Gratitude.
Appreciation.
Giving thanks.
No matter what words you use, it all means the same thing: happy.
We are supposed to be happy… grateful… for friends, and family. Happy to just be alive, whether we like it or not.
But, maybe we’re not supposed to be happy. Maybe gratitude has nothing to do with joy.
Maybe being grateful is recognizing what you have for what it is. Appreciating the small victories. Admiring the struggle it takes to simply be human.
Maybe we are thankful for the familiar things that we know, and maybe we are thankful for the things we will never know.
At the end of the day, the fact that we have the courage to still be standing, I think, is reason enough to celebrate.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Clouds Over Josué Are Lifted
For Cécile, a 26-year-old tailor, the birth of her second son, Josué, was a momentous occasion. The tragic memory of the death of her first-born child was slightly alleviated by the arrival of a second, joyful baby boy. Yet, after only six weeks, Josué’s health, too, deteriorated, and Cécile became fearful of losing another child.
A milky layer began to form over both of Josué’s eyes, affecting his vision. Cécile did not understand what was happening to her newborn son. Her husband and family were also baffled. Her in-laws decided that the only possible explanation was that Cécile was cursed. Because this was the second of Cécile’s children to experience health problems, her in-laws were convinced that she had brought evil into their house. So, they told Cécile to leave and return to her own parents.
Distraught and confused, Cécile left the house with Josué. “I became very anxious and felt completely helpless and depressed,” she said. “My in-laws accused me, but never did they question that, if this was a curse, could it possibly come from their own son – my husband?”
But Cécile did not return to the house of her parents. Instead, she remembered an advertisement she had seen on the television about an organization called Mercy Ships. Deep down, she believed that somebody onboard the “big ship” in Cotonou could help her. And she was right!
After a four-hour journey in a taxi to the busy streets of Cotonou, Cécile and Josué ventured onboard the Africa Mercy where Dr. Glenn Strauss, Senior Vice President of Health Care Initiatives and a renowned ophthalmic surgeon, assessed Josué’s tiny, clouded eyes. The conclusion was that Josué had bilateral congenital cataracts and would require surgery in order to save his sight. “The cataracts were not grossly obvious, but they were certainly there from birth,” said Dr. Strauss.
Josué is the youngest patient to receive cataract surgery in the history of Mercy Ships. At only three months old, there were certain risks in attempting the surgery. “Children under one year of age have an increased risk in eye surgery, particularly relating to the cornea and the inflammation of the eye,” Dr. Strauss explained. “It’s a microsurgical procedure, and an eye that is half the size of an adult eye increases the challenge of surgical manipulation.” He continued, “But it’s better to do this surgery sooner rather than later to decrease the chance of amblyopia (lazy eye).”
A few days later, Cécile sat with Josué in her lap as Dr. Strauss examined the results of the delicate procedure he had performed to remove the cataracts. The outcome was extremely positive. “Josué was in very good health, which is important because congenital cataracts are often associated with many other congenital complications – such as heart, lung, and neurological problems,” said Dr. Strauss. “His eyes were properly aligned, and there was no involuntary movement. It looked like he would gain good vision during recovery.”
Now that Josué’s cataracts have been removed, Cécile says the family is happy again, adding, “This situation has surprised them and made them realise that it was not definitely a curse.”
The clouds that covered Josué’s eyes have lifted. The work of Mercy Ships has given a young boy a bright future and has restored his mother’s hope. “My heart is refreshed and calm,” Cécile said with a smile. “I pray that this child will become a great man and care for me in my old age.”
“I’m very thankful for Mercy Ships. What the enemy said about my baby was stopped. God changed things. He used a specialist to help my baby. May God be glorified, and may this work continue and be a blessing to many people. I believe that this ship is the glory of God,” Cécile concluded.
A milky layer began to form over both of Josué’s eyes, affecting his vision. Cécile did not understand what was happening to her newborn son. Her husband and family were also baffled. Her in-laws decided that the only possible explanation was that Cécile was cursed. Because this was the second of Cécile’s children to experience health problems, her in-laws were convinced that she had brought evil into their house. So, they told Cécile to leave and return to her own parents.
Distraught and confused, Cécile left the house with Josué. “I became very anxious and felt completely helpless and depressed,” she said. “My in-laws accused me, but never did they question that, if this was a curse, could it possibly come from their own son – my husband?”
But Cécile did not return to the house of her parents. Instead, she remembered an advertisement she had seen on the television about an organization called Mercy Ships. Deep down, she believed that somebody onboard the “big ship” in Cotonou could help her. And she was right!
After a four-hour journey in a taxi to the busy streets of Cotonou, Cécile and Josué ventured onboard the Africa Mercy where Dr. Glenn Strauss, Senior Vice President of Health Care Initiatives and a renowned ophthalmic surgeon, assessed Josué’s tiny, clouded eyes. The conclusion was that Josué had bilateral congenital cataracts and would require surgery in order to save his sight. “The cataracts were not grossly obvious, but they were certainly there from birth,” said Dr. Strauss.
Josué is the youngest patient to receive cataract surgery in the history of Mercy Ships. At only three months old, there were certain risks in attempting the surgery. “Children under one year of age have an increased risk in eye surgery, particularly relating to the cornea and the inflammation of the eye,” Dr. Strauss explained. “It’s a microsurgical procedure, and an eye that is half the size of an adult eye increases the challenge of surgical manipulation.” He continued, “But it’s better to do this surgery sooner rather than later to decrease the chance of amblyopia (lazy eye).”
A few days later, Cécile sat with Josué in her lap as Dr. Strauss examined the results of the delicate procedure he had performed to remove the cataracts. The outcome was extremely positive. “Josué was in very good health, which is important because congenital cataracts are often associated with many other congenital complications – such as heart, lung, and neurological problems,” said Dr. Strauss. “His eyes were properly aligned, and there was no involuntary movement. It looked like he would gain good vision during recovery.”
Now that Josué’s cataracts have been removed, Cécile says the family is happy again, adding, “This situation has surprised them and made them realise that it was not definitely a curse.”
The clouds that covered Josué’s eyes have lifted. The work of Mercy Ships has given a young boy a bright future and has restored his mother’s hope. “My heart is refreshed and calm,” Cécile said with a smile. “I pray that this child will become a great man and care for me in my old age.”
“I’m very thankful for Mercy Ships. What the enemy said about my baby was stopped. God changed things. He used a specialist to help my baby. May God be glorified, and may this work continue and be a blessing to many people. I believe that this ship is the glory of God,” Cécile concluded.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Damage, Harm, Guilt
We all go through life like bulls in a china shop: a chip here, a crack there… doing damage to ourselves, to other people.
The problem is trying to figure out how to control the damage that’s been done, or the damage that’s been done to us.
Sometimes the damage catches us by surprise...
Sometimes we think we can fix the damage...
And sometimes, the damage is something we can’t even see.
We’re all damaged it seems, some of us more than others. We carry the damage with us from childhood, then, as grown-ups: we give as good as we get.
Ultimately, we all do damage, and then, we set about the business of fixing it... whatever we can, because “First, do no harm.”
Doctors pledge by this oath. But the truth is, harm happens, and not only from doctors, from everyone. Harm is then followed by guilt, and when guilt happens – there’s no oath on how to deal with that.
Guilt never goes anywhere on its own, it brings its friends: doubt and insecurity. “First, do no harm”, easier said than done.
We can take all the oaths in the world, but the fact is – most of us do harm all the time. Sometimes, even when we’re trying to help, we do more harm than good. And then... guilt rears it’s ugly head.
What you do with that guilt is up to you.
We are left with a choice: with can let the guilt throw us back into the behavior that got us into trouble in the first place, or… learn from the guilt – and do our best to move on.
The problem is trying to figure out how to control the damage that’s been done, or the damage that’s been done to us.
Sometimes the damage catches us by surprise...
Sometimes we think we can fix the damage...
And sometimes, the damage is something we can’t even see.
We’re all damaged it seems, some of us more than others. We carry the damage with us from childhood, then, as grown-ups: we give as good as we get.
Ultimately, we all do damage, and then, we set about the business of fixing it... whatever we can, because “First, do no harm.”
Doctors pledge by this oath. But the truth is, harm happens, and not only from doctors, from everyone. Harm is then followed by guilt, and when guilt happens – there’s no oath on how to deal with that.
Guilt never goes anywhere on its own, it brings its friends: doubt and insecurity. “First, do no harm”, easier said than done.
We can take all the oaths in the world, but the fact is – most of us do harm all the time. Sometimes, even when we’re trying to help, we do more harm than good. And then... guilt rears it’s ugly head.
What you do with that guilt is up to you.
We are left with a choice: with can let the guilt throw us back into the behavior that got us into trouble in the first place, or… learn from the guilt – and do our best to move on.
Monday, November 9, 2009
To Write Love On Her Arms
November 13th is worldwide "To Write Love On Her Arms" day. Its a day to remember that Hope and Healing ARE real. This Friday, worldwide, people will be writing the word "Love" on their arms. Join me in participating in this great event. But first, here is the story, the reason behing TWLOHA was founded.
"Pedro the Lion is loud in the speakers, and the city waits just outside our open windows. She sits and sings, legs crossed in the passenger seat, her pretty voice hiding in the volume. Music is a safe place and Pedro is her favorite. It hits me that she won't see this skyline for several weeks, and we will be without her. I lean forward, knowing this will be written, and I ask what she'd say if her story had an audience. She smiles. "Tell them to look up. Tell them to remember the stars."
I would rather write her a song, because songs don't wait to resolve, and because songs mean so much to her. Stories wait for endings, but songs are brave things bold enough to sing when all they know is darkness. These words, like most words, will be written next to midnight, between hurricane and harbor, as both claim to save her.
Renee is 19. When I meet her, cocaine is fresh in her system. She hasn't slept in 36 hours and she won't for another 24. It is a familiar blur of coke, pot, pills and alcohol. She has agreed to meet us, to listen and to let us pray. We ask Renee to come with us, to leave this broken night. She says she'll go to rehab tomorrow, but she isn't ready now. It is too great a change. We pray and say goodbye and it is hard to leave without her.
She has known such great pain; haunted dreams as a child, the near-constant presence of evil ever since. She has felt the touch of awful naked men, battled depression and addiction, and attempted suicide. Her arms remember razor blades, fifty scars that speak of self-inflicted wounds. Six hours after I meet her, she is feeling trapped, two groups of "friends" offering opposite ideas. Everyone is asleep. The sun is rising. She drinks long from a bottle of liquor, takes a razor blade from the table and locks herself in the bathroom. She cuts herself, using the blade to write "FUCK UP" large across her left forearm.
The nurse at the treatment center finds the wound several hours later. The center has no detox, names her too great a risk, and does not accept her. For the next five days, she is ours to love. We become her hospital and the possibility of healing fills our living room with life. It is unspoken and there are only a few of us, but we will be her church, the body of Christ coming alive to meet her needs, to write love on her arms.
She is full of contrast, more alive and closer to death than anyone I've known, like a Johnny Cash song or some theatre star. She owns attitude and humor beyond her 19 years, and when she tells me her story, she is humble and quiet and kind, shaped by the pain of a hundred lifetimes. I sit privileged but breaking as she shares. Her life has been so dark yet there is some soft hope in her words, and on consecutive evenings, I watch the prettiest girls in the room tell her that she's beautiful. I think it's God reminding her.
I've never walked this road, but I decide that if we're going to run a five-day rehab, it is going to be the coolest in the country. It is going to be rock and roll. We start with the basics; lots of fun, too much Starbucks and way too many cigarettes
more
Thursday night she is in the balcony for Band Marino, Orlando's finest. They are indie-folk-fabulous, a movement disguised as a circus. She loves them and she smiles when I point out the A&R man from Atlantic Europe, in town from London just to catch this show.
She is in good seats when the Magic beat the Sonics the next night, screaming like a lifelong fan with every Dwight Howard dunk. On the way home, we stop for more coffee and books, Blue Like Jazz and (Anne Lamott's) Travelling Mercies.
On Saturday, the Taste of Chaos tour is in town and I'm not even sure we can get in, but doors do open and minutes after parking, we are on stage for Thrice, one of her favorite bands. She stands ten feet from the drummer, smiling constantly. It is a bright moment there in the music, as light and rain collide above the stage. It feels like healing. It is certainly hope.
Sunday night is church and many gather after the service to pray for Renee, this her last night before entering rehab. Some are strangers but all are friends tonight. The prayers move from broken to bold, all encouraging. We're talking to God but I think as much, we're talking to her, telling her she's loved, saying she does not go alone. One among us knows her best. Ryan sits in the corner strumming an acoustic guitar, singing songs she's inspired.
After church our house fills with friends, there for a few more moments before goodbye. Everyone has some gift for her, some note or hug or piece of encouragement. She pulls me aside and tells me she would like to give me something. I smile surprised, wondering what it could be. We walk through the crowded living room, to the garage and her stuff.
She hands me her last razor blade, tells me it is the one she used to cut her arm and her last lines of cocaine five nights before. She's had it with her ever since, shares that tonight will be the hardest night and she shouldn't have it. I hold it carefully, thank her and know instantly that this moment, this gift, will stay with me. It hits me to wonder if this great feeling is what Christ knows when we surrender our broken hearts, when we trade death for life.
As we arrive at the treatment center, she finishes: "The stars are always there but we miss them in the dirt and clouds. We miss them in the storms. Tell them to remember hope. We have hope."
I have watched life come back to her, and it has been a privilege. When our time with her began, someone suggested shifts but that is the language of business. Love is something better. I have been challenged and changed, reminded that love is that simple answer to so many of our hardest questions. Don Miller says we're called to hold our hands against the wounds of a broken world, to stop the bleeding. I agree so greatly.
We often ask God to show up. We pray prayers of rescue. Perhaps God would ask us to be that rescue, to be His body, to move for things that matter. He is not invisible when we come alive. I might be simple but more and more, I believe God works in love, speaks in love, is revealed in our love. I have seen that this week and honestly, it has been simple: Take a broken girl, treat her like a famous princess, give her the best seats in the house. Buy her coffee and cigarettes for the coming down, books and bathroom things for the days ahead. Tell her something true when all she's known are lies. Tell her God loves her. Tell her about forgiveness, the possibility of freedom, tell her she was made to dance in white dresses. All these things are true.
We are only asked to love, to offer hope to the many hopeless. We don't get to choose all the endings, but we are asked to play the rescuers. We won't solve all mysteries and our hearts will certainly break in such a vulnerable life, but it is the best way. We were made to be lovers bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out again and again until we're called home.
I have learned so much in one week with one brave girl. She is alive now, in the patience and safety of rehab, covered in marks of madness but choosing to believe that God makes things new, that He meant hope and healing in the stars. She would ask you to remember."
http://www.twloha.com/index.php
"Pedro the Lion is loud in the speakers, and the city waits just outside our open windows. She sits and sings, legs crossed in the passenger seat, her pretty voice hiding in the volume. Music is a safe place and Pedro is her favorite. It hits me that she won't see this skyline for several weeks, and we will be without her. I lean forward, knowing this will be written, and I ask what she'd say if her story had an audience. She smiles. "Tell them to look up. Tell them to remember the stars."
I would rather write her a song, because songs don't wait to resolve, and because songs mean so much to her. Stories wait for endings, but songs are brave things bold enough to sing when all they know is darkness. These words, like most words, will be written next to midnight, between hurricane and harbor, as both claim to save her.
Renee is 19. When I meet her, cocaine is fresh in her system. She hasn't slept in 36 hours and she won't for another 24. It is a familiar blur of coke, pot, pills and alcohol. She has agreed to meet us, to listen and to let us pray. We ask Renee to come with us, to leave this broken night. She says she'll go to rehab tomorrow, but she isn't ready now. It is too great a change. We pray and say goodbye and it is hard to leave without her.
She has known such great pain; haunted dreams as a child, the near-constant presence of evil ever since. She has felt the touch of awful naked men, battled depression and addiction, and attempted suicide. Her arms remember razor blades, fifty scars that speak of self-inflicted wounds. Six hours after I meet her, she is feeling trapped, two groups of "friends" offering opposite ideas. Everyone is asleep. The sun is rising. She drinks long from a bottle of liquor, takes a razor blade from the table and locks herself in the bathroom. She cuts herself, using the blade to write "FUCK UP" large across her left forearm.
The nurse at the treatment center finds the wound several hours later. The center has no detox, names her too great a risk, and does not accept her. For the next five days, she is ours to love. We become her hospital and the possibility of healing fills our living room with life. It is unspoken and there are only a few of us, but we will be her church, the body of Christ coming alive to meet her needs, to write love on her arms.
She is full of contrast, more alive and closer to death than anyone I've known, like a Johnny Cash song or some theatre star. She owns attitude and humor beyond her 19 years, and when she tells me her story, she is humble and quiet and kind, shaped by the pain of a hundred lifetimes. I sit privileged but breaking as she shares. Her life has been so dark yet there is some soft hope in her words, and on consecutive evenings, I watch the prettiest girls in the room tell her that she's beautiful. I think it's God reminding her.
I've never walked this road, but I decide that if we're going to run a five-day rehab, it is going to be the coolest in the country. It is going to be rock and roll. We start with the basics; lots of fun, too much Starbucks and way too many cigarettes
more
Thursday night she is in the balcony for Band Marino, Orlando's finest. They are indie-folk-fabulous, a movement disguised as a circus. She loves them and she smiles when I point out the A&R man from Atlantic Europe, in town from London just to catch this show.
She is in good seats when the Magic beat the Sonics the next night, screaming like a lifelong fan with every Dwight Howard dunk. On the way home, we stop for more coffee and books, Blue Like Jazz and (Anne Lamott's) Travelling Mercies.
On Saturday, the Taste of Chaos tour is in town and I'm not even sure we can get in, but doors do open and minutes after parking, we are on stage for Thrice, one of her favorite bands. She stands ten feet from the drummer, smiling constantly. It is a bright moment there in the music, as light and rain collide above the stage. It feels like healing. It is certainly hope.
Sunday night is church and many gather after the service to pray for Renee, this her last night before entering rehab. Some are strangers but all are friends tonight. The prayers move from broken to bold, all encouraging. We're talking to God but I think as much, we're talking to her, telling her she's loved, saying she does not go alone. One among us knows her best. Ryan sits in the corner strumming an acoustic guitar, singing songs she's inspired.
After church our house fills with friends, there for a few more moments before goodbye. Everyone has some gift for her, some note or hug or piece of encouragement. She pulls me aside and tells me she would like to give me something. I smile surprised, wondering what it could be. We walk through the crowded living room, to the garage and her stuff.
She hands me her last razor blade, tells me it is the one she used to cut her arm and her last lines of cocaine five nights before. She's had it with her ever since, shares that tonight will be the hardest night and she shouldn't have it. I hold it carefully, thank her and know instantly that this moment, this gift, will stay with me. It hits me to wonder if this great feeling is what Christ knows when we surrender our broken hearts, when we trade death for life.
As we arrive at the treatment center, she finishes: "The stars are always there but we miss them in the dirt and clouds. We miss them in the storms. Tell them to remember hope. We have hope."
I have watched life come back to her, and it has been a privilege. When our time with her began, someone suggested shifts but that is the language of business. Love is something better. I have been challenged and changed, reminded that love is that simple answer to so many of our hardest questions. Don Miller says we're called to hold our hands against the wounds of a broken world, to stop the bleeding. I agree so greatly.
We often ask God to show up. We pray prayers of rescue. Perhaps God would ask us to be that rescue, to be His body, to move for things that matter. He is not invisible when we come alive. I might be simple but more and more, I believe God works in love, speaks in love, is revealed in our love. I have seen that this week and honestly, it has been simple: Take a broken girl, treat her like a famous princess, give her the best seats in the house. Buy her coffee and cigarettes for the coming down, books and bathroom things for the days ahead. Tell her something true when all she's known are lies. Tell her God loves her. Tell her about forgiveness, the possibility of freedom, tell her she was made to dance in white dresses. All these things are true.
We are only asked to love, to offer hope to the many hopeless. We don't get to choose all the endings, but we are asked to play the rescuers. We won't solve all mysteries and our hearts will certainly break in such a vulnerable life, but it is the best way. We were made to be lovers bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out again and again until we're called home.
I have learned so much in one week with one brave girl. She is alive now, in the patience and safety of rehab, covered in marks of madness but choosing to believe that God makes things new, that He meant hope and healing in the stars. She would ask you to remember."
http://www.twloha.com/index.php
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Angels Amongst the Sons of Men
This has made its way around the ship for about 2 months now... wanted to send it to all of you, so that you could be included in being angels. Without you, I would not be here... thank you for your support, and for being "angels".
The following poem was written by Prince Eddie Daniels from Ghana, a patient aboard having skin grafts on his hands. I is a descriptive of how he see’s Mercy Ship’s work here.
Angels Amongst the Sons of Men
The day the Big White Whale landed on the black shores of Africa was a blessed day to the Sons of Men.
It came with Angels to walk amongst the Sons of Men.
Why do I call them Angels? Let me tell you of my time with them.
I came on board the White Whale with rooms filled with
the lame
the maimed
the formed
the deformed
the wrong
and the rough.
And deep into the darkest part of the night, I saw men and brethren,
maidens and ladies, though flesh as us, yet with hearts as Angels.
Sleeplessly and tirelessly they toiled through the night,
through the pains and aches of men;
they with hands to heal and mend,
bringing from above the Father's love to the Sons of Men.
Some they cut. Some they tie.
Some they seal, and yet others
they fix with tools untold.
Like messengers of the Most High they came.
Not thinking of their own, they risked their lives
and sailed the seas to lands beyond the endless world,
to shores of Men afflicted and in pain.
Their hearts and lives they came to share,
as Angels walking amongst the Sons of Men.
Some in this life are born to pass,
and some are born in life to live,
yet these Angels are born to preserve humanity.
Though some may see lives as waste,
yet with speed they move to save.
With words of love and touch of peace,
they endlessly toil to make right the wrong.
You were born as Men to your lands,
and yet as Angels you served the earth.
Gold is digged from earth beneath.
Treasures are hunted on high seas.
But love so pure and true
can only in hearts like yours be found.
Your labor in the Lord shall not be in vain.
For every life you touch and every soul you save,
For every bone you mend and every face you straight,
The Lord of Life and Light will light your path and guide your life.
For you are truly Angels amongst the Sons of Men.
The following poem was written by Prince Eddie Daniels from Ghana, a patient aboard having skin grafts on his hands. I is a descriptive of how he see’s Mercy Ship’s work here.
Angels Amongst the Sons of Men
The day the Big White Whale landed on the black shores of Africa was a blessed day to the Sons of Men.
It came with Angels to walk amongst the Sons of Men.
Why do I call them Angels? Let me tell you of my time with them.
I came on board the White Whale with rooms filled with
the lame
the maimed
the formed
the deformed
the wrong
and the rough.
And deep into the darkest part of the night, I saw men and brethren,
maidens and ladies, though flesh as us, yet with hearts as Angels.
Sleeplessly and tirelessly they toiled through the night,
through the pains and aches of men;
they with hands to heal and mend,
bringing from above the Father's love to the Sons of Men.
Some they cut. Some they tie.
Some they seal, and yet others
they fix with tools untold.
Like messengers of the Most High they came.
Not thinking of their own, they risked their lives
and sailed the seas to lands beyond the endless world,
to shores of Men afflicted and in pain.
Their hearts and lives they came to share,
as Angels walking amongst the Sons of Men.
Some in this life are born to pass,
and some are born in life to live,
yet these Angels are born to preserve humanity.
Though some may see lives as waste,
yet with speed they move to save.
With words of love and touch of peace,
they endlessly toil to make right the wrong.
You were born as Men to your lands,
and yet as Angels you served the earth.
Gold is digged from earth beneath.
Treasures are hunted on high seas.
But love so pure and true
can only in hearts like yours be found.
Your labor in the Lord shall not be in vain.
For every life you touch and every soul you save,
For every bone you mend and every face you straight,
The Lord of Life and Light will light your path and guide your life.
For you are truly Angels amongst the Sons of Men.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Alba's Tears
Ankosua was outside carefully mixing herbs and water to create a concoction prescribed by a traditional doctor in her village. It was mid-afternoon, and her daughter, eight-year-old Alba, was sitting alone in their home. “She should be at school right now,” she thought. Struggling to hold back tears, she poured boiling water over the crushed herbs and sieved the mixture into a cup.
Two years earlier, an outgoing and vivacious Alba was attending school with her friends. Now, she spent her days hiding in a dark room, too insecure to look people in the eyes.
When the drink had cooled, Ankosua walked inside the home and handed Alba the cup. Taking the cup, Alba tilted her head back, creating a small gap between her cheek and the large tumor that filled her mouth. Slowly, she poured the liquid into the small gap and swallowed in intervals.
While she watched her daughter struggle, Ankosua thought back to the day she first spotted the small bulge on Alba’s gum line. Never could she have imagined the fear and discouragement it would cause her heart.
After Alba had drunk the entire cup, she began crying.
Ankosua couldn’t bear looking into the tear-stained eyes of her daughter. Slowly, she wrapped her arm around Alba, who then buried her head on Ankosua’s chest. As Alba’s tears collected on her shirt, Ankosua did her best to be strong.
But Ankosua was depressed. Alba had performed this routine hundreds of times, but the tumor hadn’t gone away. In fact, it was growing. At times, it felt like it was shooting out of her mouth, causing her great pain. Ankosua realized the traditional herbs were not working. There were no other options. All she could do was keep trying and pray the herbs would begin to work.
***********
“When the tumor first appeared, my husband and I took Alba to the hospital, but we didn’t have money to pay for it, so they wouldn’t treat her. We had to use traditional medicine,” said Ankosua. Alba was taken out of school so her mother could give her the traditional medicine daily.
When asked how the community treated Alba, Ankosua stared at the floor and remained silent. After a 10-second pause, she looked up, her eyes filled with tears, and she painfully replied, “Some people received Alba with good hands. They prayed for her and encouraged me. But others shunned her. They said, ‘Go away, we don’t want to see you.’”
Whenever it was time to eat or drink, Alba hid herself from other people. If she went out in public, she kept the tumor covered with a rag. It served as a disguise and caught the foul-smelling and constant drainage.
After two years of watching her daughter struggle, a woman in her village told Ankosua of a hospital in Benin that was performing free surgery. Finally – a glimmer of hope! They scrounged to get enough money for transportation and traveled to the hospital, which was hours away.
However, Ankosua’s new-found hope quickly morphed into deep disappointment.
“We were there for two days, and nobody attended to us. I asked a woman who worked there why we weren’t being helped. She said, ‘They don’t do surgery for free, you have to deposit money.’ I trembled when she told me that. I had come with nothing,” said Ankosua sadly.
After Ankosua explained that she had no money for treatment, the woman told her about Mercy Ships. “This woman had heard Mercy Ships was in town, helping people and healing people for free. She gave me directions to the Africa Mercy, and I immediately went,” Ankosua added.
****
Still attached to noisy monitors and IV fluids, Alba had been dozing in and out of sleep since returning to the Africa Mercy ward. Finally, a few hours after surgery, she opened her eyes and sat up. Seeing she was awake, Becca, her nurse, came to Alba’s bedside and handed her a small mirror.
Alba looked down, paused in a state of bewilderment, and began touching the empty space on her mouth. The tumor was gone. After 20 seconds of staring, a single tear rolled down her cheek. With great determination, she tried not to cry. But another and then another tear soon followed. Finally, she gave up trying to hold them back and cried freely. Alba’s tears were earned through years of heartache and rejection. They were mature and raw – heavy tears for an eight-year-old to cry.
Ankosua stood next to her bed the entire time, carefully observing her daughter. When Alba began crying, she turned away. Ankosua couldn’t bear looking into her tear-stained eyes. After two hopeless years of discouragement and depression, healing had finally come. The mixture of joy and pain in that moment expressed itself in tears.
When Alba regained her composure, Ankosua returned to the bedside. Carefully, she wrapped her arm around Alba, who then buried her head on Ankosua’s chest. As Alba’s tears collected on her shirt, Ankosua did her best to be strong. But her heart was too overwhelmed with joy. Tears of relief and joy flooded her eyes as well.
They sat and cried together, each tear serving as a testimony to the transforming power of God’s mercy.
Two years earlier, an outgoing and vivacious Alba was attending school with her friends. Now, she spent her days hiding in a dark room, too insecure to look people in the eyes.
When the drink had cooled, Ankosua walked inside the home and handed Alba the cup. Taking the cup, Alba tilted her head back, creating a small gap between her cheek and the large tumor that filled her mouth. Slowly, she poured the liquid into the small gap and swallowed in intervals.
While she watched her daughter struggle, Ankosua thought back to the day she first spotted the small bulge on Alba’s gum line. Never could she have imagined the fear and discouragement it would cause her heart.
After Alba had drunk the entire cup, she began crying.
Ankosua couldn’t bear looking into the tear-stained eyes of her daughter. Slowly, she wrapped her arm around Alba, who then buried her head on Ankosua’s chest. As Alba’s tears collected on her shirt, Ankosua did her best to be strong.
But Ankosua was depressed. Alba had performed this routine hundreds of times, but the tumor hadn’t gone away. In fact, it was growing. At times, it felt like it was shooting out of her mouth, causing her great pain. Ankosua realized the traditional herbs were not working. There were no other options. All she could do was keep trying and pray the herbs would begin to work.
***********
“When the tumor first appeared, my husband and I took Alba to the hospital, but we didn’t have money to pay for it, so they wouldn’t treat her. We had to use traditional medicine,” said Ankosua. Alba was taken out of school so her mother could give her the traditional medicine daily.
When asked how the community treated Alba, Ankosua stared at the floor and remained silent. After a 10-second pause, she looked up, her eyes filled with tears, and she painfully replied, “Some people received Alba with good hands. They prayed for her and encouraged me. But others shunned her. They said, ‘Go away, we don’t want to see you.’”
Whenever it was time to eat or drink, Alba hid herself from other people. If she went out in public, she kept the tumor covered with a rag. It served as a disguise and caught the foul-smelling and constant drainage.
After two years of watching her daughter struggle, a woman in her village told Ankosua of a hospital in Benin that was performing free surgery. Finally – a glimmer of hope! They scrounged to get enough money for transportation and traveled to the hospital, which was hours away.
However, Ankosua’s new-found hope quickly morphed into deep disappointment.
“We were there for two days, and nobody attended to us. I asked a woman who worked there why we weren’t being helped. She said, ‘They don’t do surgery for free, you have to deposit money.’ I trembled when she told me that. I had come with nothing,” said Ankosua sadly.
After Ankosua explained that she had no money for treatment, the woman told her about Mercy Ships. “This woman had heard Mercy Ships was in town, helping people and healing people for free. She gave me directions to the Africa Mercy, and I immediately went,” Ankosua added.
****
Still attached to noisy monitors and IV fluids, Alba had been dozing in and out of sleep since returning to the Africa Mercy ward. Finally, a few hours after surgery, she opened her eyes and sat up. Seeing she was awake, Becca, her nurse, came to Alba’s bedside and handed her a small mirror.
Alba looked down, paused in a state of bewilderment, and began touching the empty space on her mouth. The tumor was gone. After 20 seconds of staring, a single tear rolled down her cheek. With great determination, she tried not to cry. But another and then another tear soon followed. Finally, she gave up trying to hold them back and cried freely. Alba’s tears were earned through years of heartache and rejection. They were mature and raw – heavy tears for an eight-year-old to cry.
Ankosua stood next to her bed the entire time, carefully observing her daughter. When Alba began crying, she turned away. Ankosua couldn’t bear looking into her tear-stained eyes. After two hopeless years of discouragement and depression, healing had finally come. The mixture of joy and pain in that moment expressed itself in tears.
When Alba regained her composure, Ankosua returned to the bedside. Carefully, she wrapped her arm around Alba, who then buried her head on Ankosua’s chest. As Alba’s tears collected on her shirt, Ankosua did her best to be strong. But her heart was too overwhelmed with joy. Tears of relief and joy flooded her eyes as well.
They sat and cried together, each tear serving as a testimony to the transforming power of God’s mercy.
Monday, November 2, 2009
The Final Countdown (insert 80's music)
15 More Operating Days18 Days Until PACU Closes
25 Days Left With The Translators
36 Days Until The Sail
46 Days Until Tenerife
50 Days Until I Fly Home
51 Days Until I Arrive Home
52 Days Until Christmas Eve
53 Days Until Christmas
59 Days Until New Year's Eve
60 Days Until New Year's
25 Days Left With The Translators
36 Days Until The Sail
46 Days Until Tenerife
50 Days Until I Fly Home
51 Days Until I Arrive Home
52 Days Until Christmas Eve
53 Days Until Christmas
59 Days Until New Year's Eve
60 Days Until New Year's
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