This is a writing that began late one night almost three weeks ago, that carried on well into the early morning hours. I just picked it up again and finished it this evening. It is quite personal in nature. Feel free to skip it if you please, because it is long, doesn’t have any classy pictures, and really doesn’t share anything specific to living in Liberia. The last sentence is worth reading again! I place this writing here on this blog because it provides the context of where this adventure with Mercy Ships began in the first place for those who know me and have been following this experience.
I just finished reading the writings of an ancient Jewish leader named Nehemiah. It was an encouragement to me. It is a chronicle written by Nehemiah of his thoughts, his prayers, his interactions with people, and his adventures. In many ways, he was just an ordinary fellow, who sought God's blessing as he went about his business, and by being intentional, some wonderful stories unfolded. God used him. He oversaw the rebuilding of the broken walls of Jerusalem (important for security), he helped the city to begin functioning again, he lived with the people- not enjoying special privilege, and he helped the people focus on what was most important to them. Nehemiah did this while sometimes living with his Jewish people, and other times by living off with the Persians, the peoples who had conquered his people. God used this regular man.
When I read Nehemiah's account, I can't help but be drawn to some of the parallels of his story and my own. I ascribe to be like Nehemiah. I will not pretend for a moment to be anywhere near the man that he was; but in the theme of Nehemiah, of telling stories as they are, and of being thankful for the ways that God moves in simple tangible ways in this Earth, I'd like to go back just over seven months ago, and attempt to provide a context for this journey.
December 22, 2006.
I was alone in my office at church where I was the middle school youth pastor. I had come in to work for a few short hours to wrap up some loose ends before leaving for the Christmas holiday, for a week of vacation. While working there, since day three, it was my custom to begin my time and work at church k by stopping to pray. Sometimes this was thirty seconds, other times this was ten or more minutes. Sometimes it was focused and selfless, other times I was tired or my mind was racing ahead to other things reducing it down to a mere tradition or ritual. It was my way to ask God to move, to honor God with my work, to ask for blessing, and to seek direction for my time. On this afternoon, I was shaken. It was all four of these things.
I almost didn't stop to pray, because I was only going to do busy work. As I glanced over at the chair that I would sit in to pray in this manner, that inner voice in my head asked me bluntly if I was really going to pray. I hesitated, inclining not to. But then I told myself, no, this is indeed why I pray each time. So, I did. This fifteen minutes changed everything.
There are times when I pray when I feel like I am talking to myself (and feel quite silly). There are times when I feel like I am praying to God and that God is somehow absent. There are other times when I pray when I feel a closeness with God and prayer becomes a time of listening with my mind and heart, a time of sharing my thoughts and questions. There have also been a very few times in my life when I have experienced such intimacy with God and have felt tangibly guided by God with that voice in the back of my mind. This was one of those few times.
When I arose from this time of prayer, I felt that it was time to step out of my role as youth pastor accompanied by a tangible, surreal, deep peace. I was bewildered to say the least. I glanced over at the piles of folders stacked on my desk that has just become irrelevant, and left my office.
For the next ten days, until the next staff meeting at church, I processed, and prayed, and recited over and over the reasons for why this couldn't happen. But what about all of the relationships formed for the last year? You don't just step out halfway through the school year! I love this work. What will the students and volunteer leaders do? What will they think? What about finances? What does this mean that I step into... I asked over and over in prayer throughout the days if what had happened that afternoon was real or not. And every time, I felt that it was, and to step out. For the first few days I kept this to myself. I then shared with a few very close friends with a deep faith. We talked through it, we cried, we prayed. I was a mess on the inside, because at 23 years old, you don't do things like this. But the peace never left and my heart kept telling me that indeed this experience was real.
On the eleventh day, after Christmas and New Year's had come and gone, I found myself at the weekly staff meeting looking around the table. Taking a deep breath while my heart fluttered, I shared with my co workers what had happened, starting with the catalyst on that Friday afternoon, to the peace, to my questions, to how I felt it should manifest itself in action. I ended by sharing that I intended on doing exactly what I felt guided to do, to step out now. Four weeks later was my very last day.
These four weeks were a blur of a series of announcements, of meetings, of planning for my absence, and of rapidly tying up loose ends. These four weeks were a blur of emotions and feelings and doubts. I was afraid. I was afraid of being a fool. I was afraid of my identity, my relationships, and of what stepping out meant stepping into. I was a mess. But in this, my posture towards God softened from me telling God what I could do for God, to me trusting that God will do what God will do and that it is my role to offer my whole self to be used if God so desires. One posture is telling God what I can do for him. The second is offering my assistance. Big difference.
This posture continued to soften as I entered two months of uncertainty. I expected for something to come my way immediately, making sense of why I stepped out so suddenly. Instead, I waited for what seemed like an eternity. However, at the beginning, Mercy Ships kept coming to mind when I would stop to pray about what to do. (I didn't know what else to do.) After a week of it coming up over and over, I relented and sent in an application to volunteer. I didn't know much of anything about this group until I finally sent in my application. Expecting something to come up right away, I waited. And then I waited some more. Nothing happened. Well almost nothing happened. I had a lot of time on my hands- a lot of time to try to escape from the deep anxiousness in my heart, and a lot of time to dive straight into it, if I was willing.
To sum up a pretty miserable time, I learned about my identity and about connecting the dots from what I know in my head, to what I believe in my heart. I had to deal with knowing that my identity on the inside doesn't come from my job, or how much money I earn, or how much stuff I own, or how busy I make myself, to what other people think of me, or how I look, or if I'm in a relationship... to believing it. I had to enter into believing in my mind and heart and action, that my identity comes from being created by a loving God, in God's image. Yes, this will manifest itself in all of these other things, but central to who I am is in relationship with Jesus. This was an uncomfortable time of redefining 'success'. But it was good. My perception of many things was turned inside out, for the better. But oh it was hard.
One morning almost two months later, I found myself in my beloved orange chair in the living room as had become my morning ritual. I was there with my coffee, cereal, and Bible to begin my day by trying to be focused. Meanwhile, the application process with Mercy Ships seemed so incredibly slow to the point where I was afraid I wouldn't even be able to serve with them anymore if I was going to come back for the three weddings I was going to be in during the summer. But, I had come to the point in learning about contentedness and identity, where in my chair I thanked God for where I was. I thanked God for where he had brought me thus far, that he was in control, for many of the blessings in my life-big and small, and for a brand new day. I prayed that the application process would be swift, but the thankfulness was genuine. Regardless of what external thing happened, I was grateful. After this, I went to my next ritual of checking my email for any word from Mercy Ships. Ready for another delay, or more likely, no word at all, I waited for my email to slowly pop up on the wireless internet that our neighbours were so kind to share with my housemates and I. But there it was! An email from Mercy Ships inviting me to arrive in England in four days! I read it a second time slowly, got up from the kitchen table, and returned to my orange chair in disbelief. I continued thanking God, when my phone rang. It was from Mercy Ships in Africa! I talked with a nice lady with an English accent who asked if I had gotten her email. I replied that indeed I had. After a few more questions back and forth, we ended on the understanding that I would contact her back in a day with a decision.
It was an exciting day for me. It was what I had been less than patiently waiting for. Internally, I felt every confirmation to go. I met with my parents for dinner to seek their input, and they were a little less than excited to send their son off to a potentially dangerous voyage from England to Africa, and rightfully so. They asked some really good questions and tried really hard to be supportive. I tried hard to emphasize with their concern. That night I got together with a few close friends to seek their council, questions, and prayers. At the end of our gathering, I knew that I would be going!
For the next two days, I made travel arrangements, packed up all of my stuff in the apartment and moved it to my parent's house with the help of friends, acquired new health insurance, discontinued auto insurance and cell phone coverage, packed for an anticipated two months, and said goodbye to people. I was fortunate enough to be able to spend the final evening of youth group for the year with the amazing students to share the news and to say goodbyes, and to even arrive home to a farewell party arranged by friends at my house to celebrate with me. I shared the good news, we celebrated, and they prayed for me before the night was over. Brian Mulder even played a song he had recorded about it! I was sent off with much love.
Fast Forward a little bit here- past travelling, past arrival on the m/v Africa Mercy, past engaging in a new community, past beginning to serve in the galley on board, to a month later.
As the departure of the Africa Mercy came closer and closer, I was faced with a tough decision. The original plan would no longer occur. At first, I was going to serve in England, sail down to Liberia with the ship, be in Monrovia for ten days, and then fly home to be in the wedding of a good friend. Because our estimated date of arrival in Liberia had been moved back, I was faced with the choice of flying out of England prematurely, or of sailing and missing the wedding. After sharing the situation with Tony, he understood, and before I even asked anything, told me that I should sail and see what there is to see in Africa, thereby missing the wedding. So, I did. I dearly missed standing up with my friend in his wedding, and celebrating with his community. I was also exhilarated to continue on in this adventure.
I was left with an open-ended ticket on the Africa Mercy. I was told that there was always a space for me in the galley. It then became my place to choose a date of departure. When I looked at the situation, my options, the remarkable environment I was in, and prayed about it; I felt like I would be in Liberia for quite a while. And I have been!
After quite a while, the date of August 20 kept popping in my head when I would pray about the future. After a handful of times, I got up and looked at a calendar. August 20 is a Monday- the only day each week that has a flight from Monrovia to London, where I had an airplane ticket waiting for me to fly me home from London. A week later, three weeks before August 20, I had purchased an airplane ticket. And now, I’m headed home.
It has been strange for me to be here, not knowing how long I would be here for. It has been good though, helping keep me from becoming complacent. But now that leaving is real, a set of anxieties of what comes next is knocking on my door. The anxiety is back. But, when I look over my shoulder at how leaving to go to college went, at how stepping out and serving with Mission Year in Chicago was, at how I became the youth pastor at church, and at how coming here has gone, I know that it will be ok. I know that it will be more than ok. Serving in a manner like this has been a dream of mine that I never would have expected to have come true so early in life. Looking over my shoulder, I am so thankful and incredibly hopeful for whatever comes next, whatever it may be.
-Scott
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Haircut Fun
Before, During, and AfterOnce upon a time I left for Africa with the longest hair that I have ever had in my life. And then I didn’t cut it for almost five months. And then it was really long and curly and poofy. For a little while it was woven into superb dreadlocks, but that is another picture, and story.
On Thursday my scalp was liberated from carrying the equivalent of a couple winter caps worth of hair, but not before having fun with it. I dressed up for the occasion so Lorah, our wonderful hair stylist on board, and I could take a few glamour shots of the process. Above you will notice a before, during, and after picture of the process. I did have a beautiful mullet, if I may say so myself, for about fifteen minutes, but couldn’t bring myself to wear it for long. (I probably wouldn’t have been able to sleep at night!)
It has taken me a little bit to get used to looking at myself in the mirror. It has taken much longer for everyone else to get used to it. Right after the haircutting time, I walked by dozens of familiar faces and was not recognized. They thought that I must be a new person. Some even offered a courteous ‘hello’. I was even introduced as a joke by Rahel at our community meeting as I ran the sound board. From up front, before beginning the music of our worship gathering, she introduced the not-so-new crew member: Scott. It was met with a pleasant applause. It was a unique experience at first to talk with close friends, and to have them intently searching into your eyes and face to recognize you. They knew the voice and body, but not the face.
On Thursday my scalp was liberated from carrying the equivalent of a couple winter caps worth of hair, but not before having fun with it. I dressed up for the occasion so Lorah, our wonderful hair stylist on board, and I could take a few glamour shots of the process. Above you will notice a before, during, and after picture of the process. I did have a beautiful mullet, if I may say so myself, for about fifteen minutes, but couldn’t bring myself to wear it for long. (I probably wouldn’t have been able to sleep at night!)
It has taken me a little bit to get used to looking at myself in the mirror. It has taken much longer for everyone else to get used to it. Right after the haircutting time, I walked by dozens of familiar faces and was not recognized. They thought that I must be a new person. Some even offered a courteous ‘hello’. I was even introduced as a joke by Rahel at our community meeting as I ran the sound board. From up front, before beginning the music of our worship gathering, she introduced the not-so-new crew member: Scott. It was met with a pleasant applause. It was a unique experience at first to talk with close friends, and to have them intently searching into your eyes and face to recognize you. They knew the voice and body, but not the face.
Nimba Mountain Trip
Our Guest House.JPG)
Hello Ivory Coast.jpg)
On Top of the World.jpg)
Our Expedition.JPG)
A Gigantic Sandbox Toy.jpg)
A Little Work on the Brakes .JPG)
Playing With the Children While We Wait .jpg)
Packing Up Outside Abuja To Return to Monrovia
At this time last week I was climbing up the tallest mountain in all of Liberia. It was beautiful up there in the clouds and above the clouds. With a long glance from left to right we could gaze down upon the countries of Guinea, Ivory Coast, and Liberia. It took our group a day and a half to reach this point, but it was well worth it.
On the eve of the four day weekend I huddled together with James, Carlos, Kassi, Sally, Jacinto, and Nathan in the dining room to review our final details for the trip. We determined who was to secure essential items for our three day, two night voyage such as bug repellent, mosquito nets, flashlights, candles, water, bleach (in case we were stranded with absolutely no clean water), money, cameras, and a touch of food. We also reiterated that we had no secured driver, vehicle, food or water for three days, directions, or place to stay for the nights as of yet. But, we did have a desire to travel up country into the bush to Ganta to spend a night, travel the next day to the mountain, return to sleep in Ganta, and then travel to home sweet home in Monrovia. And with this, we parted ways until the morning for our travels to begin.
It rains here. It rains here often. It is the rainy season. It was defiantly the rainy season when the seven of us hiked down the gangway after signing out for the weekend. It was pouring. We looked as if we were going backpacking decked out in raincoats, and with plastic bags covering our backpacks. We were also exhilarated to begin our travels. As we walked down the port entrance we prayed together for a beautiful weekend together, for safety, and for good times, all of which happened.
We began by taking taxis to Red Light, a main intersection North of Monrovia where there is a large transportation depot with vehicles travelling to all parts of the country. My taxi ride was uneventful, but those in the other taxi had fun. A man entered their car and asked if they were from Mercy Ships. (This happens all the time.) They said that indeed, they were. The man then went on to tell them, and all of the other people in the taxi for the rest of the 20 minute drive how wonderful Mercy Ships was. He had gone to the vision clinic and had received some precious glasses, of which he carefully pulled out of his coat, unwrapped them, and showed to everyone. At the depot, he took it upon himself to find the second group (my group) of travellers. Soon enough, we were reunited to begin a long process of negotiations for our next stage of travel. There were negotiations of whether to take two taxis, a minibus, or a minivan, there were offers and counter offers for prices for each of these, there was figuring out who the driver was and whether or not we had to take a ‘car boy’, all of which is taking place in the middle of a group of animated men fluxing between 10 to 30 of them. And, did I mention that we stand out in the greater surrounding crowd? At the end, we rolled away in a Toyota minivan with our group of seven, a driver, and a ‘car boy’ who was actually a car man.
Our travels down the mostly-paved road were dotted with pee-pee breaks (as they call it here), times to pull off the front tires to adjust the break pressure, times to eat yummy donuts, plantain chips, cooked corn, and glass bottles of pop on the side of the road, and wonderful UNMIL military checkpoints. Every time we stopped there were ‘plenty plenty’ people there to greet us, and lots of cute waving kids.
In Ganta we found a great guest house for five dollars a person. It included hung mosquito nets, a bathroom, a large barrel of water, double beds (to be shared) and generator produced electricity from 7pm to 11pm. It was wonderful. At night we had a feast of local food down the dirt road at Abuja. We also purchased some donuts, bananas, and coconuts on the street for an early morning breakfast the next day for an early departure. At night we played what I like to call ‘stupid camp games’- fun games that are for connecting with each other, not winning. We played one of my new favorites: the animal game. At the end of the night, I climbed into bed and tucked in my mosquito net, ready for the next day.
In the morning we hiked out, much like the morning before, except that this time it was not raining! We went to the local taxi area and began another long stage of negotiations. Yuck. After getting everyone all excited, again, and even having one car that attempted to cut getting cinder blocks placed in front and behind each tire, we made our way with our new ride. Nine of us rolled down the road in this small hatchback taxi for a two hour drive to the base of the mountain. By the way, this is somewhat normal here… We only had to hop out and walk one time, so that our taxi could drive up a steep, muddy hill
When we finally arrived at the base of the mountain, it was like we were in a different world, one that was quiet and beautiful. We hiked around for three hours up there, having a blast. I felt like a little kid in a giant sandbox, playing around with the rocks, abandoned mining equipment, water, and climbing all over the place. It was peaceful up there on top of the world, looking down at everything! For this period of time, we were the tallest people in all of Liberia, Guinea, and Ivory Coast!
On the way down from the base of the mountain, in our taxi again, our seventeen or so year old driver decided to ride the brakes the whole way. Riding shotgun, I shared that when I drive down mountains I pump the brakes on and off so that they don’t overheat. The driver nodded. After a long pause of continual brake-riding, I inquired if the emergency brake worked, pointing to the lever. With a node he said “nope”. I then offered that when the brakes stop working to please use the engine to brake. Being the verbal communicator that he was, he nodded. A minute later when the smoke began billowing from the brakes, and they stopped working, I was delighted that we rolled down the mountain slowly and safely with our engine holding us back. The driver kept the brakes on anyway for reasons unknown to me. At the bottom, in the middle of no where, we stopped for an unplanned repair of the brakes for a while. Let’s just say that throwing cold water on them so that they warp or crack wasn’t a good way to start.
In time, a pickup truck came on by and offered a little boost. We were delighted to accept and go cruising in the back of the 4x4 down the two-track around the mountain. At the end we arrived back in the town at the base and were dropped off. While we waited for our taxi to return we talked with the crowd of 20 kids that assembled and the 20 some adults. Some of us played football (soccer), some talked with the moms, some talked with the various UNMIL, UN police, and Mittal Steel trucks that all stopped to see why there were white people hanging out on the street. Eventually our taxi arrived, and we headed back to our favourite restaurant two hours away, and to our guest house, and slept really well.
Returning home to Monrovia was a piece of cake. We found a Toyota 4 Runner and flew all the way home with our group of seven and one driver. It was the most space that we had had yet!
The trip was so much fun. We saw so much of what makes Liberia what it is- the people, the culture, the land, you name it. What made it so amazing was the company though. Our crew was easy going, incredibly patient, adventurous, encouraging, and down right fun. I am thankful to have made such excellent friends while being here. As we walked back up the port entrance to the ship again, we stopped again to pray, being thankful for a great journey.
On the eve of the four day weekend I huddled together with James, Carlos, Kassi, Sally, Jacinto, and Nathan in the dining room to review our final details for the trip. We determined who was to secure essential items for our three day, two night voyage such as bug repellent, mosquito nets, flashlights, candles, water, bleach (in case we were stranded with absolutely no clean water), money, cameras, and a touch of food. We also reiterated that we had no secured driver, vehicle, food or water for three days, directions, or place to stay for the nights as of yet. But, we did have a desire to travel up country into the bush to Ganta to spend a night, travel the next day to the mountain, return to sleep in Ganta, and then travel to home sweet home in Monrovia. And with this, we parted ways until the morning for our travels to begin.
It rains here. It rains here often. It is the rainy season. It was defiantly the rainy season when the seven of us hiked down the gangway after signing out for the weekend. It was pouring. We looked as if we were going backpacking decked out in raincoats, and with plastic bags covering our backpacks. We were also exhilarated to begin our travels. As we walked down the port entrance we prayed together for a beautiful weekend together, for safety, and for good times, all of which happened.
We began by taking taxis to Red Light, a main intersection North of Monrovia where there is a large transportation depot with vehicles travelling to all parts of the country. My taxi ride was uneventful, but those in the other taxi had fun. A man entered their car and asked if they were from Mercy Ships. (This happens all the time.) They said that indeed, they were. The man then went on to tell them, and all of the other people in the taxi for the rest of the 20 minute drive how wonderful Mercy Ships was. He had gone to the vision clinic and had received some precious glasses, of which he carefully pulled out of his coat, unwrapped them, and showed to everyone. At the depot, he took it upon himself to find the second group (my group) of travellers. Soon enough, we were reunited to begin a long process of negotiations for our next stage of travel. There were negotiations of whether to take two taxis, a minibus, or a minivan, there were offers and counter offers for prices for each of these, there was figuring out who the driver was and whether or not we had to take a ‘car boy’, all of which is taking place in the middle of a group of animated men fluxing between 10 to 30 of them. And, did I mention that we stand out in the greater surrounding crowd? At the end, we rolled away in a Toyota minivan with our group of seven, a driver, and a ‘car boy’ who was actually a car man.
Our travels down the mostly-paved road were dotted with pee-pee breaks (as they call it here), times to pull off the front tires to adjust the break pressure, times to eat yummy donuts, plantain chips, cooked corn, and glass bottles of pop on the side of the road, and wonderful UNMIL military checkpoints. Every time we stopped there were ‘plenty plenty’ people there to greet us, and lots of cute waving kids.
In Ganta we found a great guest house for five dollars a person. It included hung mosquito nets, a bathroom, a large barrel of water, double beds (to be shared) and generator produced electricity from 7pm to 11pm. It was wonderful. At night we had a feast of local food down the dirt road at Abuja. We also purchased some donuts, bananas, and coconuts on the street for an early morning breakfast the next day for an early departure. At night we played what I like to call ‘stupid camp games’- fun games that are for connecting with each other, not winning. We played one of my new favorites: the animal game. At the end of the night, I climbed into bed and tucked in my mosquito net, ready for the next day.
In the morning we hiked out, much like the morning before, except that this time it was not raining! We went to the local taxi area and began another long stage of negotiations. Yuck. After getting everyone all excited, again, and even having one car that attempted to cut getting cinder blocks placed in front and behind each tire, we made our way with our new ride. Nine of us rolled down the road in this small hatchback taxi for a two hour drive to the base of the mountain. By the way, this is somewhat normal here… We only had to hop out and walk one time, so that our taxi could drive up a steep, muddy hill
When we finally arrived at the base of the mountain, it was like we were in a different world, one that was quiet and beautiful. We hiked around for three hours up there, having a blast. I felt like a little kid in a giant sandbox, playing around with the rocks, abandoned mining equipment, water, and climbing all over the place. It was peaceful up there on top of the world, looking down at everything! For this period of time, we were the tallest people in all of Liberia, Guinea, and Ivory Coast!
On the way down from the base of the mountain, in our taxi again, our seventeen or so year old driver decided to ride the brakes the whole way. Riding shotgun, I shared that when I drive down mountains I pump the brakes on and off so that they don’t overheat. The driver nodded. After a long pause of continual brake-riding, I inquired if the emergency brake worked, pointing to the lever. With a node he said “nope”. I then offered that when the brakes stop working to please use the engine to brake. Being the verbal communicator that he was, he nodded. A minute later when the smoke began billowing from the brakes, and they stopped working, I was delighted that we rolled down the mountain slowly and safely with our engine holding us back. The driver kept the brakes on anyway for reasons unknown to me. At the bottom, in the middle of no where, we stopped for an unplanned repair of the brakes for a while. Let’s just say that throwing cold water on them so that they warp or crack wasn’t a good way to start.
In time, a pickup truck came on by and offered a little boost. We were delighted to accept and go cruising in the back of the 4x4 down the two-track around the mountain. At the end we arrived back in the town at the base and were dropped off. While we waited for our taxi to return we talked with the crowd of 20 kids that assembled and the 20 some adults. Some of us played football (soccer), some talked with the moms, some talked with the various UNMIL, UN police, and Mittal Steel trucks that all stopped to see why there were white people hanging out on the street. Eventually our taxi arrived, and we headed back to our favourite restaurant two hours away, and to our guest house, and slept really well.
Returning home to Monrovia was a piece of cake. We found a Toyota 4 Runner and flew all the way home with our group of seven and one driver. It was the most space that we had had yet!
The trip was so much fun. We saw so much of what makes Liberia what it is- the people, the culture, the land, you name it. What made it so amazing was the company though. Our crew was easy going, incredibly patient, adventurous, encouraging, and down right fun. I am thankful to have made such excellent friends while being here. As we walked back up the port entrance to the ship again, we stopped again to pray, being thankful for a great journey.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Return Flight on August 20
I have an airplane ticket to return home! I will fly out of Monrovia, Liberia on August 20. I really love it here, but it would also be wonderful to be home too! It is a win-win situation. I bought the ticket last week, and have been thinking about it for longer, and figured that I should probably pass this on! (More on this later.)
Eye Surgery
I headed downstairs this morning after the breakfast routine was finished to change into scrubs. A few moments later, decked out in some fresh blue pants, blue shirt, blue hair net, and blue show coverings (are you noticing a theme here?), I entered operating theatre number six. This is one of the operating rooms where we do our eye surgeries! For the next hour, I watched intently as a cute three year girl was slowly given vision back in her right eye.
As I sat in the quiet, sterile operating room, the sensation was much like going to a grand sports stadium and rooting on the home team. I found myself cheering for the doctor in my silence, willing him to do well. There were moments of watching the action first hand, and then peering over at the monitor for a close up. There were times of a little tension, and other times of relief, such as when the new lens was finally inserted and in proper position. It was a rush to say the least. And best of all, at the end of the hour, a three year old girl was recovering from anaesthesia with a newly repaired eye! I had to leave afterwards to go help get lunch ready, but by the time I saw the eye surgeon for his lunch, he had already removed cataracts in two other patients. What a great morning. I like this place!
A Foot Washing
Something that has been a challenge for me since first arriving here, has been encounters with seemingly shameless and unwarranted demands (not requests) for money and material items. For me, it isn’t so much the money or specific item, but the idea behind the demand. Integrity, character, honesty, and dignity are priceless… they cannot be bought nor should they be compromised for money, especially meagre amounts of money. It is here where the problem lies for me. If it was a sincere and warranted request to help with a true need, then this is one thing, but a cold, rude demand, as if it were a game, is quite another.
I cannot begin to count how many times a sassy young lad has blurted out “Whi’ mon, gimme mo’ney” with an outstretched, open palm, paired with a subdued smile. Sometimes they are eight, other times eighteen. Sometimes it is the raincoat tied around my waist. Other times, the sorry looking bicycle I am sitting on (a bicycle that I wouldn’t even bother to lock up back home.) The worst is the demand for food. Spotting the group before being spotted, the group is perfectly normal and content. They’re talking or laughing or sitting. But when I walk by, a boy says ‘food, gimme food’ meekly, pointing to his open mouth with one hand, holding the stomach with the other. If I look over my shoulder once I am past, they are all laughing together. It encourages the heart to grow cold to sincere needs... There is a similar effect when a price is solidly agreed upon for a taxi ride, before even touching the door handle to enter the car, yet upon arrival there is a demand for more based off of some frivolous or fabricated reason. At this point I find it challenging to not think less of this particular man. It is hard to imagine some positive cultural explanation or innocent excuse for it, when it happens over, and over… and over again. Thank God, this is not always the case.
I eat dinner from time to time at my favourite Liberian Food Ready Now establishment. I am given honest change back when paying for food! When walking back from there last night, the mud/dirt road was extra soupy. The thin, hard packed, dirt trail on the side of the road for pedestrian use disappeared a few times without a makeshift bridge, leaving one to guess the depth of the mud (and who knows what else) you’re stepping in, with your sandals. At one such point, we were clearly on the wrong side of the street as I watched my two friends venture in front of me, accidentally covering half of their feet in the stuff. (It left a funny, distinct line on their feet, like when you wear socks for a whole day when you’re out in the sun, and then when you take them off you have a fantastic tan line. This time, it was a mud line!) We laughed, shrugging our shoulders. The people in the stand next to us on the street laughed too. Fortunately for me, they graciously guided me on a route across the road to keep my feet clean. It worked, and they would know, because despite their flip flop foot apparel, their feet seem to always be clean of the stuff. It is what happened next that was a huge encouragement to me.
A lady had seen what had happened, went inside to get a small pitcher of water, and emerged from her house offering it to my friends to rinse their feet off. She gently insisted without a spoken word. So, my friends took the little plastic pitcher, full of water that she must have purchased, and rinsed their feet off, slowly dripping the water on their feet and sandals on the side of this road.
I nonchalantly passed Kelly a small bill while this was happening to offer the woman as a thank you. I had been conditioned to do this from so many people asking for money in response to favors-turned-services. Well, when Kelly offered, the shy woman declined. Kelly offered again, kindly, thinking she much not have understood what we were offering. She again declined graciously, gesturing that it was a gift. In this moment, she served us, shattering the callous expectations that have grown inside of me here. We were complete strangers and she blessed us. She blessed me. She made my day.
I cannot begin to count how many times a sassy young lad has blurted out “Whi’ mon, gimme mo’ney” with an outstretched, open palm, paired with a subdued smile. Sometimes they are eight, other times eighteen. Sometimes it is the raincoat tied around my waist. Other times, the sorry looking bicycle I am sitting on (a bicycle that I wouldn’t even bother to lock up back home.) The worst is the demand for food. Spotting the group before being spotted, the group is perfectly normal and content. They’re talking or laughing or sitting. But when I walk by, a boy says ‘food, gimme food’ meekly, pointing to his open mouth with one hand, holding the stomach with the other. If I look over my shoulder once I am past, they are all laughing together. It encourages the heart to grow cold to sincere needs... There is a similar effect when a price is solidly agreed upon for a taxi ride, before even touching the door handle to enter the car, yet upon arrival there is a demand for more based off of some frivolous or fabricated reason. At this point I find it challenging to not think less of this particular man. It is hard to imagine some positive cultural explanation or innocent excuse for it, when it happens over, and over… and over again. Thank God, this is not always the case.
I eat dinner from time to time at my favourite Liberian Food Ready Now establishment. I am given honest change back when paying for food! When walking back from there last night, the mud/dirt road was extra soupy. The thin, hard packed, dirt trail on the side of the road for pedestrian use disappeared a few times without a makeshift bridge, leaving one to guess the depth of the mud (and who knows what else) you’re stepping in, with your sandals. At one such point, we were clearly on the wrong side of the street as I watched my two friends venture in front of me, accidentally covering half of their feet in the stuff. (It left a funny, distinct line on their feet, like when you wear socks for a whole day when you’re out in the sun, and then when you take them off you have a fantastic tan line. This time, it was a mud line!) We laughed, shrugging our shoulders. The people in the stand next to us on the street laughed too. Fortunately for me, they graciously guided me on a route across the road to keep my feet clean. It worked, and they would know, because despite their flip flop foot apparel, their feet seem to always be clean of the stuff. It is what happened next that was a huge encouragement to me.
A lady had seen what had happened, went inside to get a small pitcher of water, and emerged from her house offering it to my friends to rinse their feet off. She gently insisted without a spoken word. So, my friends took the little plastic pitcher, full of water that she must have purchased, and rinsed their feet off, slowly dripping the water on their feet and sandals on the side of this road.
I nonchalantly passed Kelly a small bill while this was happening to offer the woman as a thank you. I had been conditioned to do this from so many people asking for money in response to favors-turned-services. Well, when Kelly offered, the shy woman declined. Kelly offered again, kindly, thinking she much not have understood what we were offering. She again declined graciously, gesturing that it was a gift. In this moment, she served us, shattering the callous expectations that have grown inside of me here. We were complete strangers and she blessed us. She blessed me. She made my day.
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