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.

Hope ahoy, Crewmates.

Water, water everywhere...and yet, I feel so dry...

Anyone else on the AFM feel this way right now?  I know y’all are out there.  I seem to keep hearing the same things from fellow crewmates: “I just feel so tired/dry/weary/worn/depleted/…” - fill in the blank.  We’re all so tired, and we don’t know why…

I met a man this morning, a teacher whose brother has lived in my hometown of Portland for the last 15 years..  As he told me this, and agreed with me how similar Oregon and Western Cape are, I felt that twinge of “my home—you know my home!”.  I met him while we were at his school, sharing with his students about Mercy Ships.  We showed videos to a group of school kids of our home in action during the field service—this beautiful, rusty, crazy, wonderful ship of ours.  Just then, I felt it, again—the twinge.

Of course!  AFM, we are homesick!  “Stacie, you’re crazy—the ship is home, we’re on the ship, so we can’t be homesick”.  Think about it for a moment, though!  When you think about missing home—the home you left on land—what do you miss most?  Pulling the weeds?  Cleaning the gutters?  Cleaning up the basement after it’s flooded?  Of course not!  You miss long baths; candles and roaring fires; having a beer in the backyard while you grill; hanging things on the walls without magnets; toilets that don’t sound like they’re trying to suck the entire universe when they flush.  When you leave the ship, what do you think you’ll miss most?  The rust-tainted water; two-minute showers; signing up for a laundry spot; hearing your neighbors snore through the walls?  No!  You’ll miss the patients in the hallway; the orphanage you spent every Saturday morning at; the sounds of worship floating up from the ward that wakes you up on Sunday morning; watching your friends come alive as they do the things they are passionate about.  Sure, we’re on the ship: but if the old adage that “home is where the heart is” holds true, than we haven’t been home for months.  We’re a couple hundred passionate people who aren’t doing the things we love.  We aren’t seeing the patients we want to see.  We aren’t hearing the worship come up from the ward that we want to hear.  We aren’t feeling the warm and fuzzy feelings which assure us that the things and people we left back home were not left in vain.  We no longer have a ship without a country...but we do have hearts without a home.

So what do we do about this?  Well, the good news is that this time next week, we’ll be heading to Madagascar.  Imagine that!  We’ll finally see the friends we love, our dear Advance team, standing on the dock waving at us.  We’ll finally have orphans to love on, patients to heal, new friends to make.  Soon, dear friends: soon.

The even better news?  We will always feel homesick.  Why?  Because this ship really isn’t home.  Portland/Amsterdam/Accra/Sydney isn’t home.  Madagascar won’t be home.  Heaven: heaven is home.  We get a little piece of that every day on this ship, as we see lives transformed, love transcending culture, and as we see God’s heart for the nations in tangible, unforgettable ways...but friends, it’s just a little piece.  There is a whole lot more we will get to experience on the other side of eternity.

So, bottom line: how do we respond to our homesick hearts?  I think we begin by praying.  Pray for Madagascar.  Pray for the thousands of lives that will be changed by our time there.  Pray for all of the wonderful things we deeply miss right now that are finally just a few, short weeks away.  Thank Him for the way He has smoothed our path to Madagascar.  Most importantly?  Pray that as long as we are on this side of eternity, we will always continue to have hearts without a home.

"...He is more precious to me than..."

"Christ is glorified in me when people see He is more precious to me than all that life can give or death can take."  --John Piper

I love this quote by Piper.  I rely on thoughts…words…the ability to articulate.  Feelings make me uncomfortable – they’re too loose, too vague, too fluid.  I like the structure that is formed by words – clear boundaries, created by definitions, aiding to understanding, contributing to clear expectations, protecting from the unbridled chaos that feelings can bring.  This past year has been full of feelings, and weak on words; leave it to Piper to summarize an entire year full of prayers into a single sentence.

“…all that life can give...”

It’s hard to believe, but the Africa Mercy has now been “home sweet home” for over a year.  Want to know one of my favorite things about living life with God?  He knows how to thrill our hearts because He is the One who created our hearts.  This last year has been full of adventures that I could never have possibly imagined, and yet have absolutely thrilled my heart.  Should I be embarrassed to admit that I still grin like an idiot whenever I load up into one of the old, white Land Rovers – the ones that are just like the Landies I always daydreamed about roaming through Africa in?  I have sailed through the literal center of the world (0,00/0,00) twice.  How many people can say they’ve seen the buoy that marks the center of the world?!  Have you ever seen the stars from the middle of the ocean on a moonless night, when the Milky Way looks so thick you wonder if it’s actually haze from the ship’s funnel, when the stars are so vibrant and plentiful that you cannot pick out a single constellation, when the heavens are so bright and vivid it moves you to tears?  Do you have any idea how amazing it feels when your favorite little orphan, the little guy who wouldn’t even let you stand by him a few months earlier, immediately snuggles into your chest and falls into a deep sleep in your arms because he knows, even though you have no common language, that he is loved and safe?  I get to wake up to the sound of patients worshipping in the ward directly below my cabin, as their bodies and souls are healing – how is this my life?  The list goes on and on and on and on…and not a moment passes that I am not acutely aware that this is the life that He has given me, that He has designed for me, that He has blessed me with.  I am so grateful for all that He has given me…and yet I genuinely hope it is true that as much I love all of these adventures, “…He is more precious to me than all that life can give…”.

“…all that…death can take…”

If you read the last blog post, you know my summer began with news of my uncle’s sudden and unexpected death.  Unfortunately, death has continued to be the theme throughout the summer.  The woman I have loved as “mom” since I was nine is laying in a hospital bed in her living room on hospice.  Her mom, a spunky little spitfire who listed herself on Facebook as my grandmother, passed away unexpectedly just a few days ago.  This little family absolutely means the world to me, and knowing the suffering they are experiencing wreaks my heart in a way that no words could ever express.  Meanwhile, I am thousands of miles away, sitting on a hospital ship full of passionate people who aren’t able to live out their passion.  We are still in the Canary Islands, uncertain of where the ship will go next, because Ebola is ravaging West Africa and killing hundreds.  Why am I choosing to stay on a ship with no clear direction, so far from all of those I love?  Because I know that this is where He has called me to be for now, and as much as I love my little family back home, “…He is more precious to me than all that…death can take…”.

So here I am: praying.  Praying that He continues to be more precious to me than all that life can give, more precious than all that death can take…praying that people see that…praying that through all of this, through the good, the hard, the confusing, the exhilarating, the frustrating, the adventurous – praying that through all of this, Christ is somehow glorified in me.

Be grateful for the "goodbyes"

Yesterday was yet another long day of goodbyes.  Like it or not, we are currently crying our way through a season of goodbyes here in Congo.  Some goodbyes are easy: friends who plan to return to the ship after a brief vacation, or to begin a new volunteer commitment with us in the fall.  Some goodbyes are hard: friends who do not plan to return to the ship at all, who are returning to homes far away, friends we may never see again this side of heaven.  Some goodbyes are impossible: little people who we have devoted our time and affections to, who we now we leave behind; faces we may only ever see again in pictures or in our minds, but are forever drawn on our hearts; patients whose lives have been changed by our time here, and whose lives have changed us...and the list goes on...

No matter the goodbye, it is still difficult.  "Goodbye" is one of those funny words that you can both say and feel.  My emotional response vacillates.  There are certainly times when all I can think is "can we please head to sea already so we can at least get a break from the goodbyes for a little while?"; however, even though that is sometimes what I think, it isn't really what I want.  Honestly, I really value relational closure - I value being able to say goodbye.

Last night, I walked back onto the ship grateful that I had been able to say all the goodbyes I had needed to that day...or so I thought.

Less than two hours later, I received a text message from my cabinmate: you just missed a phone call.  The chaplain is looking for you.  It's an emergency - call home.

My uncle died...unexpectedly...horrifically.  My grandpa is now completely alone.  The shock in his voice as he told me about the days leading up to my uncle's death and the horrible morning of finding him dead, calling the paramedics, watching the coroner remove my uncle's body - it broke my heart, shattering me down into my very depths.  We rarely see eye-to-eye, but the truth is I have always been "Grandpa's Girl".  The only grandkid, the only girl - I know that even when he doesn't know how to show it, in his heart he treasures me dearly.  So what do you say to a brokenhearted old man, who is 8,500 miles away and utterly alone?  How does your heart not break to remember how profoundly grateful he was when you dropped everything and caught the first flight out 12 years ago when your grandmother was dying?  How do you keep it together when you tell him that you cannot be by his side, literally holding his hand, holding him up, holding him together?  How do you not feel like a monster when you hear the words come out of your mouth: "Grandpa, we'll be at sea when you have the service.  Remember your days in the Navy?  There's no way on or off the ship...Grandpa, I'm sorry, but I can't be there..."?  How do you not fall to pieces when it finally sinks in that your uncle...one of only two...the guy who you looked up to more than almost anyone else when you were little because he was so cool with his motorcycle and giant cellphone...the man you just saw a few weeks ago...the man who, broken though he was, always loved you more than anything...what do you do when it sinks in that he's gone at only 48?  What do you do when it finally hits you: of all the goodbyes of yesterday, that was the one I would have most wanted and needed to say?

Love is Hard

If I have learned nothing else during my time here in Congo, it is this: love is hard.

The mood on the ship Tuesday was somber: we lost another baby.  That makes two so far - two little lives that could not be saved, two little lives that are no more.  The redeeming thing?  They were two little lives who were deeply loved during the days they spent on this ship, and I doubt anyone regrets loving them fully while they were here.  If you don't believe me, read my bunkmate's response to having the first little girl die in her arms, but grab Kleenex first (you can read her story by clicking here).  The dignity and love that is shown these families is achingly beautiful.  Once all the paperwork is finally done and the proper authorities show up to take the deceased away, the Deck department shuts down every office and closes every door between the hospital and the gangway, allowing privacy and dignity.  The care they show in making the family their number one priority is humbling.  Love is hard.

My new happy place is an orphanage in Ngoyo Plains.  There is little Moise, who at 14 months is already Mister Tough Guy; nonetheless, by the time we leave to head back to the ship, he's snuggled into my lap, soaking it up.  It breaks my heart to scoop him out of my lap and leave him behind each week.  Then there's Gaud (pronounced god).  He has cerebral palsy and autism, and I love him to pieces.  Often, he just wants to sit by me, passing an object back and forth every few seconds.  A couple weeks ago, I found the trick that causes him to grin overwhelmingly - the kind of grin that explodes across your face, that causes your chin to tuck into your chest as your shoulders rise with your cheeks.  There's Bozi, who raises hell with the best of them, but can quickly shut down if responded to with a critical word.  Junior is a scrawny little guy - I think he was malnourished, and he has some cognitive defects as a result.  He always has a huge grin on his face, and is the first to greet us with hugs when we walk through the gate.  There are two dozen other kids as well, each heartbreakers in their own right.  We faithfully return week after week, loving them with all our hearts, knowing that each new Saturday we are able to spend there, falling even more deeply in love with them, brings us one week closer to having to say goodbye.  Love is hard.

Our gangway is in fact a revolving door, and even the people you think will stick around for quite some time aren't always able to.  You step onto this ship knowing that there are people aboard this vessel that you will grow to deeply love, and that those relationships may only last for a season.  You jump in with both feet, open your heart, and hope that the next goodbye is still a long way off.  Love is hard.

The people who know you, who love you, who miss you are thousands of miles away.  They are still a part of you, and you are still a part of them.  You miss births, weddings, funerals.  You miss first loves and first steps and last words.  Still, you fight to maintain those relationships, no matter how much effort it takes.  Love is hard.

Without love,we are nothing and can gain nothing.  Choosing to love sometimes means recognizing that the other person has more to gain than you have to lose.  Choosing to love sometimes means feeling like your heart has been ripped from your chest.  But no matter how hard it may be to choose to love, it is always the right choice.  Paul knew this when he wrote his letter to the Corinthians.  So often, we use this passage in Scripture for the happy moments, like weddings, but it is equally true in the more difficult moments as well:

Love is hard...but it bears all things.

Love is hard...but it believes all things.

Love is hard...but it hopes all things.

Love is hard...but it endures all things. 

Love is hard, but love never ends.  

Following the Faithful One...

Tomorrow, I will see Africa.  Even if I had the enormous (and admittedly overwhelming) emotional vocabulary list I was given in Texas, I think I would still struggle greatly to articulate accurately the enormous breadth and range of emotions that accompany that incredible first sentence.  So I breathe deeply, close my eyes, and repeat it again quietly to myself, assuring myself that I am not dreaming:

“Tomorrow, I will see Africa.

Feet: be prepared to dance upon her soil.

Heart: be prepared to pound, creating a glorious tempo to which this jubilant dance of celebration will be set.

Mind: be prepared for the torrent of worship that will flow forth from the depths of my soul.

Eyes: be prepared to see, through tears as warm and salty as the tropic waters that we are sailing through, a most awesome sight.”

I have dreamed of this day for as long as I can remember.  Yet, if I were to be perfectly honest, this is a day I have never dreamed of.  Every other childhood aspiration and hope I have had has been decimated, abandoned or surrendered – so why would this one be realized?  The last several nights, I have climbed into my bunk here on the ship afraid to go to sleep, afraid that when I wake up this most astounding dream will finally be over.  Tonight will be the last night I will carry that fear with me into my bunk – what an incredible thought!

Want to hear something crazy?  What leaves me most in awe isn’t actually the fact that I am really, truly going to be in Africa – what blows my mind is that this is absolutely not the way I ever imagined it would happen, and yet I cannot think of a more amazing way to experience this.  I have been reminded that not only does God know my heart, He created and designed my heart; therefore, He is able to fulfill the desires of my heart in ways I never dreamed possible – both the grandiose as well as the seemingly inconsequential dreams:

·         He knows that I have always longed to see Orcas, free to roam the open seas…and He sent Orcas.
·         He knows my heart thrills at being able to do random, geeky, uncommon things…and so we sailed through the “golden X”, where the Equator and Prime Meridian meet – the most rare of the line crossings.
·         He knows that few things cause me to feel more aware of His presence than being under an awesome, star-filled sky…and so He placed me on a ship in the middle of the ocean, hid the moon, and told the stars to rally their brilliance.
·         He knows that I have fought to make my work be my worship…and now I work in an office where I can sing along to awesome worship music, with a team that prays together, and for a man who has tasked me with finding an outreach opportunity I can partner with weekly during my work week!

The best part?  He knows that not every day will be like today…that there will be days when I think “anywhere but Africa!”, “any office but this one!”…that there will be times when I find this to be less of a dream and more of a nightmare.  He knows those days are coming far better than I do, and He will see them coming far before I do.  He will remember the covenants He has made, and He will prove Himself to be sufficient.  All I have to do is trust, obey, follow…because I serve a God who knows me, and Who leads me to places I never truly allowed myself to believe I would go – like Africa.

To know and to be known

For the last several days, a lot of my mental time and energy has gone into processing the concept of being known.  If I am honest, my moments of greatest frustration over the last 2+ weeks have one common denominator: I am in a community where I am not known.  Do not misunderstand me - we have spent copious amounts of time trying to figure out ourselves and one another.  My team knows that I'm from the PNW and am proud of it...that I crack wise every now and then...that mornings do not suit me - in fact, just today, I was told "you're a fun person - just not in the morning!" (this is one of the many reasons I appreciate our German staff guy Stefan, who tries his best to appear intimidating but somehow fails to sound gruff even when speaking in German).  Make no mistake - my team is meeting the real me.  Nonetheless, there is a profound sadness that comes with realizing that everyone around you was a complete stranger just a couple weeks ago - and I think we're all feeling it.  

Whether we like it or not, I truly believe that we each have an intrinsic desire to be known; in fact, I absolutely insist that we each were created to be known.  1st Corinthians 8:3 says:

"...if anyone loves God, he is known by God."

God created us to be in relationship with Him, to love Him, to know and be known by Him; furthermore, He created us to also love and know and to be loved and known by one another.  Here's a quote from Tim Keller's book The Meaning of Marriage:

“To be loved but not known is comforting but superficial. To be known and not loved is our greatest fear. But to be fully known and truly loved is, well, a lot like being loved by God. It is what we need more than anything. It liberates us from pretense, humbles us out of our self-righteousness, and fortifies us for any difficulty life can throw at us.”

So what do you do when you find yourself apart from the community that loves and knows you?  To get more honest and personal: what have I done now that I am apart from the community that loves and knows me?

Oftentimes, my first response is to ignore and suppress - put it on the back burner until I have time to process obsessively and analytically.  I rebuke myself for being so weak.  I tell myself to buck up.  I remind myself that all of us here are in the same boat...and it will happen all over again when we're on the same ship (see what I did there?).  I remind myself that I chose this, and that my decision was informed.  In short, I condemn myself for desiring the things that God created me to long for.

Wow - that is what finally stops me in my tracks.  In a desire to make the situation more bearable, more easily endured, I deny my own God-given desires.  In an attempt to pretend that my heart is not the least bit saddened by the separation from those I love, I tell myself that being the way God created me to be is not what will serve me best.  

In doing so, I dishonor myself, my community and my God.  I dishonor myself by attempting to convince myself that the person I have become is somehow weaker than the person I was when I lived life as an island.  I dishonor my community by pretending that the relationships we have are not worth missing, and that the distance is not worth grieving.  Most importantly, I dishonor my God by pretending that I know the best way for me to get through this, and that I apparently do not need to be in community; I dishonor Him by failing to rejoice in the truth that even if I were standing on a literal, deserted island, I would still be in community - held firmly in the loving hands of my Savior, in unbreakable community with my triune God.  So I repent.  I ask for His forgiveness...for His strength...for His presence.  I ask Him to bless this new community I am becoming a part of.  I ask Him to mend my little, sad heart...and the hearts of my teammates who are smack dab in the middle of the same mess I am in...and I beg Him to not let me forget that He created me this way so that I could know and be known by Him...so that I could love and be loved by Him.

Howdy, y'all!

*Disclaimer: though I am usually quite anal about my spelling and grammar, I am completely and utterly drained both physically and mentally, so at this point I could easily spell my name wrong and not notice.*

That's right - I am in Texas!  I now have 11 whooping hot Texan days under my belt, and after consuming copious amounts of H2O I have somehow survived.  I have battled stealthy scorpions, been slowly devoured by man-eating bugs, dodged red and black wasps, and played with 3' snakes.  I have to admit - Texas is a pretty good precursor to Africa!

Climate and creatures aside, my time in Texas has been truly wonderful so far.  We sit in class all day long talking about Jesus - it doesn't get much better than that!  Trying to take in all this new information is a bit like trying to drink from a fire hose, but it is at least interesting, and the staff do their best to make things interactive and get us up and moving every so often, and keep the coffee pots full.  The weekends are mostly free; however, they do a good job of keeping us busy with homework, so "free" really just means I get to pick which assignment I'm going to work on and when.  Aside from class all week, we have 3 different books we are going or have gone through, journal assignments each week, language learning, homework from our classes, small group assignments, and some studying to do on Congo.  It's utterly pitiful how tired we are at the end of each day.

In addition to all of that, we still have our biggest, on-going project: TRANSITIONING.  Everything in our lives is new: everything.  New environment, new people, new jobs, new churches, new food (and lots of it!), new bed mates (looking at you, nasty scorpions), new choices (and by "new" I mean "fewer"), new cultures to interact with, new accents to discern...the list seems endless sometimes.  There is so much to process that my mind just stalls out sometimes.  By the time I get out of class, I am completely worn...yet when I finally finish up my homework and crawl into bed, my mind begins to heat up all the things I'd shoved onto the back burner that day: how do I get to know so-and-so?  what does Mercy Ships think about such-and-such?  what did so-and-so mean when they said blah-blah-blah?  how do I tell my story without sounding crazy?  does what I am hearing match what I read in the Bible?  and of course, the question that pops up every. single. night: WHY AM I STILL AWAKE?!

Thankfully, I feel I have been fairly well-prepared for most of what has been thrown at me over the last 11 days.  Some things do catch me by surprise, though: realizing that I miss being known; missing the culture of the NW; the humidity (seriously - it still surprises me every time I walk out the door and feel like I'm being pressed into the pavement); being with my church family on Sundays (especially Sunday evenings!).  I stepped into this opportunity aware that it held a great potential for growth, partly because it meant I would be around people who have to take me for who I am now, rather than being around people who are just grateful I'm alive, functional, and surprisingly sane; however, it is still really weird to be around people who only know me for the person I am now, who don't have the context of reference many of you have.  There have been so many moments in the last 11 days when I have thought to myself "Lord, really?  I could have never done fill-in-the-blank two years ago.  Really?!  Why are you so good?!", and while my heart praises and rejoices just fine on it's own, there is no one here who can celebrate that with me.  In those moments, I just have to stop my mind and remind myself of what I have been clear of from the beginning: this new life, this blessing that He gave me - He did not do it purely for my sake, but so that I could be a blessing to others and so that He could display me as His "trophy of grace" as two different friends have put it.  So off I go to experience all that it means to live out my life after the "Resurrection of the Broken" (that's what my name means, by the way).

Now that we have meandered through most of the crooks and crannies of my cranium, perhaps it is best that I stop blogging and start getting some homework done - another day begins in 9 short hours...  I will leave you with this: a picture of my team and where we are all from (note that not everyone in the picture is going on to the ship - some of them will be working here in Texas).  If you click the picture, you can see it larger.

Reality is catching up to my dreams.

Yesterday I submitted my job resignation.  After more than a decade of working on the hill, it seems strange to think about working anywhere else.  I know this hill like the back of my hand – the obscure, hidden tunnels; the hidden spots that provide unbelievable views of the valley and mountains; the best places to sit for some quality people-watching.  In a weird way, OHSU feels like home in a way few other places do.

Last night I sat on my loveseat with my best friend, who left insisting that our quick hangout most certainly did not count toward the two reserved hangout times we’ve posted on our calendars.  She is the first person I will have to say my goodbyes to, and we have only two short weeks remaining in this chapter of our friendship.  How do I say goodbye to someone who has been by my side so faithfully for the last 6 years?

I try not to, but every Sunday I catch myself counting my remaining Sundays at Hinson.  I have four left – four.  Hinson – my home, the place where my family can be found, the place where I have had the challenge and privilege of being taught and guided by some truly amazing men and women – people who love me because they understand what it means that Christ loves them.  The time to say goodbye is almost here.

I am learning that goodbyes are hard, and that I do not like them – not one bit.  Yet even as I prepare to say all my goodbyes, I find there is joy even in goodbyes.  As I prepare to close this chapter of my life, I realize how incredibly spoiled I am.  God has blessed me beyond what I ever imagined, particularly through the relationships He has provided and worked through.  I have so many things – I am not in want or need.  I have so many wonderful friends – I am not an island.  So as my heart breaks with each goodbye, I am also brought to my knees in gratitude.  My God is faithful.