Ready or not, here comes Jesus

This weekend I travelled north a few hours to Kpalime and hiked up the tallest “mountain” in Togo, topping out at 3,234 feet. Along the hike there are several villages. We stopped at one to rest and could hear Sunday singing close by. Then my friend says, “Oh, here comes Jesus.” And I look, and there he is, on a little cross, coming up the stairs into view. “Oh, you’re not kidding,” I say as we watch a boy and then a whole procession of singing, palm-leaf-waving children come into view.

There is lots of Jesus here. He keeps surprising me at times when I am –like on our hike –just sitting there. On this boat, sometimes I find myself looking around and thinking, “what a strange boat this is; how crazy that all these people come and live on this boat; where did this ridiculous idea come from?” We have a whole village living on a ship. And if you aren't on the hospital deck or out with a field team you might be confused and wonder if maybe this is a long-distance ferry or a low-budget cruise ship stalled at port. But then you will see something, or hear a story that will strike you as if you were just sitting under a tree on a hillside and suddenly Jesus is there walking up the hill towards you.

The people I talk to here say things similar to how I feel: somewhat unsure about this big, strange ship, but certain that God has told them to come here. Yesterday a baby died on the boat. Some of the nurses knew her from Benin. She was tiny then and they were trying to get her feeding better. This year she came again and she was still too tiny and sickly. It is the second baby this mother has lost. She is four months pregnant now. Pray with us that this third baby will be healthy. We come here to heal and we had to watch a baby die. We had to give up and say, "Jesus, come and be a comforter." We have not been able to bring healing, but Jesus would you reveal yourself here, would you visit this mother and weep with her as we do. They are used to children dying here; it's nothing new. I find myself wondering if maybe it is a greater thing for this mother that a whole ship of people from foreign lands would mourn for her loss than it would be if we could have saved her child.

I remember another mother who brought her son. She had taken him to an orphanage because he had a cleft lip and the villagers told her he was cursed, that she shouldn't keep him. But she took him back and brought him here and by the time he was ready to go home she had decided to keep him. I would like to see Jesus here on this ship doing miraculous healings; he could have brought back the heart-beat of the baby that died. But perhaps it is of more lasting significance that a mother who gave up her son has fallen in love with him again, or that a woman who has lost two babies knows that there is a God who loves her and her lost children despite what the world seems to be saying.

So we live on this ship and we go about our work and trust that because God has called us all here that when we least expect, at any moment, we will find that Jesus has walked by and what we do in faith and blindness has been made holy and eternal.

A few things that aren't lost in translation...

On the ward everything we say to our patients, every question we have, must go through a translator. The translators are one of my favorite parts of my job, but the fact that they are there to translate is my least favorite part. I am constantly muttering under my breath: "I wish I could talk with these people." It's my new, useless, little mantra. Yes, I could study my French more, but lots of our patients don't speak French, they speak Ewe, or some other local dialect and their French isn't much better than mine. I went with a translator to speak to one of my patient's parents and after rattling on for awhile the translator said, "he doesn't understand my language." And we asked all our other translators and turns out there was nobody who speaks his language. Luckily, the patient, an eight year old, knew a little French.

We loose a lot of things in translation. For example, the boy I was looking after last night: with the help of one translator I learned that he pooped yesterday. I was suspicious after I felt his bloated belly, so I asked with another translator and found out he hadn't pooped for four days. "Defecate, bowel movement, 'caca' in French"... perhaps that would be a more practical thing for me to say over and over again. Enough poop already, I know, but let me just mention that one translator told me, "to poop" in French is "urine." I don't know much French, but I'm pretty sure that's not right.

But enough telling tales on my translators, I wanted to be saying what a joy they are. And although it's often quite frustrating to be a nurse when it takes a few hours to figure out if someone pooped lately or not, I am certainly not in a position to be criticizing people who have not yet mastered their third language. And they are definitely not getting paid the wages of a linguist. They are hard workers when they need to be, but they are best at smiling and laughing. They carry children to the bathroom; they pray with us; they hold patients hands when I have to poke them with needles; they sing songs to them and tell them not to hit their mothers.

It is a little sad to be in Africa but on a ship that feels like Europe. It makes me so happy to go down to the hospital and be surrounded by Africans. They are all so friendly; they will stand and shake your hand and smile and laugh with you, and they will talk with you whether or not any words are understood between you. We have translators and parents and patients all jammed into a few rooms -there are patients on beds and parents under beds and translators wherever they can fit between the nurses. And then sometimes the translators will find drums and the parents will pop out from under the beds and we will have a little dance party. By dance I mean the Africans will do finely controlled graceful things with their bodies while the Yovo's (white people) will flail about and inspire hysterical laughter. But laughter is like medicine -I actually learned that in nursing school- and the Africans take very well to laughter.

Here, words travel slowly and uncertainly between us, but a lot is said without them. I will ask my patient's parents: "any questions?" And surely, on this strange boat they have so many questions, but usually the response I get is, "I want to say thank you to you and to God." And it is good to hear, but I don't need a translator to understand that message -it is something I can see and feel, over and over, every time I go to work.

When it seems storms are in short supply

I read Zephaniah 3: 17 this morning: "The Lord your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing." And I remember how several times in the Bible God tells us that he wants us to live lives of love, not of sacrifice: "for I desire mercy, and not sacrifice."

Here in Africa there are moments when I when I find myself living so richly and comfortably, and it makes me frustrated. I want to be doing something perilous and adventurous; I want to be living sacrificially. Isn't serving God in Africa supposed to be more like daring to walk a tretcherous ridgeline, or stepping out of a strorm-tossed boat and believing you can walk on water? Instead I feel like I am standing barefoot in soft, green grass.

But living for God is the same thing when it is stormy and perilous as it is when you are standing quietly in the green grass. He just wants us to be looking up to him. He is always longing to "quiet us with his love," to see our gaze lifted to him and to "rejoice over us with singing." He can do most of the saving without our help. He wants us to live lives of love and mercy regardless of whether it feels like a sacrifice or not.

This morning I went to church on the ship's hospital ward. There was drumming and dancing and rejoicing. And soon, after I write a few emails, I might go sit out on the top deck in the ocean breeze and watch the waves. And then I will have an afternoon coffee, and a delicious dinner, and a walk on the dock in the (relatively speaking) cool of evening. And tommorrow I will go to work to look after children with straightened legs, or full upper lips for the first time in thier lives, and mothers who pat my cheek and say thank you in some other language. And I will go on loving these people who are so very easy to love, and I will try to be ok with the fact that I'm not feeling too sacrificial. I'm sure my time will come.

This is Raoul. You can't tell from the photo, but he showed up with a crooked foot. I looked after him yesterday in the ward, and today I watched him go home on his crutches, all wide-eyed and grinning. This morning I looked after three patients and they all came back to me from the operating room with casts on both thier legs. The three year old squealed and moaned and cried whenever I came near. Mako, the 8 year old girl, came back silent with red, teary eyes. And Koffi, the two year old, came back with a tootsie roll half eaten in his fingers and cried only when I wouldn't let him get out of bed and play with the toy truck. These children are delightfully different.

The crew of the Africa Mercy is also full of variety. A few of my favorites are the four security guards who are all Nepalise Gurkas. They made dinner for a few of us one night: tasty lentils and fish that they insisted we eat a painfully excessive amount of. I went for a run one morning -my first run in Africa- with one of them and when I told him that if we went any farther he'd have to carry me back to the boat he said, "Ok," and on we went, a bit farther.

There are lots more things to say... but it's dinner time! We eat on schedule here and it is too tasty to miss. Mangos for breakfast. Crispy lettuce for lunch and dinner -from I have no idea where. Starbucks coffee on tap. Ice cream every Thursday after community meeting... good thing I have Gurkas to make sure I run far enough :)

I'm really going now.

This morning we are headed to Africa, finally. It will take a five hour drive to Houston, then a ten hour flight to Paris, then a seven hour flight to Benin, then a few hours drive and we will be there. I'm going to wear my pajama pants. And carry-on a skirt in case my bags get lost. And maybe take some benadryl so I can sleep. I checked with my friends -they told me they'd drag me off the plane if need be. It will be a long journey... it has been a long journey already but the good part is just about to start. I have been so blessed with the support and encouragement of so many. Thank you.

Next update (next internet for that matter) will be after I make it to the ship in a few weeks time. Pray that we are safe, and healthy and that the people we are going to serve will be blessed by our visit, that we are able to serve them with respect and humility. (and if you read this and want to get my newsletters email me at anna.dickerson@mercyships.org.) 'till next time.

"Ask and it will be given to you, seek and you will find, knock and the door will be opened to you." -Jesus

My training here in Texas is called Gateway. We are, like these sheep, standing at the gate, literally pregnant with hope and promise, with eagerness for the path ahead. My classmates each have their own stories, their own path, but for now, here, we are easily and joyfully woven together. Each in our own way we have been asking, seeking, knocking. And here we are, standing together in front of the same door grinning at each other while we wait and prepare because we know there are good, good things behind this door.

Waiting, and grinning... and learning how to fight fires, and how to catch a lamb by the tail (thanks to my new Irish farmer friend). My Danish friend showed me how to lure in ewes for kisses, but I haven't practiced that yet. And we all learned how to save Bob, the fallen firefighter from the burning ship container. We also practiced piling into a life raft with survival suits on, and blinding each other with signal mirrors.

Tomorrow morning we transition from basic safety training to something more like discipleship training. And then three weeks from now we are off to Benin for two weeks of service (a street kids ministry and a prison) before we drive across the border to meet the ship in Togo. I know I will be challenged and grow during the next three weeks, and I am glad I am here, taking this time to focus and grow. Hopefully I will be better prepared to step through this door I have found in front of me. But for now, there are beautiful things here, waiting on God and finding him in myself and in the smiles and laughter of my new friends.

Peace and Blessings to you all. Thank you so much to all of those who are supporting me with gifts, prayers and encouragement; you are exactly what I asked for.

Take this torch to light your way...

Jesus said, "I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.'" John 8:12.

I've always known that Christmas is about Jesus being born, and usually I see him all clean and cute bundled up in blankets -and I am peering at him from a distance. But this Christmas I keep having this image of a baby dropped into my arms -a baby Jesus appearing in my arms as though I blinked while a stork flew overhead. It's a baby, and having been a peds nurse for sometime, I know how babies are: some cuter than others, but all of them very needy. The get hungry and wail and chew their blankets and if you pick them up they start wobbling their oversized heads about on their weak little necks in a helpless panic to find something to fill their bellies.

This is how Jesus came. And he probably wasn't even one of the super-cute babies. Strangely enough, he loves us and longs to be like this to us -to be as loved and needed as a newborn and its mother are to each other. I am learning this, slowly. And it seems that he wants me to take him, this Jesus, this baby dropped into my arms, and carry him out into the world and show him to people so that they can fall in love with him too. "This is your God," I would say, "this child is your hope and your promise that all is forgiven, that the creator longs to dwell with you."

I have grown up a Christian, but I have been jaded with the religiosity of Christianity. I want a lover, a savior, a friend -not a religion. Jesus is as humble and gentle as a baby, as joyful as a child, and he is the only one who will never disappoint me. If I could hand this baby Jesus to you I would. It makes no sense, but I know there are enough baby Jesus's for all of us. Take him, I can get more. I just have to open my arms and another one will fall from the sky.