No little devil

Every African momma dreams about having a beautiful baby of her own. But for one woman, the birth of her son came with surprises, as well as disappointments. Junior had a cleft lip...and in African culture this made him an outcast and a "little devil." Everything went alright until he was two months old. His mother became very ill and was told by the grandmother that the reason she was sick was that her baby was a little devil and needed to be sacrificed. If they killed little Junior, then they believed she would get well. They would take the life of this sweet baby in hopes of curing her illness.

The father couldn't bear to see his little boy sacrificed, so he snuck him away and took him to the only place he knew he could find help...the children's hospital. At the hospital, a white doctor named Sandra met the desparate father and was able to place Junior in an orphanage for safe refuge until more could be done to help.

Sandra had grown up on the Anastasis, one of Mercy Ships' former hospital ships, so she was well aware of the work that the Africa Mercy was doing in Guinea. She was able to connect with the screening team there to get Junior on the list for surgery. He was scheduled to have the operation several months later when he would be big and strong enough to undergo the surgery.

After a long journey from Sierra Leone, Junior finally arrived at the ship in Guinea and entered D Ward to prepare for his surgery the following day. As I was walking through the hallway of the hospital, my friend Dan caught me in the hospital to show me the newest cleft lip baby. I held him for a few minutes, aware of his story and thankful that God had protected him from being killed.

The next day was Junior's big day. The surgery went well and he came out with his new lip, covered with his steri-strip whiskers. I went to visit him and snuck in a few minutes of snuggles with little Junior while I chatted with his dad. Sandra had to take Junior and his papa back to Sierra Leone before the five days for the steri-strip whiskers was finished, so she did his follow-up wound care and sent us a picture of Junior and his new lip after his little whiskers came off.

Sandra and Junior

I am so grateful for the papa who saw his little boy as more than "a little devil" and fought to save his life. I have no doubt that God's hand was in it all and that God has great things for this little one. We are grateful to have played a small role in giving him a brighter future.

Coming back to my second home

One of the great things about coming back and forth to the ship is that each time I come back, there is always a sense of coming home.The crew of the ship and day volunteers are no longer strangers, they are family. I have my adopted "uncle" who first came with me to the ship in 2010, my "little sister" who adopted me into her own family back in 2011, my ship mom, lots of "brothers" and other family. One friend commented that I "seem so at home here." There's no denying it: this is definitely my second home. As much as I love my home in the States, there is something so unique and special about this place. I love the sense of community and the way we are able to share life together. Each day we have the opportunity to build each other up and sharpen one another "as iron sharpens iron." And whether that happens through a word of encouragement or rebuke, the joy of seeing a patient experience a new transformation, or through the frustrations of living in tight spaces, at the end of the day we are better and stronger for it.

Another thing that I have loved about being back is the friendlinessof the African people. Often when I am out in town, people will see me and say "Mercy Ships!" and wave or come over to say hello. If I need to get a taxi, there is always a kind person to make sure I get in the right one (I still haven't figured out all the hand signals they use for the taxis here...it is way too confusing)! When I get lost in the huge maze of the market, there is always someone who leads me to where I need to go. If I'm walking past a kids' soccer game in the street, they never hesitate to kick me the ball (they always love seeing girlsplay soccer because it's not that common here). If I'm out for a run, children on the side of the road often ask me for some of my water. I can't help but remember Jesus' words: "And whoever gives one of these little ones even a cup of cold water because he is a disciple, truly, I say to you, he will by no means lose his reward" (Matthew 10:42). And while it may not be a full cup, the kids love it when I share my water with them, especially if they're in the middle of a soccer game (don't worry mom, I've mastered the art of pouring it into theirmouths so I don't have to share any germs). One day my roommate and I were at the beach and multiple teenage girls came up and asked to takea picture with us, even though we had never met them before. Even if the people in town don't know my name, they see me as a representative of Mercy Ships and more importantly of Christ. So it makes my heart happy if I can somehow show the love of Christ to them. Whether it is through buying food for the kids who sit with me out of fascination with my blue eyes and light skin or through holding a crying baby for a young, overwhelmed mom who is already trying to console the other twin, I pray that some bit of Jesus love pours forth from my words and actions. One thing is certain: I am blessed to be in this place. I love the African people and am honored that God has called me to his work here. It is such a privilege!

60 Minutes

A few weeks ago, CBS aired their 60 Minutes special on Mercy Ships. Even though I didn't get any air time, it was fun to watch it with family and friends at home and point out roommates, friends, and patients who are dear to my heart! I thought 60 Minutes did a great job communicating what Mercy Ships does and what it is like for those of us who are blessed with the privilege of serving on the ship! If you missed the special, you can watch the 12-minute clip by following this link: http://www.cbsnews.com/video/watch/?id=50141230n&tag=api 


Enjoy!

Running the race

It all started back in high school. I had never been much of a runner until my sophomore year when I joined track and feild. To be honest, it was a sport I joined simply because my friends wanted to do it and encouraged me to come along. Positive peer pressure I suppose...But, I grew to love running....getting out, finding some release after a stressful day, enjoying the wind on my face and just feeling free.

I often enjoyed a good run from time to time in Africa. A little over a month ago, I decided to start training for a half-marathon that I wanted to run in Arizona after I got home. Akbar, another crewmember who is also a distance runner decided to start coming along with me. I thought it would be good to run some longer distances while I was still in Guinea, so we started running 10K's every week and a few shorter runs in-between.

Running in Africa has proven to be quite a different from home. The air is not always so clean and fresh, but it is always guaranteed to be an interesting and often entertaining experience. You never really know what you're going to see, but there's always a wide variety of sights along the way...all you have to do is keep your eyes open and take it in. Along the road, I pass by a little girl of no more than seven years old bathing her baby brother in a bucket. His little black body is covered in soap suds as she scrubs away the dust of the day. The baby sits in the bucket unwillingly and cries, as she tries to calm him and finish his bath. After that, I see a group of boys playing soccer in the street, a very common sight in the evenings. Occasionally the boys kick the ball to me and I join their game for a few minutes before continuing along on my run. A little further down, a woman is selling fruit on the side of the road. "Di courage," (Have courage) the woman cheers as I pass by. I may not have music with me (We've been discouraged from running with Ipods because of the risk of theft), but I enjoy the sound of a man playing a drum as I run by. We turn the corner and a group of little children are excitedly chanting "Fote, fote, fote" (white person) as they wave their little hands frantically to catch my eye. I wave back and call out "Sava" (How are you). They giggle excitedly that the white girl has greeted them and their little faces light up with pearly white smiles against their ebony skin. With all of the people cheering us on along the way, it sort of does feel like we're running a race.

As we run along the path, we often have to dodge goats, chickens, or an occasional hole in the sidewalk. Along our normal route is a funeral home, so we occasionally see a ceremony taking place. A little farther down the road, we pass by the cemetary. It is always good to be reminded of the brevity of life. We turn the corner and pass by the slums near the sea and I am struck once again by the trash, the filth, and the utter poverty. I am reminded of how incredibly blessed I am and send up a prayer for those who are not as fortunate as myself. The next stretch is marked by the fishing boats and the little shops that surround the port. Occasionally, we pass by the boats at just the right time to watch the sun setting over the water.

The last week before I left Guinea, Akbar and I headed out for our last 10K. I was feeling extra excited and energetic that day and decided we should run a bit farther than normal...it was probably only one kilometer more than usual, but I wanted to go all out. As we finished the last stretch before the port, I began to sprint. "Well done Becca," Akbar remarked as we finished and headed back to the ship.

I am home now and things are a little bit different. I still go running several times a week, but there are no goats, no flying soccer balls, and no small African children waving to me as I pass by. I can wear my Ipod and play my music now, which I enjoy, but I still miss the sound of the beating drums when I come around the corner. I decided to a run a different half-marathon than I originally planned so that I can run with a friend, so now my race is not until March. Knowing that brings a sigh of relief because now I have plenty of time to train!

While I enjoy running, I have no expectation of getting any sort of recognition or prize in the Phoenix Half-Marathon. But, while I still want to train and prepare for my half-marathon, I am reminded of a greater race that I am already running and will continue to run until the day I die. And as I press on, I think I can hear the saints up in heaven cheering me on...

"Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us RUN with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God." ~Hebrews 12:1-2

God has me running this race called the Christian walk. Some days are harder than others. There are times when I am injured and I want to give up. There are times when my "muscles" are sore and I feel weary and tired, unable to go another step. But, through it all, I see Jesus, my Saviour, cheering me on at the finish line...and I pray that when I cross it, I will be sprinting toward Him! I long to hear Him speak those precious words "Well done" when it's all finished!

 

"Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one receives the prize? So run that you may obtain it." ~1 Corinthians 9:24

Joy comes in the morning

It's amazing how God's timing is always so perfect. I think that God knew our hearts were heavy after a hard week of disappointing biopsy results, cancer diagnoses, and lots of tears. So, the day after we sent Betty and another patient with cancer back to Sierra Leone, all of us in outpatients needed a little something to lift our spirits. So, we were all filled with joy when we saw a patient named Mr. T come in for his first post-op appointment that day!

This wasn't our first interaction with Mr. T. He had started to visit our outpatient tent over a month beforehand for a dressing change to the new wound from the site where the biopsy had been done. The first time that Mr. T had come in for an appointment after his biopsy, I looked into his eyes and saw the deep shame and sadness that he carried. Like so many other patients who have large facial tumors, he came to us filled with a mixture of hope, fear, shame, and nervousness over what his final outcome would be. I didn't know if we would be able to help him and a bit of the sadness I saw in him filled my own heart. We prayed that he would be able to have the surgery, but hope was looking pretty bleak. The tumor was enormous and very vascular, which could present increased risks, even if the biopsy showed that it was a benign tumor. At this point, we couldn't do much more than wait and pray. He continued to visit us regularly for his dressing changes and consultations with the dietician. He began to take supplements that would help him grow and gain as much weight as possible, as his tumor had made it impossible for him to chew solid food, leaving him very thin.

Over the weeks that Mr. T came in for his dressing changes, I learned more of his story and got to know him and his sweet mother. He was 38 years old and had formerly played on a professional football team, just one level below the National Guinea team. He had been a strong, healthy guy with a bright future. But when the tumor started to grown inside his cheek, the rest of his body began to weaken and deteriorate. It was hard to picture such a scrawny man as a strong athlete. I tried to imagine what it must've been like for this man to go from fame and success to being an outcast who tried to hide behind the cloth that continually covered his face. The tumor had been growing for the last five years and had completely overtaken his face and his life.

When Mr. T heard that a hospital ship was coming to Sierra Leone in 2011, he desperately wanted to come for any help he could get. However, he didn't have the money to travel over from Guinea and had to keep waiting. But, when he found out that Mercy Ships was coming to Guinea, he made sure to be present for the big screening held at the People's Palace. "I remember you from screening," he told me. "You do," I asked surprised. He went on to describe where I was when I greeted him as I was walking to my station at screening. To be honest, I don't actually remember meeting him. I had just said "hello" as we passed each other. But, somehow it stuck with him and now we were more than acquainatances. We were friends.
The weeks passed as Mr. T came in for his dressing changes and nutritional supplements. Finally, the waiting came to an end and his biopsy results came back and the surgeon was able to further assess his situation. His biopsy showed that his tumor was benign and after a closer evaluation of what would be involved in the surgery, our amazing maxillo-facial surgeon agreed to perform the surgery! Mr. T's big day came and everything went well. The surgery itself took more than six hours and the end result was the removal of the entire tumor- all two kilograms of it!

Checking out the new incision



I made several visits to see Mr. T on the ward after his tumor had been removed.In spite of all the tubes and bandages, he was full of joy and gratitude. I went to see him again after the bandage had been taken off and I could hardly believe my eyes! He looked like a brand new man! His incision looked perfect and the tumor was completely gone! He and his mother were both smiling and all of us could hardly contain our joy as we celebrated with him!

Mr. T getting stronger on the ward



So, hearing Mr. T's incredible story, it is obvious why the sight of this man stepping into our tent for the first time after surgery brought so much joy to our hearts on the day we needed it most! Since that day, Mr. T has been visiting us regularly to check his wounds. He is healing well and the swelling in his face where the tumor used to be continues to decrease every day! Every time he comes in, he always thanks me over and over again for all we have done to help him. I remind him that it is a privilege for us to be able to be part of this transformation and the we do it becasue of God's love.

Down in the Outpatients tent, we frequently get calls from the wards asking us to bring Mr. T down for a visit. He captured the heart of everyone he met during his time in the hospital and the nurses there miss him. Every time I escort him from our tent on the dock to the wards on the ship, I tell him "You are so popular and you have so many friends!" " Yes, I have so many friends here," he responds. And it's true. He really does. I am grateful to be one of those friends. There isn't one day that passes that his smile doesn't bring joy to my heart and a smile to my own face. He is no longer hiding behind a cloth. He is smiling and proud. And he was our reminder that even though we can't help everyone, the ones we can help will leave forever changed...and they might even leave a mark on our hearts that will change us too!

"Weeping may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning" ~Psalm 30:5

He wipes away the tears

The first time I saw her, my heart sank at the sight of the tumor. Betty had come from Sierra Leone in hopes that we could remove the tumor on her chin that had already grown from the size of an orange to a grapefruit in only a few months. As I began to remove the bandage for the first time, I tried not to react in horror at the sight and smell of a tumor unlike any I had ever seen before. I could see her gazing deeply into my eyes, searching for a response, trying to find reassurance that everything would be ok. I looked past the tumor and into her eyes and smiled, trying to forget the nausea I was feeling over the smell. I practiced the small bit of Krio that I remembered from Sierra Leone and began to form a bond with this amazing woman and the sweet sister who had brought her to us.

Weeks passed and Betty and her sister Safiatou came every day without fail to see us in outpatients. It didn't take long for every person in our department to fall in love with Betty. Although she was timid and ashamed during the first few dressing changes, we soon grew to know and love the real Betty that was hiding behind the massive ugly tumor and the shame that came with it. Betty latched onto me quickly and became very comfortable with me changing her bandages. We had a lot of fun on her visits, as I would play my African music from Sierra Leone, dance around and attempt to speak Krio. It made my heart so happy to see her smile and watch her sister laugh, even if that meant I had to dance around to the lyrics that I could barely remember. Betty and Safi grew to be more than "patient" and "caregiver"...they became our dear friends. The hope still lit up their eyes as they prayed and hoped that we would remove the tumor and be able to celebrate the new Betty together. I pictured what Betty would look like after she had her surgery. I prayed that her biopsy results would come back negative and that we would be able to do the surgery soon.

But the tumor began to grow rapidly and along with that, the fears of all of us began to rise. From one week to the next, the number of supplies that I needed for each dressing change was mulitplying quickly. Betty and her sister noticed it too and the look of hope in their eyes began to diminish. Biopsy results can take up to four weeks to come back here and the waiting time felt like an eternity. The agony of the waiting was almost as hard for all of the nurses as it was for Betty and her sister. But seeing how fast it was growing, I began to prepare myself for the worst. Betty was losing hope as well. We began talking about her three children one day and she fought hard to hold back the tears. Her husband had died two years beforehand and her youngest child was only five years old. "Please God, don't let her die," I begged silently. What would her children do without their beloved mother? Her youngest was so little that she would probably only retain a few faint memories of her mother if she died. I could tell that Betty was thinking about her children. Her tears began to roll down her cheeks and I did my best to hold back my own as they welled up in my eyes. I had to step out of the room before I broke down. "Please God, I know you can heal. Don't let Betty die."

A few days later, our team leader came back with a stack of new pathology results.  "Betty's results are back and it's not good," she told me sadly. I started blankly at the piece of paper in front of me and read the awful word "adenocarcinoma." Her tumor was cancerous and they would not be able to operate. Betty had already left for the day and we were heading injto the weekend, so we wouldn't be able to tell her until Monday when our hospital chaplaincy team could meet with her. I swallowed the lump in my throat and said a silent prayer for God to prepare Betty's heart for the news that would follow.

Monday came and there was a sadness in the air. We told our translators the news that morning and they were struck with grief over this woman that we had prayed for together for God to heal. The moment Betty stepped in the door for her dressing change, I think she knew something was wrong. We all tried to smile, but the translators didn't want to come near to Betty because it was just too hard for them to face her and hide their own emotions. After her dressing change had been done, she and her sister went inside to meet with Clementine, our hospital chaplain. They were inside for a very long time and when they came back out, I was inside for an appointment and didn't get to see them before they got into the shuttle to go back to the Hope Center where they were staying. I was disappointed I had missed them and couldn't hug them and wipe their tears, but said a prayer for them and saved my hugs for the next day.

Betty and Safi walked into Outpatients the following day, heads hung low and sadness in their eyes. There were few words to say, just hugs to give. I began preparing the supplies for Betty's dressing change and Safiatou broke down in tears. I sat down next to her and put my arm around her and we cried together. I know that it's important to hold everything together at times as a nurse, but in that moment, I just needed to be a friend and share her tears. The tears I had been holding back began to pour out and we sat and cried together. I told her I was so sorry for the bad news and that I knew how scary it was to face losing a family member, that it was ok to cry, and that we loved them both. After a few minutes, I hugged her again and encouraged her to be strong for her sister. She wiped her tears and we began to do Betty's dressing change together. I wanted to give them a little more time to just process everything, but I had already been asked to begin the teaching process with Safiatou so that she and Betty would be ready to go back to Sierra Leone a few days later. As I explained what Safi needed to do, she mustered all the strength that she had and focused intently on performing Betty's dressing change as best as she could. She did a great job and I told that that we were now going to call her "Dr. Safiatou" and she responded with half a smile. We shared more hugs and the two of them headed back to the Hope Center.

The following day, we finished all of the teaching with Safiatou and Betty, gave them the huge box of supplies that they would use for the dressing changes at home, and gathered around them to say one last prayer. When I opened my eyes, Betty's tears were rolling down her cheeks. I brushed a tear away and thought of God's promise to wipe away all of our tears in heaven. I don't know when Betty will go home to be with Jesus, but I know she'll be in His arms soon. And when she gets there, she won't have an ugly tumor on her chin anymore....just a beautiful smile on her face and a heart full of joy...because when she enters into heaven with Jesus, she will experience the ultimate healing of the wholeness of His love.

Betty and Safiatou with our outpatients team



I often find myself overwhelmed by the suffering and pain I see around me in Africa. I ask God why he allows the pain, the suffering, and poverty. My heart aches over knowing that a woman like Betty would have a good chance at life if she had been diagnosed in my own country instead of a poverty-striken West African country where the resources of chemotherapy and radiation are not readily available. I question why God doesn't miraculously heal her for the sake of her three little children and her loving sister. But, the truth is, no matter how many times I ask why, I know that I will never fully understand until I get to heaven. Maybe God's plan of healing is not for Betty's tumor to be removed, but for the full healing and restoration of entering into heaven with Him, a place where no suffering and disease can exist. Even though I may not understand, I cling to the truth that God is good and that He does what is best for His children. So, I leave Betty in His hands and rest in knowing that she is headed to a better place.

The truth is, we live in a broken world, tainted by sin and evil. The truth is, people still die every day from treatable diseases all over the world. The truth is, life isn't always fair and even if I volunteer in Africa for the rest of my life, I won't be able to save everyone. The truth is, I don't have all the answers and I can't carry all the burdens I encounter. If I try to, I will be crushed under the weight of it all and unable to move forward and make a difference in the lives of those who I can help. So I have been reminded this week by the One who called me here that I can give my burdens to Him and allow Him to carry them for me. He is the only One who is strong enough to carry them anyway.

I'm not sure what God's purpose was in bringing Betty to us, but I am grateful to have known such a beautiful, strong, amazing woman. Even though she couldn't have her surgery, I know that the last month spent with her was not wasted. I feel privileged to have been given the opportunity to walk with her through a difficult part of her journey, to love her, and to help her experience a deeper emotional healing through the love of Christ. I look forward to the day that I see her in heaven and we can dance together in the presence of our loving Saviour.

I hold onto this hope and the promise that He brings

There will be a place with no more suffering

There will be a day with no more tears, no more pain, and no more fears

There will be a day when the burdens of this place will be no more

We'll see Jesus face to face

But until that day, we'll hold onto You always

~Jeremy Camp~

Defining "normal"

I have a friend here on the ship who regularly reminds me: "There is nothing normal about living on a ship in Africa." But, it seems that the longer I am here, the more I feel at home and everything just feels normal to me. I often forget that this is not the life that the average Westerner lives. The uniqueness of it all doesn't usually hit me until a new crew member arrives who I get to take into town for the first time.  A friend from home recently arrived on the ship and I had the privilege of taking her out into Conakry and showing her around the city. It was the first time she had been in Africa in five years and I was excited to be there with her to take in a fresh perspective on this place I call "home."

There is something very unique about seeing a familiar place through a new set of eyes. Let's be honest, when compared to life in the States, there is something abnormal about a place where:

-A man is walking his goat (rather than dog) on a rope down the street

-You can take a break from jogging for a few minutes to play soccer with a random group of kids in the middle of the street

-There are beaches and restaurants in every other city named after Obama

-There are so many people crammed into a taxi that everyone is sitting on someone else's lap

-The load on top of the car exceeds the load inside

-It's an average day when you see men peeing on the side of the road

-Most people drink water out of a bag instead of a cup

-It is not uncommon to see chickens or goats strapped to the roof of a taxi or bus

-The most valuable bills in the currency are worth so little that it is not uncommon to be given a wooden box for your dinner bill

-Your weekend at the beach requires a boat trip to an island

-Your "neighbors" are French marines who offer you a tour of their ship an hour before they sail away

-When you look out the window of your home, you see boats, not cars passing by

-It is not uncommon to find out that your patient (or one of your best friends for that matter) has malaria...but not to worry, it is a common problem here and there is medication to treat it

-You are regularly met by strangers in the street asking you to help them with their medical or dental problems

-The president of the country you live in comes to your home (ie: the ship) simply because he is in the area and appreciates the work of your organziation

-Meeting random children on your hike to a waterfall and feeding their pet monkey a banana

-You run into patients you have cared for when you are walking around town or driving through the city

-You live and work with people from 35 different countries

-The air is considered clear when it doesn't smell like exhaust or sewage

-You can hear African worship music from your "living room" coming from the deck below you

So, I have to admit that I sometimes forget that my life is very different than the average Westerner's back home. While I may not be living "The American Dream" with a stable job, house, marriage and 2.5 children (I still don't understand what it means to have half a child),  I feel so privileged to be here and am thankful that God has not called me to the norm...This is the life He has chosen for me and normal or not, I am experiencing the "abundant life" because I know He has me right where He wants me to be.

Touring the French naval ship  



 

 The little monkey was happy I had an extra banana for him

 

 

Common sight on the road

 

 

Boat ride to the island