resurrection of the Broken"; since then, I have felt strongly that it is not only a beautiful picture of my own life, but a calling on the life I have been given.  I came to Africa sensing that this would be a time of equipping for me, and praying that I would leave knowing what the next step would be.  During my time here, I have learned lessons which I will carry with me forever; lessons that have shaped who I am, how I see the world, and how I interact with and perceive others.  Most importantly, I have become even more convinced that those three days really were just the beginning of something quite wonderful.  

So what is next?  I will be leaving the ship in August, and am looking forward to heading home and going back to school.  The ultimate goal is to become a Physician Assistant, doing a fellowship in Psychiatry, and working with the Post-Traumatic Stress population, as I know the desperation of constantly feeling like you're being hijacked by your own brain...the strength and courage it takes to get through each and every day...the fear that comes with daring to believe that one day, life might look just a little bit easier.  I have a deep respect for the patients we treat here on the ship - some of them walk for days or weeks, not knowing if there is anything we can do to help them...but they're brave enough to hope, and tenacious enough to make the journey.  People with PTSD are on a very similar journey...you just can't always see it.  There are no large, disfiguring tumors slowly taking over their faces and lives...but they're struggling to breathe nonetheless.  They may be able to work and go out in public, but they're often shunned and ostracized in other ways.  I am so grateful for all the lessons Africa and her people have taught me...and I hope I never forget them.

Emmanuel - God with us

Well, it's here: Christmas Day, 2014.  I can hear all the happy voices out in the hallway, reveling in holiday cheer.  What am I up to?  Oh, I'm hiding in my cabin.

It has been a rough week.  Last Thursday should have been the day I called my uncle to wish him happy birthday.  Instead, I was in the capital assisting with surgical screening, away from the ship with no way to call home.  In reality, it doesn't matter where I was; he died in May, so calling him was out of the question regardless.  I listened to stories of people who had spent days traveling to the screening to see if there was any hope for healing, all the while remembering a man whose own brokenness kept him from making a single phone call that would have saved his life.  I had no one to call because he chose not to call anyone - sometimes, irony can be a real slap in the face.

On Christmas Eve, we place shoes out in front of our doors - it's a bit like hanging a stocking from a mantle.  Friends leave cards, gifts and goodies in and near our shoes, and we wake Christmas morning to see what has been left behind.  Last night I worked on the gifts I would leave, and used the last of the goodies from the last care package I received from the woman I have called "mom" since I was nine.  She passed away about 10 weeks ago.  I prepared my gifts last night as tears rolled down my cheeks, the finality of it all slapping me in the face.  I found myself thinking that I should call Grandma Helen, her mom, to see how she is doing...until I remembered that she is gone, too.

So far, this Christmas has been one of the hardest I have ever had...and yet, it is also the most meaningful Christmas.  For Christians, Christmas is a big deal because we celebrate Christ being born to a virgin in a smelly, noisy stable, beginning a life that would be lived to save smelly, noisy humanity.  You know what's crazy, though?  It is 25 December, and yet the holiday I am celebrating in my heart isn't Christmas - it's Easter.  My heart isn't full of hope just because my Savior was born - my heart is full of hope because my Savior also died.  My heart is full of hope because what began in a manger ended on a cross, and that death means that not all goodbyes are final.  Death will always hurt.  Grief and loss are present regardless of whether or not you have the hope of heaven to comfort you.  Here's the amazing part, though: the start of the life we celebrate today means that one day we will celebrate the end of death.  We sing "O Come Emmanuel" partly to celebrate the first time He came, but also to remind ourselves that He is going to come again.  The manger brought the first arrival - the cross promises a second.

I know there will be more tears today, but I will smile through the tears because a day will come when He, the little guy born into a place prepared for animals, will wipe away my tears as I stand in a place He prepared for me...and that's the best Christmas present anyone could ever hope for.

O come, Thou Day-Spring, come and cheer

Our spirits by Thine advent here

Disperse the gloomy clouds of night

And death's dark shadows put to flight.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Key of David, come,

And open wide our heavenly home;

Make safe the way that leads on high,

And close the path to misery.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

Shall come to thee, O Israel.