A good friend asked me today a simple question: “Kristen, why are you here?” As I started to give my standard answer about how I knew a friend in college who told me about Mercy Ships and about my desire to go on a medical mission in my year before med school, he stopped me. “No, but I mean now, why are you here?” And his question was really this: after experiencing Africa and Mercy Ships and living in this environment for three months, what has God made clear to me as my purpose? My friend challenged me to think about the life lessons I will take home, how I’ll be changed and better after four and a half months of existence aboard a ship waiting at the end of a long cement pier for the patients and the waves to come gliding and crashing in to it.
And I think that’s how the lessons have come to me, gliding and crashing in. Before I came to Mercy Ships, I lacked the faith to believe that God hears every prayer and He answers every time. I had this fear holding me back from praying. If I were to talk to God and then fail to discern any sort of response or acknowledgement or presence, what would that say about the source in which I have chosen to invest my soul for the past three years? I realize now that half hearted prayers, those laced with timidity or reluctance, were the reason I often struggled to hear God. When you pray, you have to do it boldly. You have to throw your whole being into the truth and promises of the Lord. And you have to be prepared to accept the answer God returns.
Prayer requires an extra layer of faith. Today, I did a back flip off the diving board at a hotel’s swimming pool in town. Back flipping is a motion you can figure out intuitively, but one that you can never practice. Ultimately, you get brave enough to just fling your arms forward and kick your legs over your head, and the first time, you’re not sure it will work. But then you fly through the air spinning in a tight circle and hit the water and begin to trust in the forces of nature. The second time, you stand atop the diving board, and the same uncertainty in the new motion fills you. Somehow, you doubt that the laws of physics will apply this time, and perhaps you’ll end up back flopping or landing on your face. Again, you fling yourself backwards and you spin-land into the water. The more you do it, the more confidence you gain in the process. Prayer has been like this for me. It has taken several strong and obvious answers from God before I trust that they will always come, several good feet-first landings in the pool before I can flip without anxiety. Perhaps the most meaningful influence on my prayer life has been the assurance and unquestioning confidence that Christians on the ship seem to have in the power and certainty of prayer. It is like my friend Sarah, my back flipping coach who first showed me how it was done, drowning the thoughts of impossibility in my mind with her splash.
I think my second major purpose here has been to learn better about relationships and what it means to truly be a friend. I have been incredibly blessed with a number of close friendships in my time here through which I have learned how to explore under the surface of a personality, how to really get to know another person in a place where many have heavy defenses. Next week, my closest friend, Olivia, and I are going to share at morning hospital devotions what God has been teaching us about friendship. When we were discussing what to speak on, she immediately turned to the story of David and Jonathan, one of the most beautiful, touching relationships in the Bible. I had never heard the story of these two men before, but as Olivia read it to me, I immediately understood why it was her favorite. The ways that Jonathan supports David are so selfless, so genuine, and so much in the spirit of Jesus. The amazing part is that he could conceptualize of and achieve this love before the example of Jesus showed the way. At the center of their relationship is a selfless giving so essential to a good friendship, but also a rare, often unnatural quality among us.
For my part of the devotions, I found myself drawn to Ecclesiastes 4:9-12. “Two are better than one because they have a good return for their work: if one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up! Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone? Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.” From this passage, I understand friendships to be essential, irreplaceable by anything self-provided. Our souls have such a craving to be loved, and we can understand so much more about ourselves when we are living in friendship and community with others. We cannot live for long without the strength, accountability, love, and insight we both give and receive through our friends.
I can trace my walk with Christ by the events of these past few years. I remember the times when each new essential understanding came to me as it is linked to major life events. When I think back to my time with Mercy Ships years into the future, I will remember prayer and friendship, God’s faithfulness in listening and answering in giving us in others exactly what we need to live.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
God is good all the time
I did not expect to see thriving life as I passed the green suited guards standing in front of the prison’s outer walls-- barred cells, maybe, misery and suffering, definitely. But the first thing I heard in the bright sunlight was music, the first sight was families lined up to visit loved ones, the first smell, cooking food and smoke. As we filed past the entrance and gave our names to security on a slip of paper, us seven girls guided by our translator, Ruth, we stepped into a city, a community. We first entered the men’s section, where voices were loud and the number of people crowded in the large courtyard, all looking in our direction, was simply overwhelming. I kept my eyes forward, staying close to my friend in front of me and following Ruth as she easily navigated between rows of shacks and squatting people towards our destination.
We were here with a burden on our hearts, to visit the imprisoned women and to share with them the goodness of Jesus and the freedom in His forgiveness, a mission that is still quite bold for me. The challenge of accomplishing this without any conversational ability in French did not escape me, but prison ministry is something I have wanted to do since I learned that the first groups had gone during my first few weeks aboard the ship. I know what is most appealing, what drew me to the prison last week. It is the chance this trip offered to help these women, people who likely have had all their dignity and self worth stripped away by their circumstances, feel valued and loved again. I wanted them to know that they are worth my time, and however small, that is something.
Once we entered the women’s section, the mood completely changed. From the loud, raucous atmosphere of the men’s community, the women’s was infinitely more inviting, relaxed, and comfortable. The stares of the men were replaced with warm greetings and hands reaching up to us as we passed, all wanting to hold ours as faces smiled and said their “bonjour’s.” Large curtains of cloth hung down from the shaded area, each a claimed territory, marking out a sleeping space and a place for privacy that all respected and left undisturbed. Further in, there was a small dormitory filled with sagging old bunk beds, in each a nest of fabric with clear body imprints and a few possessions. Some ladies had fans, while others had extra blankets or old bags or a few extra pieces of clothing.
After spending a few minutes greeting the women inside, Ruth announced it was time for worship to start. Already, a group of about fifteen ladies were gathered, sitting on empty dented jugs lining the walls. The women were beautiful, each wearing her distinct tribal markings on her face, her hair braided in intricate patterns and her toe nails painted in bright. Two traded a pudgy infant between their laps, bouncing him so his little head rocked. I remember thinking that these women did not look like prisoners. They were clean and healthy, some actually quite large. There was nothing distinguishingly rough about them, nothing to mark them out as different than the women lining the market streets and tending their stalls.
Ruth began the service with singing, her loud and slightly harsh voice common to most African worship leaders raised, and the ladies quickly joined in, keeping beat with a complex clapping pattern that I couldn’t hope to stay with, let alone while I was singing. Several songs later, as we danced mostly moving our shoulders in the African style, I was still missing beats, but smiling to see so many women praising God. I am always blown away by the apparent joy of the people here despite their circumstances.
We next moved on to prayer requests, and each woman had a chance to share with us her pain and desires. Almost every one asked for prayer for release, whether in the form of acquiring enough money for bail, getting a trial date, or just serving a sentence to the end. Justice in Benin, although better than most of West Africa, is still close to corruption, and only one in ten prisoners will ever have a trial. We prayed for each woman individually, each of us in our own language passionately talking to God and dripping sweat from the hot sun. God is good all the time. All the time, God is good. This is a popular call and response in African churches and I thought about it then as I prayed for my sisters in captivity.
In our last half an hour, one of the women in our group shared a short, but captivating story centered on keeping counsel with good instead of the wicked. No sooner had she finished than one of the ladies who had left us during the message came running into the middle of the circle, jumping up and down in exhilaration. The plastic slap of her flip flops on the concrete matched her tone of voice as she shared the good news: she was due to be released next week. God is good all the time. All the time, God is good. It was time for us to leave and we filed past the lines of reaching arms, once more shaking each hand to a chorus of smiling “ourevoir,s.” West African prison, I thought to myself, and God is still here.
We were here with a burden on our hearts, to visit the imprisoned women and to share with them the goodness of Jesus and the freedom in His forgiveness, a mission that is still quite bold for me. The challenge of accomplishing this without any conversational ability in French did not escape me, but prison ministry is something I have wanted to do since I learned that the first groups had gone during my first few weeks aboard the ship. I know what is most appealing, what drew me to the prison last week. It is the chance this trip offered to help these women, people who likely have had all their dignity and self worth stripped away by their circumstances, feel valued and loved again. I wanted them to know that they are worth my time, and however small, that is something.
Once we entered the women’s section, the mood completely changed. From the loud, raucous atmosphere of the men’s community, the women’s was infinitely more inviting, relaxed, and comfortable. The stares of the men were replaced with warm greetings and hands reaching up to us as we passed, all wanting to hold ours as faces smiled and said their “bonjour’s.” Large curtains of cloth hung down from the shaded area, each a claimed territory, marking out a sleeping space and a place for privacy that all respected and left undisturbed. Further in, there was a small dormitory filled with sagging old bunk beds, in each a nest of fabric with clear body imprints and a few possessions. Some ladies had fans, while others had extra blankets or old bags or a few extra pieces of clothing.
After spending a few minutes greeting the women inside, Ruth announced it was time for worship to start. Already, a group of about fifteen ladies were gathered, sitting on empty dented jugs lining the walls. The women were beautiful, each wearing her distinct tribal markings on her face, her hair braided in intricate patterns and her toe nails painted in bright. Two traded a pudgy infant between their laps, bouncing him so his little head rocked. I remember thinking that these women did not look like prisoners. They were clean and healthy, some actually quite large. There was nothing distinguishingly rough about them, nothing to mark them out as different than the women lining the market streets and tending their stalls.
Ruth began the service with singing, her loud and slightly harsh voice common to most African worship leaders raised, and the ladies quickly joined in, keeping beat with a complex clapping pattern that I couldn’t hope to stay with, let alone while I was singing. Several songs later, as we danced mostly moving our shoulders in the African style, I was still missing beats, but smiling to see so many women praising God. I am always blown away by the apparent joy of the people here despite their circumstances.
We next moved on to prayer requests, and each woman had a chance to share with us her pain and desires. Almost every one asked for prayer for release, whether in the form of acquiring enough money for bail, getting a trial date, or just serving a sentence to the end. Justice in Benin, although better than most of West Africa, is still close to corruption, and only one in ten prisoners will ever have a trial. We prayed for each woman individually, each of us in our own language passionately talking to God and dripping sweat from the hot sun. God is good all the time. All the time, God is good. This is a popular call and response in African churches and I thought about it then as I prayed for my sisters in captivity.
In our last half an hour, one of the women in our group shared a short, but captivating story centered on keeping counsel with good instead of the wicked. No sooner had she finished than one of the ladies who had left us during the message came running into the middle of the circle, jumping up and down in exhilaration. The plastic slap of her flip flops on the concrete matched her tone of voice as she shared the good news: she was due to be released next week. God is good all the time. All the time, God is good. It was time for us to leave and we filed past the lines of reaching arms, once more shaking each hand to a chorus of smiling “ourevoir,s.” West African prison, I thought to myself, and God is still here.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
The Market
The air smells like motorcycle exhaust and over ripe fruit as we round the corner and the first vendors become visible. There are piles of color, each tended by their own reigning "mama" and her daughters. Papaya, mangoes, apples, baby bananas, pineapples, and melons are heaped in baskets. Eggplants, potatoes, lettuce, tomatoes, small spicy peppers, onions, carrots, cauliflower, and long rough skinned yams are placed in ordered rows and stacks. The multi-tiered tables are invisible behind this opulent produce so overloaded it seems to be reaching towards potential buyers as they search for the best looking ingredients for dinner tonight. Then there are the meat vendors, women sitting in front of large basins of fresh shrimp, whole dried fish, and some sort of curled and thick brown slab my friend tells me is sea cucumber. This is the place the flies love, where the air is thick with the scent of fish.
I absolutely love going to the market. It is something I do with my friend Olivia at least once a week. I love the market because it makes me remember where I am. Market walks, coming home with heavy bags of fruit and vegetables, connect me to the community and I am just a bit more a part of African life.
Today, we are in search of the biggest papayas we can find (previous market ventures have taught us that these are the best), and ingredients for Olivia's Chinese stir fry. Underneath the patched tin roof, an isle runs between each booth like a maze. By now, we know that the best vendors are towards the back and as we walk in looking at today's quality of cabbage and onions, the women poke their pineapples and bananas at us. It is a mistake to approach a stand if you are not looking to buy. Let me tell you, there is a pursuit involved! These women will show you every single item they are selling if you let them, and walking away with out a mango or an apple just seems rude after all the effort. So we walk exactly in the middle of the rows of mama sellers, not tending towards one side or another discussing which fruits look good and bad without actually pointing to them. When we find a source of beautiful string beans for the stir fry, Olivia, asks for 500 CFA worth (about $1) in French. The lady starts filling up a thin plastic sack, and Olivia kicks in to bargaining mode. 500 for that! Those beans are small! And the woman throws in handful more. I'll give you 400, Olivia says. No, the woman shakes her head, and she starts unloading the beans back into their basket, slowly, bluffing an unwillingness to settle. 400, Olivia says and turns to walk away. I realize we are arguing over twenty cents. The vendor stops us and offers the bag, now full again and we hand her four 100 coins that she quickly tucks away into a dirty piece of cloth tied into the waist of her skirt. Merci mama, we say with a smile, and she smiles back. I put the little plastic bag of beans into my shopping bag, and we walk on to our next purchase.
I think about what it would be like, to sit and sell food, trying to get the best price, often settling for less, but making it back from the non-french speaking yovos who pay way too much. I can tell that the women in charge hold all the power in their families. They are large and matriarchal. They are teaching their ten year old daughters how to manage a business, making sure their toddlers stay close, fanning away the sweat and napping a little when the day is slow. They are the money holders. They are strong, but their sons and the young men carry in the heavy bags of produce for them. They are women respected.
Olivia and I do eventually find the big yellow-ripe papayas and we buy three. I can't wait to split them open for the pink flesh and the population of black fish egg seeds inside. We also grab a dark eggplant, some candied peanuts, and a special kind of white carrot I have never tried before. We can't pass up the ripe mangoes on the way out and soon we are headed back to the ship burdened with black plastic sacks. We will eat well tonight, and it is nice to know that we have contributed to a family's dinner too. We drop a mango off with our security guards as we climb the gangway and I am happy to be here in Benin, in Africa, for this simple experience.
I absolutely love going to the market. It is something I do with my friend Olivia at least once a week. I love the market because it makes me remember where I am. Market walks, coming home with heavy bags of fruit and vegetables, connect me to the community and I am just a bit more a part of African life.
Today, we are in search of the biggest papayas we can find (previous market ventures have taught us that these are the best), and ingredients for Olivia's Chinese stir fry. Underneath the patched tin roof, an isle runs between each booth like a maze. By now, we know that the best vendors are towards the back and as we walk in looking at today's quality of cabbage and onions, the women poke their pineapples and bananas at us. It is a mistake to approach a stand if you are not looking to buy. Let me tell you, there is a pursuit involved! These women will show you every single item they are selling if you let them, and walking away with out a mango or an apple just seems rude after all the effort. So we walk exactly in the middle of the rows of mama sellers, not tending towards one side or another discussing which fruits look good and bad without actually pointing to them. When we find a source of beautiful string beans for the stir fry, Olivia, asks for 500 CFA worth (about $1) in French. The lady starts filling up a thin plastic sack, and Olivia kicks in to bargaining mode. 500 for that! Those beans are small! And the woman throws in handful more. I'll give you 400, Olivia says. No, the woman shakes her head, and she starts unloading the beans back into their basket, slowly, bluffing an unwillingness to settle. 400, Olivia says and turns to walk away. I realize we are arguing over twenty cents. The vendor stops us and offers the bag, now full again and we hand her four 100 coins that she quickly tucks away into a dirty piece of cloth tied into the waist of her skirt. Merci mama, we say with a smile, and she smiles back. I put the little plastic bag of beans into my shopping bag, and we walk on to our next purchase.
I think about what it would be like, to sit and sell food, trying to get the best price, often settling for less, but making it back from the non-french speaking yovos who pay way too much. I can tell that the women in charge hold all the power in their families. They are large and matriarchal. They are teaching their ten year old daughters how to manage a business, making sure their toddlers stay close, fanning away the sweat and napping a little when the day is slow. They are the money holders. They are strong, but their sons and the young men carry in the heavy bags of produce for them. They are women respected.
Olivia and I do eventually find the big yellow-ripe papayas and we buy three. I can't wait to split them open for the pink flesh and the population of black fish egg seeds inside. We also grab a dark eggplant, some candied peanuts, and a special kind of white carrot I have never tried before. We can't pass up the ripe mangoes on the way out and soon we are headed back to the ship burdened with black plastic sacks. We will eat well tonight, and it is nice to know that we have contributed to a family's dinner too. We drop a mango off with our security guards as we climb the gangway and I am happy to be here in Benin, in Africa, for this simple experience.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Pendjari
It is the cool of the morning in the north of Benin and still dark. I am alive with excitement, and as the blue van approaches to pick us up I can't help but smile in disbelief that this is my life. Do you ever look at yourself from the outside to realize the body you are in, the place you are standing, the adventure you are about to have? It is the morning of Easter Saturday, and I am on my way to Pendjari wildlife park to go on a safari! I remember thinking about this when I was a little kid, about going to Africa, proving to myself that elephants and hippos and lions really exist outside of zoos. And now I am living it.
The twelve of us pile our backpacks on top of the van and squeeze together with our guide and driver for the ride to the park. I have my head resting on the seat the whole time so I can look out the window at the trees and villages we are passing. It is very green here, with red earth and the same red packed into mud bricks to make the circular huts of civilization. The roofs are straw, and there are no windows. Children stand naked on the side of the road waving and smiling with chickens and pigs. We stop on the way at one of these villages where our guide has friends. Someone has brought tootsie rolls and I help pass them out to the flock of children gathered pressing so close. All I can see are outstretched little hands waiting for me to put a candy in them. It reminds me of sea creatures, like a rock full of barnacles, their feathery attachments waving in the water to grab food, darting in with the catch and then back out again for more. I can't keep track of who I've given these prized candies too but the kids are smiling and when I run out, they step back and and stand, the smallest in the front for the best view, just observing our group. When it is time to leave, they are waving and chasing after us and I am warmed.
When we finally reach the park and drive past the hunting zone into the refuge, it is quickly growing hot, but we are hopeful for some animal sightings. Some of us climb to the roof of the van and perch on top of the luggage for a better view and we start down the rough dirt road again. We are armed with cameras and anticipation. Our first sighting is a troop of baboons and the driver slows so we can watch as the ponder us and run by. There are some antelope next and they race through the trees at the sound of our vehicle. We are all captivated, little do we know that we will see so many of these animals in our next day and a half, we will no longer stop to give them special attention.
It is dry season in Benin, so we drive to a watering hole for the highest concentration of animals in this heat. As we arrive, there are water buffalo, wart hogs, antelope, birds of all kinds, baboons, and crocodiles posing for our cameras. Off in the distance, we can see two hippos surfacing for air and then sinking back down into the cool. I think about how long I would like to stay here just to observe the natural traffic, but our guide is ready to leave and other people have arrived eager to see as we have.
We move on, making our way to our hotel and I am riding on the roof now, wind rushing. Wait for it, wait for it, and then the driver hits the breaks and we stop with whispers of "Ele! Ele!" Off in the distance, two massive grey shapes curl their trunks and fan ears that are over five feet long. This is unreal, but it is not the closest encounter we will have. Still, we are filled with excitement as we arrive at the hotel for a mid-day break. At four o'clock, we will continue experiencing these god-given gifts. Our hotel is more of a camp ground, at least for those of us without rooms. We plan out a place to sleep underneath three trees to which we can tie ropes and hang our mosquito nets.
Our four to eight o'clock trip is filled with all the animals we have seen before. As we are heading back, our guide tries one last spot, where he says we will see elephants if we have luck. We turn off the main road and start towards the river Pendjari, the border between Benin and Burkina Faso. As we round the last turn before the river, the border guard is waiting for us. He is large, almost the size of our van, and peaceful on the bridge. He is a beautiful male hippopotamus not 100 feet in front of us. How great is our God?! We watch as he slowly turns and lumbers back to the river, and we follow at a distance to watch him vanish into the bush.
Sunday is our last day in the park and we wake up again before sunrise. This morning, we see a pack of over twenty elephants all walking to the watering hole. In the silence, we can hear them crushing the branches and dry grass under their heavy steps. Their presence is completely overpowering thought they are at least 300 yards away.
The twelve of us pile our backpacks on top of the van and squeeze together with our guide and driver for the ride to the park. I have my head resting on the seat the whole time so I can look out the window at the trees and villages we are passing. It is very green here, with red earth and the same red packed into mud bricks to make the circular huts of civilization. The roofs are straw, and there are no windows. Children stand naked on the side of the road waving and smiling with chickens and pigs. We stop on the way at one of these villages where our guide has friends. Someone has brought tootsie rolls and I help pass them out to the flock of children gathered pressing so close. All I can see are outstretched little hands waiting for me to put a candy in them. It reminds me of sea creatures, like a rock full of barnacles, their feathery attachments waving in the water to grab food, darting in with the catch and then back out again for more. I can't keep track of who I've given these prized candies too but the kids are smiling and when I run out, they step back and and stand, the smallest in the front for the best view, just observing our group. When it is time to leave, they are waving and chasing after us and I am warmed.
When we finally reach the park and drive past the hunting zone into the refuge, it is quickly growing hot, but we are hopeful for some animal sightings. Some of us climb to the roof of the van and perch on top of the luggage for a better view and we start down the rough dirt road again. We are armed with cameras and anticipation. Our first sighting is a troop of baboons and the driver slows so we can watch as the ponder us and run by. There are some antelope next and they race through the trees at the sound of our vehicle. We are all captivated, little do we know that we will see so many of these animals in our next day and a half, we will no longer stop to give them special attention.
Our four to eight o'clock trip is filled with all the animals we have seen before. As we are heading back, our guide tries one last spot, where he says we will see elephants if we have luck. We turn off the main road and start towards the river Pendjari, the border between Benin and Burkina Faso. As we round the last turn before the river, the border guard is waiting for us. He is large, almost the size of our van, and peaceful on the bridge. He is a beautiful male hippopotamus not 100 feet in front of us. How great is our God?! We watch as he slowly turns and lumbers back to the river, and we follow at a distance to watch him vanish into the bush.
We end our adventure covered in red dust and so happy, standing before a waterfall and large deep pool. There is nothing more inviting when you are this hot and covered in sticky dirt-sweat skin. I climb to the top and jump to the water 50 feet below with two local boys. Exhilaration fills me and I am feeling perfect. Just enough excited, relaxed, cool, content, and thrilled. Top that off with a cold Yuki fizzi and a bucket full of ripe mangoes. We drive back to our hotel to spend our last night and this is bliss. On top of it all, this is the day Jesus has risen, the day we were saved, and that is something to be truly joyful for. Maybe this is what heaven is like, the combination of bliss and joy, only it is sustaining, perpetual. This weekend is just a taste of God's splendor.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Daily life
It is the end of week six in Africa, and I have been so excited to share the big events in my life that I realized I have yet to describe what happens each day. Each morning, I wake up around 7:10, dress in my scrubs, and head up to breakfast before it ends at 7:30. Lately, the meal of choice has been oatmeal with cinnamon, brown sugar, and peanut butter, and I look forward to it...mmmm . After breakfast Monday through Thursday, I attend a morning devotional or meeting with groups ranging from everyone aboard the ship to just the people working in the hospital. My favorite devotions are on Wednesdays, when all of the non-doctor/nurse health care staff meets to watch Rob Bell's Nooma series. These videos are incredibly insightful, beautifully made, and always very applicable in my life. A good friend and I have been watching them on our own and keeping each other spiritually healthy and growing as a result. Nooma comes with my highest recommendation for Christians at all stages wanting to learn God and life and how they are complexly intermingled.
After devotions, work begins around 8:15. I head down to deck three, the hospital level, and all the way to the aft of the ship where the cargo hold and Central Supply are located. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, we spend the morning filling orders for the OR, Wards, and various outreach teams. I was so lost in the masses of supplies when I first started--imagine seven train car sized shipping containers filled to the roof with all sizes of cardboard boxes and only a small isle in the center to walk, in addition to an entire room of moving shelves in all of which to find one specific type of gauze! Thankfully, there is an organizational system. Supplies are organized by item number which we are able to search via a computer program. Each box has a bar code, and using our scanners, we can record the location of the box on a specific pallet. This information is transmitted from the scanner to the computer program, allowing us to see where each box of each item is located. Using a master list, we look up the location of the pallet then go to the corresponding container or shelf in central supply and search. I am smiling writing this because this system does seem logical, like it would be accurate most of the time, but every hour we don't spend filling orders, we work to make the system better match our actual inventory in both item location and number of boxes. The worst is when our computer says we have an item that the hospital desperately needs and we spend half an hour in the hold searching for it because the system was not correctly updated, only to concede that it isn't actually there. Let me explain that the hold is not a cool place. It is probably at least 85 degrees at all times and hotter when the welders are working--meaning instant scrub-drenching sweat after five minutes of work. In addition, there is a constant battle between available space and the arrival of new boxes. On any ship, you learn to value space as a premium commodity. Here, we receive new containers of supplies every few weeks at a rate that is a bit faster than the hospital uses them, sometimes requiring a good amount of creativity and box-battling in the unloading and placement process.
I finish work every day by five, have dinner and relish in the rest of my free night. Depending on the day, there is aerobics, ultimate Frisbee games, soccer, music, movies, games, meetings, and various bible studies, all of which anyone is welcome to attend. There are nights of conversation, both superficial and deep, and nights I spend on the top deck of the ship just praying and reading my bible. It is true that whatever you feel like doing after dinner, there is usually a place and people eager to join you. I love the nights, and more often then not, I'm counting down the hours of work until they come.
But more than nights, I love the weekends. There are always trips going out--I have been to two beautiful beaches, a pool, a forest, a historic slave trade village, the stilt village of Ganvie, and many times for walks into Cotonou for food, or into the markets, or just to see something new. I always try to save Sundays for rest, sometimes going to a local church in the morning, and other days just staying on the ship to do my laundry, have a nap!, read, email, and relax. Praise God for creating a break in our weeks!
Although sometimes the days and weeks run together, each one is made distinct by my personal interactions and what I'm learning. Our community is one of constant transition, so I am always meeting new people and saying goodbye to others I have grown to know. Having friends from so many backgrounds and different cultures is so interesting. It takes tangible proof to realize just how different various lives and stories can be from your own. I am coming to understand this much more quickly than I would have in the States and am so grateful for it. I have a bit more people time than I am comfortable with, but this is God changing me, teaching me to love in spite of just not feeling like it. At the end of each day, I am exhausted, but in a pleasant way. I am trying desperately to be connected to God more strongly than I have ever been, learning about prayer and how much spiritual conversation and friendship can carry you through a day. I am learning how to be open to loss and gain as it flows into my life. I am leanning that it doesn't take a major event to spark change in your life, but that you are shaped most powerfully by what you do normally, by living each day.
After devotions, work begins around 8:15. I head down to deck three, the hospital level, and all the way to the aft of the ship where the cargo hold and Central Supply are located. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, we spend the morning filling orders for the OR, Wards, and various outreach teams. I was so lost in the masses of supplies when I first started--imagine seven train car sized shipping containers filled to the roof with all sizes of cardboard boxes and only a small isle in the center to walk, in addition to an entire room of moving shelves in all of which to find one specific type of gauze! Thankfully, there is an organizational system. Supplies are organized by item number which we are able to search via a computer program. Each box has a bar code, and using our scanners, we can record the location of the box on a specific pallet. This information is transmitted from the scanner to the computer program, allowing us to see where each box of each item is located. Using a master list, we look up the location of the pallet then go to the corresponding container or shelf in central supply and search. I am smiling writing this because this system does seem logical, like it would be accurate most of the time, but every hour we don't spend filling orders, we work to make the system better match our actual inventory in both item location and number of boxes. The worst is when our computer says we have an item that the hospital desperately needs and we spend half an hour in the hold searching for it because the system was not correctly updated, only to concede that it isn't actually there. Let me explain that the hold is not a cool place. It is probably at least 85 degrees at all times and hotter when the welders are working--meaning instant scrub-drenching sweat after five minutes of work. In addition, there is a constant battle between available space and the arrival of new boxes. On any ship, you learn to value space as a premium commodity. Here, we receive new containers of supplies every few weeks at a rate that is a bit faster than the hospital uses them, sometimes requiring a good amount of creativity and box-battling in the unloading and placement process.
I finish work every day by five, have dinner and relish in the rest of my free night. Depending on the day, there is aerobics, ultimate Frisbee games, soccer, music, movies, games, meetings, and various bible studies, all of which anyone is welcome to attend. There are nights of conversation, both superficial and deep, and nights I spend on the top deck of the ship just praying and reading my bible. It is true that whatever you feel like doing after dinner, there is usually a place and people eager to join you. I love the nights, and more often then not, I'm counting down the hours of work until they come.
But more than nights, I love the weekends. There are always trips going out--I have been to two beautiful beaches, a pool, a forest, a historic slave trade village, the stilt village of Ganvie, and many times for walks into Cotonou for food, or into the markets, or just to see something new. I always try to save Sundays for rest, sometimes going to a local church in the morning, and other days just staying on the ship to do my laundry, have a nap!, read, email, and relax. Praise God for creating a break in our weeks!
Although sometimes the days and weeks run together, each one is made distinct by my personal interactions and what I'm learning. Our community is one of constant transition, so I am always meeting new people and saying goodbye to others I have grown to know. Having friends from so many backgrounds and different cultures is so interesting. It takes tangible proof to realize just how different various lives and stories can be from your own. I am coming to understand this much more quickly than I would have in the States and am so grateful for it. I have a bit more people time than I am comfortable with, but this is God changing me, teaching me to love in spite of just not feeling like it. At the end of each day, I am exhausted, but in a pleasant way. I am trying desperately to be connected to God more strongly than I have ever been, learning about prayer and how much spiritual conversation and friendship can carry you through a day. I am learning how to be open to loss and gain as it flows into my life. I am leanning that it doesn't take a major event to spark change in your life, but that you are shaped most powerfully by what you do normally, by living each day.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
This Loss
Death is so real when it is this close. On Monday, I saw a baby die.
I was working, and my task was simple. A new supply container had just arrived, and we were unloading it, carrying stacks of boxes up the gangway and in to the hold of the ship. They were latex exam gloves, and we had to move them in first because all the wards had been out for a week. Two minutes before, I walked down to the dock and held my arms out to be loaded for the tenth time. I could have been inside the ship restocking, delivering to the wards these urgently needed gloves, in the bathroom, taking a water break, but I wasn't. It was no accident that from behind my wall of cardboard, I heard a wailing that I can still feel resonating inside of me. A woman, a mother, thrown to the floor was pounding her fists, smudges of wet around her on the green painted floor, and the sound coming from her was deep and gripping. I am told this is the African way to mourn. Her tears were violent, spreading like blood around a murder victim. They were her protest and her pain, and at first, I thought the doctor running in was coming to her. But he didn't. He stopped short and bent over the table, over a bundle of wrapped cloth, over her baby.
I remember what it looked like, and I remember knowing that it was dead before the doctor said anything. Its little body was still and rubber-like beneath the stethoscope. Its face was already dim, and it's closed eyes...I think anyone looking at the baby would know.
I have never experienced death this close. I had no idea how to deal with it. Death had never impacted me before. So I stood there shocked, and the tears started to come. I had to leave work. This woman had come to the ship because her child had a lump developing on its neck, and she was leaving it with this emptiness. Soon I was in my cabin, lying face down in my bed and scream-crying into my pillow. I looked like that mother, and I just kept thinking about what she was feeling, like her life had been ripped away. Later, I wrote in my journal that my soul was sore. I was still thinking about the baby well into the night, and I remember it today. I don't think it is something I will forget.
But this is the amazing part: that through it all, God is good and He is stronger. I was praying Sunday night on the top deck of the ship. It was getting towards the end of my time, when God gave me a verse. This is such a new thing for me. It has only happened once before, but I am learning more about what it means to pray. I saw it in my mind: Matthew 5:4 like the bright lines a flashlight makes once you close your eyes. I don't know the Bible well enough to have a clue what this verse says, and so I turned to it.
Blesses are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Sunday night, I thought about this verse in the context of mourning for the time I have spent away from God. Monday morning, it flew back to me, and I knew that God was with me as I watched that mother. Even more so, He was with her, comforting a mourner.
In my rational mind, I felt completely unprepared, taken utterly by surprise. I thought about how profound and shocking my experience of this death was because it was so unexpected. But in my heart, God had already given me a verse, so that I might be prepared. Doesn't He do this in all of our lives, if only we are aware? And so I know even more truly that right here, in Benin, in this darkness, tonight and always, that He is Lord.
I was working, and my task was simple. A new supply container had just arrived, and we were unloading it, carrying stacks of boxes up the gangway and in to the hold of the ship. They were latex exam gloves, and we had to move them in first because all the wards had been out for a week. Two minutes before, I walked down to the dock and held my arms out to be loaded for the tenth time. I could have been inside the ship restocking, delivering to the wards these urgently needed gloves, in the bathroom, taking a water break, but I wasn't. It was no accident that from behind my wall of cardboard, I heard a wailing that I can still feel resonating inside of me. A woman, a mother, thrown to the floor was pounding her fists, smudges of wet around her on the green painted floor, and the sound coming from her was deep and gripping. I am told this is the African way to mourn. Her tears were violent, spreading like blood around a murder victim. They were her protest and her pain, and at first, I thought the doctor running in was coming to her. But he didn't. He stopped short and bent over the table, over a bundle of wrapped cloth, over her baby.
I remember what it looked like, and I remember knowing that it was dead before the doctor said anything. Its little body was still and rubber-like beneath the stethoscope. Its face was already dim, and it's closed eyes...I think anyone looking at the baby would know.
I have never experienced death this close. I had no idea how to deal with it. Death had never impacted me before. So I stood there shocked, and the tears started to come. I had to leave work. This woman had come to the ship because her child had a lump developing on its neck, and she was leaving it with this emptiness. Soon I was in my cabin, lying face down in my bed and scream-crying into my pillow. I looked like that mother, and I just kept thinking about what she was feeling, like her life had been ripped away. Later, I wrote in my journal that my soul was sore. I was still thinking about the baby well into the night, and I remember it today. I don't think it is something I will forget.
But this is the amazing part: that through it all, God is good and He is stronger. I was praying Sunday night on the top deck of the ship. It was getting towards the end of my time, when God gave me a verse. This is such a new thing for me. It has only happened once before, but I am learning more about what it means to pray. I saw it in my mind: Matthew 5:4 like the bright lines a flashlight makes once you close your eyes. I don't know the Bible well enough to have a clue what this verse says, and so I turned to it.
Blesses are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Sunday night, I thought about this verse in the context of mourning for the time I have spent away from God. Monday morning, it flew back to me, and I knew that God was with me as I watched that mother. Even more so, He was with her, comforting a mourner.
In my rational mind, I felt completely unprepared, taken utterly by surprise. I thought about how profound and shocking my experience of this death was because it was so unexpected. But in my heart, God had already given me a verse, so that I might be prepared. Doesn't He do this in all of our lives, if only we are aware? And so I know even more truly that right here, in Benin, in this darkness, tonight and always, that He is Lord.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
African Church
In fitting with all of Benin I have seen, church today was unlike anything I have ever experienced. The congregation at the Pentecostal church planted by Mercy Ships in their 2001 outreach was small, only about sixty men, women, and children. They sat on rough wooden benches beneath a tin roof supported by tall branches. The sides of the building were palm thatched with a few bright orange silk flowers tucked in and the front was a cinder block wall where Assaga lizards, colored vibrant orange and blue, moved with the music like African children.
I love the way that the African people come to church. They are dressed in their best clothing, families wearing outfits cut from the same bright patterns. It is color, clean and fitted to their bodies, but it is also respect for a mighty god, that his people would worship him looking their best. The women are as loud as the patterns they wear. They dance to the music, singing stronger than microphones, their babies tied to their backs and bouncing as they celebrate the Lord. The men are passionate though less obvious in their praise, but they are singing, closing their eyes, and playing the drums that are the center of the music. The children all sit together, some happily joining in the worship, the older ones supporting the smallest kids still too little to know the words. Some dance up front with the women, smiling as they march in a circle. Others just stare ahead, wondering what this is all about. But I am most impressed by the girls, maybe ten years old, singing to God with their little brothers or sisters slung over their hips. I think they must know a lot about life.
The message this morning was simple and powerful. Delivered in three languages, I think it means the same thing to all of us. Matthew 26:39-42--Lord, let your will, but not mine, be done. At first, when the pastor announced that God has a plan for prosperity for all of us, I wondered, what is prosperity in Africa? I know what prosperity means in the West: a healthy family, a certain standard of living, material wealth, good friends, a successful career, happiness...but how do these standards compare to African ideas of prosperity? When the pastor asks his people, "Do you know that the glory of God is upon you?," what do the people of Benin envision? And then I realized that at its heart, prosperity is a deeper relationship with God. It comes from following after Him even when we cannot understand why, even in suffering. Maybe that is why I expected Africans to have a different sense of prosperity than me, because I believe that they have suffered so much more than I have. The pastor said to us, "You are crying deep down inside of yourself, but I am telling you that one day this will end." I think this promise is so great, but how much greater must it seem to the people of Benin?
When it came time for the offering, the music started up loud and joyful. The song only had four words: Our God is good. And every single member of the church danced up front and dropped something in the offering box. I am still shocked by the joy in giving. Though these people have so little, they are still happy to give away. I am ashamed of my own reluctance when I see this. I will try hard never to forget the way that African people share.
At the end of the service, the pastor asked our group to speak and pray for the church. The lady who spoke for us was amazing. She had this way of making us all equal, all God's children, all family. I have never felt so welcomed by a congregation as they smiled, amened, and praised God that we could be there with them.
So, there are lessons here, of hospitality, of humility, of generosity. A different culture, the same God. A different life style, but the same gratitude. I am an ocean away from home and I feel like I am seeing God's face from a new angle, in a different light.
I love the way that the African people come to church. They are dressed in their best clothing, families wearing outfits cut from the same bright patterns. It is color, clean and fitted to their bodies, but it is also respect for a mighty god, that his people would worship him looking their best. The women are as loud as the patterns they wear. They dance to the music, singing stronger than microphones, their babies tied to their backs and bouncing as they celebrate the Lord. The men are passionate though less obvious in their praise, but they are singing, closing their eyes, and playing the drums that are the center of the music. The children all sit together, some happily joining in the worship, the older ones supporting the smallest kids still too little to know the words. Some dance up front with the women, smiling as they march in a circle. Others just stare ahead, wondering what this is all about. But I am most impressed by the girls, maybe ten years old, singing to God with their little brothers or sisters slung over their hips. I think they must know a lot about life.
The message this morning was simple and powerful. Delivered in three languages, I think it means the same thing to all of us. Matthew 26:39-42--Lord, let your will, but not mine, be done. At first, when the pastor announced that God has a plan for prosperity for all of us, I wondered, what is prosperity in Africa? I know what prosperity means in the West: a healthy family, a certain standard of living, material wealth, good friends, a successful career, happiness...but how do these standards compare to African ideas of prosperity? When the pastor asks his people, "Do you know that the glory of God is upon you?," what do the people of Benin envision? And then I realized that at its heart, prosperity is a deeper relationship with God. It comes from following after Him even when we cannot understand why, even in suffering. Maybe that is why I expected Africans to have a different sense of prosperity than me, because I believe that they have suffered so much more than I have. The pastor said to us, "You are crying deep down inside of yourself, but I am telling you that one day this will end." I think this promise is so great, but how much greater must it seem to the people of Benin?
When it came time for the offering, the music started up loud and joyful. The song only had four words: Our God is good. And every single member of the church danced up front and dropped something in the offering box. I am still shocked by the joy in giving. Though these people have so little, they are still happy to give away. I am ashamed of my own reluctance when I see this. I will try hard never to forget the way that African people share.
At the end of the service, the pastor asked our group to speak and pray for the church. The lady who spoke for us was amazing. She had this way of making us all equal, all God's children, all family. I have never felt so welcomed by a congregation as they smiled, amened, and praised God that we could be there with them.
So, there are lessons here, of hospitality, of humility, of generosity. A different culture, the same God. A different life style, but the same gratitude. I am an ocean away from home and I feel like I am seeing God's face from a new angle, in a different light.
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