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.