Welcome to the "real" world, she says to me.

So, I've left. I left yesterday on a 10 PM flight from Lomé, and I'm currently sitting at the airport in Paris waiting for my connecting flight to London, then home to Jersey through JFK. Sort of anti-climatic end to the blog, don't you think? I was going to sit myself down before I left the ship, collect my "serious" thoughts and write a proper post about my "feelings" on leaving and whatnot (very girly of me, I know)-- but of course, like an idiot, I didn't leave nearly enough time to do all the things I needed to get done before I left. "Important" things like, you know, packing, or getting the signatures I needed to disembark the ship, or calling my mother. Yep, haven't called my mother yet (and yes, I hear the judgmental conga line in your head). I had exactly 19 minutes left before my departure from the ship at 7 PM to either say goodbye to the people I'd be leaving-- some of whom I'd probably never see again-- or to call my mother. I figured, it's OK, she'll deal, I'll call her in Paris.

Thankfully I've found some wifi at the airport (the ridiculously fast internet speed is freaking me out though; it's like *magic*) and I'm sitting, drinking a proper cup of coffee from a paper cup. With a lid. With REAL MILK. Of all the luxuries. However, this is quite unfortunate for the fellow who'll be sitting next to me on my next flight because I'm lactose, and I'm the kind of lactose where you can definitely tell, if you get my.. ahem, drift (tee hee).

Flight from Lomé was uneventful. One notable exception: apparently this is according to some international safety regulations, but once I was seated in the cabin I did get sprayed with peach-scented insecticide, which is one of those things that you never think will happen to you. Not in that it's such an outrageous thing, but the fact is, you'll never wake up and think to yourself, "Hm, I think I'm going to get sprayed with peach-scented insecticide today,"-- and if you do think those kinds of thoughts, you have problems my friend (just sayin'). If they're going to mass spray you with a mist of silent bug-killer though, at least they made it smell nice (it smelt like butterflies and rainbows; peach-scented butterflies and rainbow). How thoughtful.

(Side is a picture of the the sun rising over Paris. I've discovered, I really like sun rises & sun sets. This is probably something that most people realize when they're like, 3 years old, but really, who knew?)

I’m not one for goodbyes—- but I’ve found that if you disappear into the abyss without saying bye, people tend to get mad at you, so I went through some ten-thousand goodbyes yesterday. God provided some well needed composure, and most farewells to the crew went off without a hitch. The world is big, but the fact is, you’re white; you (most likely) live in the Western part of the world, and I tend to travel a lot, so I’ll probably see you again sometime in the future—- but I had a really tough time saying goodbye to some of the day workers here. You just never know. I’m not a crier—- really, I’m not—- but for some reason it got to the point yesterday I seriously couldn’t even look at Ghislain or John or Mama Tina without tearing up. But then Johan pointed out that if you don’t cry, you’re *obviously* a robot, so I guess it’s a good thing that I have the ability to cry. I wouldn’t want to be a robot. (Robots are scary.)



I’m also not one for summarizations, because I tend to get all sentimental and muck them up, but here goes anyway. God gave me these past three months in Africa. I’ve seen some amazing things. But more than that, I’ve met some amazing people. A couple of weeks ago I was feeling really down on myself—- the whole general, "woe is me, I-want-to-go-home" self-pitying going on—- but I read a passage in a book that made me see how much of a baby I was being:

"Of all creation, only people are said to be the bearers of the image of God. So people have the capacity to be the carriers of His presence like nothing else. We take long trips to see marvels like the Grand Canyon. Engaged couples plan far ahead so that they can honey moon at Niagra Falls. But if our eyes could see clearly, if our hearts were working right, we would fall to the ground in amazement at the sight of a single human being. They are the miracles."

I’ve slept on an African beach where the river meets the ocean; I’ve seen the brightest stars I have ever seen in my life underneath the African sky; I’ve hiked through a legit African jungle and have swum—- not to mention, nearly drowned-- underneath an African waterfall. But really, even after all of this, the people are what I will remember. The intense beauty of the people of Africa. Generosity with no bounds; laughter with no end. And the people of Mercy Ships—- they’ve challenged me in ways I didn’t even think possible, in what it means to serve with an open heart; what it means to show compassion with even the smallest of gestures; in what it means to really—- really—- live your life as a Christian. Rest assured, I have been fundamentally changed; thank you.


Like I’ve said before, I really suck at these sorts of things, goodbyes, telling people in concise, non-blubbery words how I feel about them, and I’m sure this time around was no exception. Hopefully you should all know who I’m talking about. And if you don’t, well, then, I’m probably not talking about you.

Just kidding.

.. Or am I?




And with that, I'll end with what just might be my favorite picture of life on the ship. May God bless you as much as He's blessed me.

Be nice to me; I gave blood today.

So yesterday I was working in the galley when I got a phone call from the lab, asking me if I could come down to the hospital to donate some blood. One of the coolest things about living and working on a hospital ship is the fact that the crew is essentially a walking blood bank-- we don't store the blood ahead of time, but the crew can sign up to become blood donors and the hospital calls them as needed. (Heh, whenever someone uses the term "walking blood bank," I imagine these fat giant bags of red kool-aid with arms and legs just walking around the ship). In this case, a young man with my blood type had been in a major plastics surgery for two hours already when the lab phoned me.

I popped down to the lab for about half an hour-- odd to think that I work only three flights of stairs away from a hospital (obviously I know, but sometimes I don't know, you know?). I hopped onto a gurney while one of the nurses drew my blood. Apparently, I'm a fast bleeder, which I still don't know how I feel about-- in this case it worked out quite well, but what if I get into a street fight and a hippopotamus runs me over and I bleed to death in two seconds because I'm a "fast bleeder"? Huh, what then? I'm a leaky bag of kool-aid. Anyway, I bled, got myself a free juice box (score!), and-- best part-- I got to walk my bag of blood over to the patient directly. Seriously, what is that if not the coolest thing ever; when else would that ever happen?? Ben, one of the lab techs, grabbed me a pair of scrubs and he took me down the hall to the OR where the surgery was taking place. Obviously I'm pretty happy about this because I seem to be cheesin' really badly.

The patient was already in surgery, so when we walked into the OR, I couldn't really identify anything as it was his face that was being operated on. Most of tumor had already been removed and one of the nurses pointed to this giant mass of a tumor sitting on the adjacent table that was at least the size of a softball. An incredible sight to say the least, and an incredible opportunity to directly see to whom my blood would go. It was really humbling to realize the two profoundly different experiences that the patient and I would experience that day. For me, it was literally nothing to share some blood- a tiny poke, a picture-taking opportunity; for him, it'd be the day in which he received a completely life-altering surgery. Mind-boggling, I tell you.

In case you couldn't already tell, it was a good day. I'm a little (OK, a lot) in denial about the fact that I'm leaving already; it literally feels like yesterday that I got here, and that was nearly three months ago. But, if I have to go-- and don't quote me on this-- I'm glad I got to bleed for God before I leave tomorrow.

Galley shenanigans

Today was my last galley work day. My team has the next two days off, and as I'm leaving in two days, this was the last time I would see some of the day workers that I've come to know so well and love so much. Contrary to the popular belief that we just stand around and cook pretty (or not-so-pretty) food all day, the galley is a lot of physical labor, and I feel like there's something in working really hard side-by-side that makes you bond together. I've gotten really close to my team, and in these little moments of every day they've inspired me so much and shown me what it means to find joy in a life of Christ. They're just all such incredible people, and I'm so grateful for the chance I had to get to know them. Not to say that I'm not looking forward to going home, but it's just really... weird not to think that I won't be coming in for work this weekend-- weird to know I won't be singing or dancing or throwing flour at them anymore.

I don't really know why I feel so compelled to finish this post today, as I have ten thousand better things that I should be doing-- sleeping, attempting to pack, spending my last couple days with friends-- but I suppose I'm feeling rather nostalgic at the moment. I don't think anyone outside the galley will fully understand and appreciate what it means to be "galley," but maybe some pictures will help explain why I'm feeling the way I feel right now:

(I've got a fever... and the only prescription is more plantains!)

Jeff (aka box-head), Rita / Stephen, Rachel

So Jeff, our storeman, has one of those new fangled iPad thingies, with an air hockey app. He was trying to get Joyce to play with him, and she just wasn't having it. I have a video of him trying to teach Joyce how to play-- funniest video ever. Seriously, one of these days I need to post it on here because everyone deserves to see it at some point.

Non-galley staff won't get this, but I thought it only appropriate to include a picture of the hospital trays.

I'd like to say that this is an unusual occurrence... but then that'd be a lie. These two are ridiculously funny together.

Teaching Africans how to... line dance?? One of my former cabin mates, Amy Lou, threw a ol' fashioned hoedown for the crew on the dock, and taught all these line dances, which Rachel (our team leader) retained. Rita (orange hat), who teaches choir at her church, saw Rachel dancing and decided that she absolutely HAD to learn how to line dance, "for the cheel-deren". Amy Lou, your legacy lives on in a very bizarre way: now an entire African children's choir will know how to line dance. Can you just imagine what the reaction will be when other missionaries come to the church and see the children *double take*.. line dancing??

Spontaneous galley dance parties are the BEST.

We end every day in a team prayer. We always hold hands, but this particular day Sara jokingly mentioned that we should pray with elbows tucked in as well. Joyce totally took her seriously and proceeded to shove my forearm into her sweaty pits. Lovely. That's probably why I look slightly uncomfortable in the picture.


I'm leavin', on a jet plane, don't know when I'll be back again...

Evolution of Sara's hair

This weekend, Sara and I were invited to go to Rita's house located in the outskirts of Lomé. Rita is one of the day workers who works on our team in the galley, and she has the enormous task of making all of the patient meals to be sent to the hospital wards-- breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Right now, with the VVF ladies, she only has to make maybe 60-70 patient meals a day, but during the months prior, she was making about 250-260 patient meals a day- not even including meals for the translators down in the wards; no easy feat by any means. I love Rita; she's just an awesome person to get to know, and, she's a fabulous dancer. Which just makes everything better.

In any case, Sara and I went over to Rita's house around noon, where she introduced us to her family and her *hilarious* mother (seriously, funniest old African lady you'll ever meet; she wouldn't stop laughing), and she cooked us a traditional African meal (which later hurt my tummy a little, but no worries). We did a whole bunch of things that day-- walked around the neighborhood, ate some Fan Ice, sat in during the children's choir practice at Rita's church, went to the market-- but the best bit ever happened right after lunch, when Rita remembered that she was supposed to do Sara's hair. She had asked a couple of days before, and apparently, to the slight disappointment of Sara, she had not forgotten. So after lunch, Rita got started braiding Sara's hair. Mere words will most definitely not suffice in this instance, so here go the pictures:


A short while after starting to braid Sara's hair, Rita realized that "white girl hair" was too thin and soft to be braided as the Africans braid their hair. Sara breathed a sigh of relief too soon, because Rita rummaged through her drawers to produce a packet of... fake hair! In a color completely different than Sara's actual hair (of course, that's just how it works). So now, not only is Sara's hair being braided, but it's also getting random highlights AND growing magically longer, all at the same time (huzzah). Talk about efficient.


At this point, I took a nap-- a result of the combination of the afternoon heat and the fact that I was already lying on Rita's mattress. I couldn't have been sleeping for all that long, but when I woke up, I woke up to this AWESOME sight. Seriously, I told you words could not express:


I'm not up-to-date on my hair-braiding technique, but I'm pretty sure that when you braid hair, it's not supposed to stick straight out from one's scalp. I'm almost positive. And, again, I may not be the most fashion-forward, but I'm pretty sure that the latest trend is not to end up looking like you're wearing the end bits of a pineapple. But whatever my logic, Rita seemed very happy with her work...


While Sara was obviously not.


And then, to top it all off, Rita decided that Sara needed to wear the head band that she'd brought with her-- you know, to make her look cooler, because she didn't already look cool enough. Sara decided that this was the best it had looked so far-- or the "best" that it was ever going to get-- so she spent the rest of the day like this:


Seriously, I have to give it up for Sara-- I don't know if I could've taken looking like pineapple-head slash Medusa slash weirdo-dreadlocked-biker-chick with such grace. She should totally get a "I-survived-getting-my-real/fake-hair-braided-by-Rita" bumper sticker.


So the moral of the story is, if a woman named Rita asks you if she can do your hair... say yes. And then invite me along to take pictures, because it's going to be legend- wait for it...

Happy Canadia Day!

Yes, Canadia day. I said it.


Maybe it's because we're all so far from home, or because we live in such a mix of cultures, but here on the ship we tend to be extremely proud of our respective countries, especially on our respective national days. Exhibit A: David and Jeff. Two of my favorite Canadians, but seriously, it looks like Canada threw up on them.

If you look closely, you'll see that Jeff's holding a stuffed hamster. This morning-- I still don't know where he got this from-- Jeff came into the galley with this uber-patriotic hamster doll (dressed in a hockey uniform- because it's a Canadian hamster, obviously). When you pressed a button on its foot, it waved its flag (in a very hamster-like manner, if hamsters even have manners) and sang "O Canada". Cute, right? But guess who kept pushing the button over and over and over and over again? Jeffrey. Pros: I now know the entire Canadian national anthem by heart. Cons: I now hate Canada.

Just kidding. Sort of. (Stupid hamster).


It was actually pretty funny though, because Joyce, one of our day workers, really took a liking to the hamster for some reason. She took the hamster, put it right next to her on the counter top, and kept pushing the button all morning. Every time I looked over at her, I felt kind of like I was looking at one of those "One of these things is not like the other" puzzles: African woman, shelling beans... humming along to the Canadian national anthem... sung by a hamster... wearing a (teeny tiny) hockey suit.