Just the beginning

Semean is in bed one. His mother, Musu, sleeps underneath the bed, where there is about a 3 foot clearance. Next to him, is Sonnie, whom I have also befriended, in bed two. Sonnie is 32 years old. She lives in Red Light district (not a red light district but a section of Monrovia named by that name). She had a shriveled hand and forearm. They grafted some skin from her thigh onto her arm and she will be fine. She has a radiant smile, reflective of her kind heart. She is spunky, confident and slightly mischevious. Today, she was discharged from the ward and allowed to go home.



I visited her this morning to say goodbye. When I came in, she was packing her small leopard print bag. Her face was downcast. I sat down next to her and she forced a small smile. The nurse handed her her medications, wrapped some more gauze on her leg, and gave her some curt instructions. She nodded, wordlessly.

“Are you sad to go?” I ask.

She nodded. No more words.

The women who come to our hospital, aside from getting physical healing from their ailments, also receive a sort of simple respite from their daily lives. As with many other places in the world, these women are often the providers, nurturers, teachers, and leaders of their families. They often do not have a husband or mate who can help out. And while Sonnie has not had any potential suitors, due to the deformity of her hand, I know she was enjoying the atmosphere of our hospital. A break away from the mundane, the everyday life of shame she may have felt from her deformity.

“Sonnie, Mercy Ships is not the end of all the good things in your life. It is the beginning of all good things to come. When you leave this boat, you will be starting a new life. God has many good things for you. He will see to that.” I told her.

She nodded, and began to weep. I pulled her to me and she rested her head upon my shoulder. Musu looked on, concerned.

Sonnie’s nurse pulled me aside.

“Is she your ‘adopt-a-patient’?” The nurse asks.

“No, she’s my friend.” I answer.

Sonnie says her goodbyes to everyone in the ward. Several patients get up and walk her to the end of the hall. I open the big heavy door that leads to the rear gangway. I carry her bag for her and we descend onto the dock.

“I leave you now,” she says.

I smile back. “Yes, but you will be in my heart!” She laughs at this.

We walk down the dock, pass the gates. The Nigerian UN guards nod to us. We nod back. Walking out of the gates, we are on a dirt gravel road, heading towards the street. The sun is baking down on the dirt and the heat from the cement radiates into our skin. Dragonflies are darting around. Geckos skitter across the pathway quickly. The barbed wire along the tops of the cement walls look dismal against this beautiful day.

“Michelle. I cry then because what you say is true. You give me good advice,” she says.

“It must not have been me,” I answer.

“It was something from God!” She decides. Yes, must be, I think to myself.

Sonnie and I talk about all sorts of things. She casts glances over her shoulders and looks at the big, white boat getting smaller and smaller.

“I need to pee!” Sonnie declares. She runs to the side of the path, pulls up her skirt, squats and urinates.

She calls her pastor on her cell phone. I can’t hear what he says, but his voice is ecstatic.

We reach the gate that separates the port from the road. The guard opens the gate for her. Monrovia’s smells and sounds flood through the gate.

See you later, we say to one another. She smiles, stretches out her new hand, and hails a cab to go home.

Semean and Musu

This past week, I met Cathrine, an 8 year old who was in our hospital for club foot. Her and her mother had travelled far from up country to have her treated. It was difficult to communicate. In fact, the little girl never said a word to me. Her mother did all the talking, but she spoke in a rural dialect and I needed a translator, word for word. Nonetheless, I got some smiles out of Cathrine, and she knew I was praying for her. I asked her to tie a string around my wrist so that I could have a little reminder to visit her. She did it, happy to be responsible for something.



I was unable to say goodbye before she left so abruptly. However, on the same day we took the photograph above, I met Musu, who was crocheting a maroon table cloth. She made tight, orderly stitches and worked swiftly. I left and returned with my bright pink lace sock that I've been working on. She marvelled at it and asked me to teach her. She watched me closely. She told me she was from nearby, Supermarket, a local neighborhood where Duala Market is.

Duala Market is laid out over a huge expanse - perhaps comprised in the length of six American city blocks - that is crowded with sellers pushing everything from dried fish and meat to colorful fabrics to cell phones perched on a trash dump. It is one of the most unsanitary places I've ever been in. Musu is a vendor herself. She buys fish from Duala and then walks some ways away and sells it elsewhere.

I ask her if her child is here. She says yes.

"There he go! Semean!!"

A boy of seven turns his head. When he sees me, he smiles, shy a bit mischievous. He is playing with Cathrine and Masa, blowing bubbles and trying to catch them. Masa has stickers covering her face. She is very domineering and all the nurses are amused at her.



I ask her what kind of operation he has had. Musu points to her lap. I catch the words "pee pee" "pain" "he get the operation there." I'm nodding. There is alot of nodding between the Shippers and the Liberians when you only understand 60 per cent of one another on a good day.

"I show you Semean?"

Sure, of course, I want to meet your son! I say.

Semean responds to Musu's call. He runs over and she says something to him in their dialect. Before I can realize it, he pulls up his gown and shows me his affliction. He has a huge pustule, or a tumor, maybe the size of a golfball. It is very pink and shiny. I would've tried to get a closer look, but the affliction is right on his penis. It is sad, and I look away so that Semean can drop his gown. He is never for a moment ashamed, but keeps his smile on his face. His mother says that he is in pain and that urinating is very difficult for him. Her face drops and I put my arm around her to comfort her. She puts her head on my shoulder.

We knit together and she begins doing the knit stitch on my sock:



Tonight, I spent about five hours after work with her in the Ward, knitting and teaching her how to knit lace. I chatted with her and another female patient, Sonnie, about America, Liberia, life in the ward. Their relatives came by and visited them and I got to meet Musu's sisters and her brother in law. At one point, conversation turned to me, and I shared with them all about my mother and how she got through the time of my father's death because of her faith and her trust in Him. When I finished, Musu looked confidently into my eyes and said, "God alway make a way. You think there is no way, he alway make way." She told me about how she struggled with Semean and this affliction he's had since birth, but how coming to the ship has really been a huge blessing. Both of us teared up, and we squeezed each other's hands.

We continue knitting. Another crew member, Irene, drops by to say hi to Semean. Irene asks me if Musu knew how to knit before this stay and I say yes. Musu says, "No! You teach me." I disagree, I said, "Of course you knew. You did it so fast!" She shakes her head, insistent that she never knew. I was blown away! I have taught countless people how to knit and it has taken more than just observing to pick it up. Yet, she picked it up by just watching me. I teach her how to cast on the stitches next. My mom taught me sort of a rare, tricky way to do it. Musu watches once and does it perfectly. That has never happened to me where I show somebody this technique once and they catch on immediately. I am in awe of her and tell her so. She laughs and laughs. I ask her, "Are you proud of yourself?!" She smiles, ear to ear, and says, "Yes. I am." Good, I say, good. She is so brilliant and I am humbled that I get the privilege of her company.

Before I get up to go, she hands me a black plastic bag. Inside are three plaintains and two mangos. I walk down the hall, pass the heavy metal doors, and I am back in my cabin, in a different world, and I cannot stop thinking about my new Liberian friends.

Watering something that will grow

The rainy season is coming. Tonight, there was quite a display of lightning in the skies, but no rain. Rain in Monrovia is quite torrential. The rainy season will last from roughly May to October, so the bulk of the time I will be here will be spent in rain. In one month, it will rain for at least 90 per cent of the time. While the sun is still shining, we thought we’d take advantage of the good weather and hit the beach.

A good sign of a recovering economy is tourism. Here are Emelia (German), Ester (my roommate, Norwegian) and I at CeCe beach about 30 minutes drive from the ship. This is a popular place for various foreigners from different NGOs. It is lovely, relaxing, and the water is very warm.







Many of the crew rely on several trusted cabbies for rides around town. Otherwise, getting scammed, lost, or at worst, kidnapped, etc. is a risk. Taxi rides often go in one direction, and cabbies will try to fit in as much as 8 people in one cab. As they say, you have not really had a true Liberian cab experience until you’ve had a Liberian woman sitting on your lap with a baby sitting in hers. Here’s Alfred, one of our trusted cabbies.



He invited himself to join us and sat down. He is originally from Ghana and he is putting two teenagers through school in Ghana (where unlike Liberia, they have a school system). His wife left him after the war. He use to work as a seaman, but now he drives his small little Nissan cab, windows rolled down always, locks damaged, the seats’ sponge filling bursting out of its ripped upholstery.

‘Missy, during war, so terrible,’ he grieved. ‘You hungry, you stay inside. You want food, you eat small small. Never enough.’

We talked a lot about the world, traveling, and politics. Our ride wound through the busy markets of Duala, and then the quieter parts of the country before getting to CeCe, where UN troops from Pakistan guarded the beach.

Some photos of our ride there. (I'm sorry that they are all from the car. More and more, I am learning through Liberians and from experience that they do not like their photographs taken. Also, it is unsafe for me to take out a camera.)







Alfred drops us off at our port. I ask him how much we owe him. He’s embarrassed, but he says, ‘Fifteen dollars.’ This is very expensive, mind you. A cab ride rarely costs more than 40 Liberian Dollars (60 cents US). I semi-jokingly remind him that that’s too expensive and that I also bought him a Coke for $2USD, which is expensive even by American standards. He agrees, and then charges us $10 USD for 3 people.

I ponder this for a while. Was his conversation with me genuine? He told he he had many responsibilities, raising his two teens, supporting a small toddler of his daughter's (whose father had run out on them). I sensed sincerity in him, but all the while was he hoping to pawn me for more cash? I know he was being truthful, but I also know that he acknowledges that we have money. Perhaps, by American standards, he was just being an opportunist.

I encounter similar feelings the next morning. We had just finished a great morning at God's Children's Home Orphanage. Again, we sang songs together (and again, I had to fight back tears.) I hope I never get tired of those beautiful voices singing in harmony together. At the end of our time of music, the children sang a song in their indigenous language. When you hear it, you understand why Africans are characterized by a great sense of rhythm, passion and soul for music. Sovra recognized me from last week and stayed by my side. At one point, we had been separated into two different teams for a game. As soon as it was over, he came over and put his head on my lap to sleep. When he woke up, I smiled at him. He reached up and tucked my hair behind my ear.

When we were leaving, different children from the neighborhood came out to meet us. Several children had their arms outstretched, palms facing upward, all smiles - sweet,but with a tinge of mischief. I walked to the orphanage going there and on my way, I saw one child yell at me for my attention. He then jut his hand out, palms facing upward. Again, all sweet smiles. They're saying, 'Give me something.' It is a discouraging feeling. Though I am here to give, one always has grandiose notions about how they are received (that is, we hope that our recipients are grateful to tears! We're heroes! Etc!)

In my experience, and especially having worked with celebrities and Hollywood executives, I know the rich certainly feel entitled. But now I am realizing, the poor feel very entitled as well. Do we do any good to simply give? I have never believed in charity just for charity's sake. That is, here are poor people, let's give them ... stuff. Poor kids, let's give them candy (even though they have no dental hygiene and their teeth can rot). The answer is not just to give. The answer is to empower one's skills, talent, sense of worth. In a spin on the old adage, I always say, "Give a person a scarf, keep them warm for a winter. Teach them how to knit and they'll stay warm a lifetime ... and keep others warm too." And though sometimes it is just a matter of giving, the love behind it needs to exist. Otherwise, we are not empowering others to be self-sufficient. For lack of a better term, I don't care to teach others how to beg.

But there are those who are truly grateful, of course. This morning, I opted out of church. I was just too tired and the hot sun outside held no appeal. I found out, however, that there is a weekly service in Ward B for the patients. This was, to my absolute delight, one of the best experiences I have ever had at a church service.

When you live in a country and stem from a national heritage that has been riddled with rape, war, theft, broken families, physical destruction and death, the things you sing and preach about God are very different from say, when you're a starving artist living in Los Angeles hoping to fulfill a dream. The Liberians always sing songs about God, His greatness, His power, His might, that He is a victor, a 'Papa', that He is loving. There is little to no focus on the worshipper's own posture in life or circumstance. It is all about God and how He can bring you out of wartime troubles, how He heals, how He rescues our very lives.

Sitting across from me, legs crossed, is a man of about fifty, his eyes cast downwards towards the floor. His face and scalp is held together by about one hundred neatly placed metal stapes that snake from between his eyebrows, up his skull, behind his ear, around his jaw and towards his lip. Next to him, a woman with an amputated leg, claps joyfully, singing, 'We loove you, Papa!' The man with the staples claps, too. He is very happy.

When asked if the patients had anything to say, the gentleman with the staples shares. He is practically inaudible due to his disfiguration. He tells us that he has been afflicted for 17 years. When he first tried coming to us, he hoped that he would not pass the pre-screening, so that he could go home and not be so ashamed. But of course, now he is so thankful and he thanks God, because, 'Nothing can change the will of God.' He was suppose to have this surgery. The amputee shared her confidence in God, saying she never worried. She knew God would find a way. The joy, the praise, the unabashed proclamation of Jesus from all these patients was refreshing. I have never heard 'Hallelujah!' shouted so many times in succession!

At the end of the service, Andrew, a patient who is an albino, played a lively beat on the drums. We danced around the ward, shaking each others hands, greeting one another. I prayed for the man with the staples in his head and was overwhelmed by how lovely he was. Just lovely. We laughed, shared, smiled. The service ended. It was the only church service I've attended where they did not take an offering.

My good friend Bill mused at one point that perhaps cultures that have too much technology, too much material goods, too much dependence on self, are the very ones who don't believe in God. However, he observed, it seems that those who are exposed to life's natural hardships in forces of nature, for example, are the very ones that do believe in God. He says, for example, people in Africa. Well, Bill, I am in Africa and I can truly say, if it isn't the torrential rain that pounds them into believing in a Mighty Force, it is simply the suffering that will inevitably come in all our lives that test the core of who we are, and thus, the quality of our faith.

Amen.

On the night shift

I'm working the graveyard shift right now on the Africa Mercy which means that for the last four days, I have been working from 11 PM to 7 AM. The guards keep me company, while I have to keep company the phones, our security cameras and also a couple other safety components, which I cannot speak of in this (or any other) post :). It has been amusing, to say the least, that I struggled so hard to get rid of my jetlag only to return to West Coast US time! It reminds me of working on a movie set - nothing happens for a long time, but then when you have to spring to action, you are expected to do everything perfectly. This happened two nights ago, when after 7 hours and 50 minutes, not nary an ant passed by, but then one of the smoke detectors went off. Waaa! Running a ship has much more liability than anything else I've participated in.

And while it is quiet, living on a ship is not without its distinct sounds and smells. As far as sounds go, the ventilation is on constantly, so one feels like they are in an airplane. All. The. Time. I have been sleeping during the day, and during the day is when others work. They do not account for those poor souls who work graveyard shift. There has been a sound that I can only equate to gnomes (Liberian gnomes?) dragging metal chains through the metal walls and various air conditioning passage-ways of my cabin. It is a utterly deafening.

The crackling of walkie talkie radios go on and off throughout the day from our duty officers, deck hands, etc. The chatter of patients, nurses, doctors, as well as the ringing of phones fill the air. The ship is always busy, and someone is always awake.

The smells. I live on Deck 3. Half of it is cabins. And on the other side of some heavy metal doors is the hospital and all its wards. This side of Deck 3 has a distinct smell that I can only categorize as a mixture of urine, body odor, medicine, blood and illness. It is similar to rotten eggs, perhaps with a tinge of old wet towel as well. Somehow the doctors and nurses manage, and I must as well, if I am at all to continue visiting patients, which I will.

On the dock and sometimes at the reception area where I work, the flood of ocean smells waft around. This is not, 'Ah! The bliss of ocean air.' It is more like, the leftover smell of garbage that has washed out from shore, mixed with stale water that smells as though it has been boiled underneath this African sun. My colleague had an air freshener out during her shift this afternoon. Rather practical, I would say!

And despite all these quirks that some may find intolerable, there are 400 people on this boat serving in any capacity they can. Volunteering their lives anywhere from 2 weeks to a lifetime. We do have some creature comforts. For example, my roommate gives manicures in order to pay for her crew fees. We have movie nights (Finding Nemo, this Saturday). The guys love watching football (that's soccer to us North Americans) in the lounge and we have a very modest gym on Deck 2. Finally, because they have taken over the world, they might as well take us over too. Proof - the Starbucks on the Africa Mercy as generously manned by Comfort (from Ghana) and Ujin (from Korea).



They make some mean raspberry mochas for the price of - wait for it - a dollar. (Insert jealous gasps from caffeine addicted readers.) Most agree that somehow our Starbucks is better than the quality of that back home. We don't ask how, we just drink. Happily.

And then there are the random things we do. Like playing life-sized board games and sharing our culture. We had a Scottish Celidgh on the dock the other night which is like square dancing. Our host is a Scotsman, of course, and he played his bag pipes for us, along with an African on drums.



It is all great fun, but it is coupled with hard work on the side. Everything is very unique, as I've found that anything can be when you add, "... on a hospital ship docked in Monrovia, Liberia, West Africa" !

Patient update: Regarding Ceceilia, she has gone home. Her parents picked her up. While we did not get to say goodbye, I feel good about it. She was in a good situation with two surviving parents, siblings, and education in place. Hopefully I will see her during her Post-Op visit!

The streets of Liberia

What a long weekend it has been!

The activity started on Thursday when my roommate invited me to get some American groceries. What began as a harmless errand for elbow macaroni, cheddar cheese, sour cream and broccoli for a good ole midwestern chicken bake ended up involving getting lost, being caught in the African rain, and subsequently getting more lost. No matter. That was just the beginning of my eventful weekend exploring Monrovia, Liberia.

If you recall, I came into Liberia well after nightfall. And while I had my initial impressions were on the whole accurate, nothing prepared me for Liberia by day. First of all, there are cars. Lots of them. There are no lanes. At all. They just drive and when they want to overtake another car, they are free to. Even if it means heading right into oncoming traffic. The cabbies have no fear of this, as demonstrated by mine when he saw a friend in oncoming traffic and took both hands off the steering wheel to wave at him. All this, while on a narrow, barrier-less bridge. Hm.





A quiet moment on the main street in front of our port:



It is not uncommon for 7-8 people to share a cab. The small yellow Toyotas tend to slouch at this point, and I saw more than one unhinged car door scraping the road.

Quite a few crew have UNMIL shirts. I thought it'd be a great souvenir. Kathy and Rachel took me to the UNMIL store. The walk was rather extreme. About 35-40 minutes under the African sun, one way. I started booking it, simply because I walk fast, and I wasn't much for conversation. There are no sidewalks. Piles of garbage fill large fields and serve as community dumps and a stench of rotting food mixed with stale water fills the air. The honking from cars is incessant. Dirt kicks up constantly and the cars sputter dark thick plumes of exhaust. Combine all this with solictations of marraige, sex and stares that come with being a female foreigner, and you are bound for an eventful, though not always memorable, experience.

Finally, a quiet moment at the UNMIL store, which really isn't a store nor sanctioned by UNMIL, but a really smart guy who got a nifty silk screening kit and is now making bank off of NGO's.



My colleague, Israel, from Togo (how many of you know where that is?!) invited me to church today. Jesus says in the Bible, 'Where two or three are gathered, there I will be.' This means, we don't need any fancy buildings or even holy rituals. Just willing hearts. The Zion Assembly of God church tucked away in a small village proved this to be true. Driving down a dirt road, children ran out from their make shift homes - pieces of old metal put together, held up by long wooden poles. At the sight of a Mercy Ships Land Rover, they run after us, smiling, waving happily. I wave back, and immediately your heart, a cup once so small, begins to overflow.

The Zion Assembly of God church, under a metal roof, lined with old tarps from the UN Refugee Agency, hardly a building, but truly a house of God:



Outside, the children sit and play, braiding their hair, letting time slip away from them as they smile shyly at the strangers.



Speaking of children, the highlight of my weekend was my visit to to God's Home for Children, an orphanage within walking distance.

Liberia's two civil wars left almost half a million dead, half a million displaced and within those numbers many children were torn from their families.

As we approached the orphanage, the children were waiting outside and before we approached their door, they had come up to us, hugging our legs, arms clasped around our waists. Any caution I had about not touching them was quickly disarmed. It was time to embrace someone, love them and love's boundaries seem to get messy and they always take risks.

Our team leader is excellent with these children who range from three to fifteen. We stand in a circle, volunteers intermixed with children. We sing songs, many of them with corresponding hand motions. The children love music and they belt out these gospel songs with all their heart. The sincerity is gut wrenching. Standing in a small, humble room, with walls painted a shabby blue, and no light, I experienced some of the most profound faith I have ever witnessed.

I interacted closely with Prince, a quiet boy of about ten (though with these children it is hard to tell - worms and disease render them malnourished and they all seem younger than they are). Prince is quiet, observant, smart. He stays close to me, but he never touches me, snuggles into me or holds my hand like the other children do. We thumb wrestled and I let him win. We make paper crosses and he recites John 3:16 by heart. Afterwards, he collects pieces of string, beads and other crafts supply leftover, sitting on the ground. He gives them to me, and I see that he has a respect for me and wants to keep interacting. Outside, we run after the bubbles blown by the children. A group of toddlers are sliding down a smooth 6 foot wooden plank set at a 45 degree angle against a cement block. This is their playground slide.

I wish that I was allowed to take photographs of them, but that is not permitted. To see them in your own minds, you must picture the poorest of circumstances and then the richest of child like hearts. It is a peculiar dichotomy. I have stopped applying Western standards for what ought to be right. I don't wish upon them perfect settings, perfect Western clothes, starched, brilliant white. Cleanliness would be a good thing for starters. Sovra, 7 probably, wore very dirty pants. He wreaked of urine and feces. I am not sure yet why they do not have better untattered clothing, or clean clothing. After the coming weeks, I will investigate this and see if I can do anything about it.

When it is time to go, Prince runs over to my side of the car and keeps waving. I wave back. As the car pulls away, I lean out of the window and continue to wave. We keep our eyes on each other until the distance separates us.

I pray that these children know what they are made of. That circumstances will not always dictate their future. May they be the very leaders of their country. May they lead their homes and their children. May they sit in the highest places in the UN, may they be chemists, artists, inventors and Nobel Prize winners. May they be all they can be and more. And one day, they will say, it all began in an orphanage on dusty Jamaica Road.

Getting Refueled

The fuel barge finally came by the Africa Mercy today. I went outside to have a look at this giant vessel parked right next to us.



There was a wonderful warm breeze in the air - almost like a draft that was blowing over land that had been baked for a whole day. Moisture hung in the air, and many people were sitting out on the dock, enjoying the evening display of light in the sunset and clouds.



And in the foreground, standing proud, our ship the Africa Mercy .



What a little ham, this guy is! Check out his shirt. I told him that I am from Los Angeles and that got even bigger smiles!



It was a really good day and I had a great shift with a good meeting with my coworkers. I visited Cecelia again in the ward. She had her surgery today and her softball sized cyst is gone! Her sister was there when I visited, but she had to go. She's not particularly talkative, but if there is one thing women all around the world seem to bond over it seems to be getting curious about the men in each other's lives.

"Would you like to see a picture of my boyfriend?" I asked.

Her eyes lit up. Yes.

I ran back to my cabin at retrieve a photo of Chris and I down. It is the only hard photo I took with me. Since we are discouraged from taking out our cameras, I didn't think it'd be good to bring my laptop into the ward. We just don't want to remind them of the major economic gaps between us. Luckily, my brother in law had given me a very small photo keychain and uploaded it with some pictures. I took that with me too.

I brought out the photo of Chris and I. We look so spontaneous in that photo, strolling down the tide pools of La Jolla, California. A wave had just washed up and I was laughing in delight. My friend Callista snapped it at just the right moment. Cecelia took it in her hands, smiled. It was quickly snatched up my the patient next to her. Then the one on the other side. She passed it to the next woman, and then the next, and the next. They were so curious.

They nodded their heads in approval. "He's handsome!" Cecelia said. (Chris, you're now big in Liberia, dude.)

I let Cecelia hold the photo keychain and click through the pictures. She marvelled at the Asian faces, at my nephews and their cuteness.

At the sight of my nephew Nicholas, she smiled, her dimples creating a deep, beautiful dent in her cheek. "He looks like you."

Cecelia leaves tomorrow and she would like a photo together (we are not allowed to take photos of the patients in the ward). Hopefully, I won't miss her departure.
Thanks, everyone, for your prayers for her! She feels great. I don't think I will ever stop being just a bit taken aback by the patients in the ward. It can be quite startling. There were toddlers there today who had some major surgery. Their eyes, their hand, their chin, everything was bandaged up, blood seeping through. They have to change their dressings frequently, I imagine. A crew member came by and cheered them up with a balloon animal, which seemed to quell the crying for a bit.

And overall, thank you many times over for all your support, prayers, good thoughts. Things are going great. At yesterday's entry, I must've made myself sound so desparate, a small little mouse in the corner! :) I am doing well, and it has been reaffirmed to me many times over that the process of getting acquainted with everything will take a few weeks. After that, everyone agrees that time seems to fly. Dear friends and family, from wonderful, blessed and healing Monrovia, Liberia, here is some love and appreciation from me to you:



Note: Some of you have commented about the small space of my cubicle sized living quarters. Um, I'd like to add, I share that with another person. So technically its half a cube! :)

Too close for comfort

Many of you have asked what my living quarters are like in my cabin. Keep in mind that the Africa Mercy was a rail ferry in Denmark before it was converted to a hospital ship holding over 400 people. In any case, our cabins fit anywhere from 1 – 10 people. There are families on board – more than I thought – so some cabins are outfitted with a small kitchen, a living room, and a couple rooms. My cabin is a six berth, divided into three cubicles. Each cubicle is separated from each other with a curtain. To give you an idea of its size, it is smaller than the size of my old work cubicle (insert gasp from all my old coworkers who are reading this). It is a very tight space. There is a small desk, with four shelves. My closet is about six feet high and 18 inches wide, 18 inches deep. Somehow, I managed to fit everything neatly inside.

My roommates throughout six months will be rotating constantly. By August, I will be the most veteran in the room and all my current roommates will have moved on. The ship is a place of constant change.

Living with 5 other women with all different schedules has been interesting, but not daunting. The only thing I deal with is noise or light when I am sleeping. I’ve learned that I can be very adaptable.

Relationships have been a struggle for me. For the last three and a half years since Chris and I have been in a relationship, friendships took on a different meaning. Additionally, you find yourself ‘hiding’ behind your partner sometimes. It’s a safe place. And now, I feel like I have to relearn many things. I do struggle with loneliness, and yes, the cafeteria at mealtime is a daunting place. I feel the worst in this area, as with my job, though I have a team of people I work with, I do the work alone.

My feelings are temporal, I know, and do not change my sense of mission and desire to be here, but nonetheless, sometimes your heart speaks louder at the moment than your reason especially in areas of fear or insecurity.

It’s a ship not a boat

There was an aspect of my work that I didn’t anticipate which is quite crucial to the safety of the ship. (And by the way, it’s a ship, not a boat, I’ve been told. A ship is has multiple decks and needs an entire crew to run it. Typically, anything that is over 500 tons is a ship.) Before this week, I didn’t know what an aft (back end), forward (front end), portside (left of the boat) and starboard (right side) were. Also, the galley is the kitchen and the gangway is the way you exit the ship. Phew! Learning all the safety procedures and then subsequently taking a quiz on them was slightly daunting, but I did well!

I've been looking at the metal scavengers daily to see their progress. Can you spot them?



Cecelia

The highlight of this trip has been Cecelia whom I tried to befriend this evening. As I looked through the names of all the females, hers stood out to me. I entered the ward this evening and asked for her. They pointed to a bed in the middle. A slender woman sat upright in it, her eyes peering out from her tired lids. Her hands were neatly folded above a pilled red fleece blanket and at the call of her name, she looked at me, an air of defensiveness and fear falling between us.

I squeezed myself between the hospital beds, and sat on a wooden stool. Her and I were both intrepid as I approached. She cast her eyes downward, her lashes curled towards the ceiling.

As I asked her about her age and her hometown, I tried to see what her ailment was, but it was not obvious. Until she turned her head. Underneath her chin, she has a very visible, very large cyst about the size of a softball. She will have surgery tomorrow. Her life will change. Not just cosmetically, but anything that could’ve endangered her passageways and her eating will be taken away.

I asked her a lot of questions. She responded in a low whisper. I found out that she has two brothers and a sister. She lives with her parents. She is 21. She likes accounting and wants to be a banker. When I asked her what her favorite book is, she answered, “Modern Chemistry.” I asked her what she did at home and she told me that she likes to go to church. She sings in the choir. I told her that I only play the egg shaker. She laughed. We sat together with alot of long silences between us.

I crocheted a little bit for her, but she had no interest in trying. After forty minutes or so, I could tell she was growing tired. I dismissed myself, telling her I’d pray for her. I asked her if she would like for me to pray for her right then and she nodded, yes. I held her hand and prayed for her, telling her that I would be back tomorrow after her surgery. She thanked me and smiled. That smile said it all.

The wards can be an alarming place - IV drips, bandages, blood, so much fear. So many do not know what their lives will be like after sickness has been removed. In many ways, their lives will be changed. When the bandages come off, I know it is like coming out of a cocoon for them. I hope I get to experience that with Cecelia.