Thursday, August 1. 2013
#sailwithus - liberia
If Sierra Leone has a special place in my heart, then Liberia has the rest of it.
There's something about the beginning of an adventure that just doesn't let you go, no matter how much closer to the end you get. Liberia was my first taste of West Africa, the first time I drove through darkened streets and turned into a port to see the ship all lit up like a beacon in the night. I met my husband on the side of one of her red dirt roads and knew I'd marry him on one of her beaches under a sky full of stars. Even now, five years down the road, it feels like I can still conjure up every face that smiled up at me from a bed in A or B or D Ward that year.
Liberia's where I came face to face with the shocking realities of poverty and lack of access to healthcare, the place I learned that where you're born will often determine the manner in which you die. It was a country still riddled with bullet holes, populated with people who ducked under their covers when a balloon popped, and I fell in love with it the second my feet touched the ground.
I credit that first, impossible year with Mercy Ships for making me into the person I am today; something about coming face to face with mortality (both your own and others') often has that effect. And nothing that year was better or harder than Baby Greg.
Born to an unwed mother whose father had cursed her, saying that she would never hold a living child in her arms, Baby Greg was a long shot. He had a tumor on the side of his neck that was growing to cut off his airway, and none of us knew whether we'd be able to take it off. But with two siblings already in the ground and a mama filled with wild, quiet desperation, we knew we had to try.
When we removed the tumor, it was discovered that Baby Greg's airway hadn't formed properly; it was too weak to stay open when he breathed, and so we spent the next month doing everything in our power to support him while we looked into other options. (For his whole story, you can click on his name under Patient Stories in the sidebar.)
Baby Greg's story doesn't have the happy ending we were all hoping for. I'll never forget that day in July, sitting next to him on his bed, when he just slipped away into the arms of Jesus. After everything we'd done, all the extra shifts and ingenious breathing machines and tear-filled prayers, he died anyway, and sometimes I still can't believe it.
I remember lying on the floor of C Ward with Marion, his mama, weeping in my arms. I remember the way the room in his house looked, lit by a single candle, when we sat vigil with his family after we took him home through the dark, hot night. It made no sense to me; this wasn't why I came to Mercy Ships. Where were the smiling faces, freshly-repaired after successful surgeries? Where was the joy? Where was the healing?
I wrestled with those questions for months afterwards until, one day, Marion came to visit. I'd been working to raise money for her to continue her education, and she wanted to stop by and let me know how school was going. As she was leaving, almost as an afterthought, she dropped the bomb that shattered every last question I had asked in the wake of Greg's passing.
My father and I are talking again. I told him about what you people did for me, and he wants to say thank you. And he asked me to please forgive him for what he did to me.
It was then that I realized how much bigger the story is than the tiny part I can hold in my hands. We thought we were supposed to save Baby Greg; it turns out all we had to do was love him and love his mama. God took care of the rest, just like He always does, and a broken family was pieced back together again, one fragile step at a time.
Whenever things seem hopeless, and when the night threatens to last forever, I remember Baby Greg, and I know that the sun will rise again. God is at work, and He will never leave us stumbling in the dark; the morning just might not look exactly the way we expected it to.
(Photo of Baby Greg courtesy of Mercy Ships.)
There's something about the beginning of an adventure that just doesn't let you go, no matter how much closer to the end you get. Liberia was my first taste of West Africa, the first time I drove through darkened streets and turned into a port to see the ship all lit up like a beacon in the night. I met my husband on the side of one of her red dirt roads and knew I'd marry him on one of her beaches under a sky full of stars. Even now, five years down the road, it feels like I can still conjure up every face that smiled up at me from a bed in A or B or D Ward that year.
Liberia's where I came face to face with the shocking realities of poverty and lack of access to healthcare, the place I learned that where you're born will often determine the manner in which you die. It was a country still riddled with bullet holes, populated with people who ducked under their covers when a balloon popped, and I fell in love with it the second my feet touched the ground.
I credit that first, impossible year with Mercy Ships for making me into the person I am today; something about coming face to face with mortality (both your own and others') often has that effect. And nothing that year was better or harder than Baby Greg.
Born to an unwed mother whose father had cursed her, saying that she would never hold a living child in her arms, Baby Greg was a long shot. He had a tumor on the side of his neck that was growing to cut off his airway, and none of us knew whether we'd be able to take it off. But with two siblings already in the ground and a mama filled with wild, quiet desperation, we knew we had to try.
When we removed the tumor, it was discovered that Baby Greg's airway hadn't formed properly; it was too weak to stay open when he breathed, and so we spent the next month doing everything in our power to support him while we looked into other options. (For his whole story, you can click on his name under Patient Stories in the sidebar.)
Baby Greg's story doesn't have the happy ending we were all hoping for. I'll never forget that day in July, sitting next to him on his bed, when he just slipped away into the arms of Jesus. After everything we'd done, all the extra shifts and ingenious breathing machines and tear-filled prayers, he died anyway, and sometimes I still can't believe it.
I remember lying on the floor of C Ward with Marion, his mama, weeping in my arms. I remember the way the room in his house looked, lit by a single candle, when we sat vigil with his family after we took him home through the dark, hot night. It made no sense to me; this wasn't why I came to Mercy Ships. Where were the smiling faces, freshly-repaired after successful surgeries? Where was the joy? Where was the healing?
I wrestled with those questions for months afterwards until, one day, Marion came to visit. I'd been working to raise money for her to continue her education, and she wanted to stop by and let me know how school was going. As she was leaving, almost as an afterthought, she dropped the bomb that shattered every last question I had asked in the wake of Greg's passing.
My father and I are talking again. I told him about what you people did for me, and he wants to say thank you. And he asked me to please forgive him for what he did to me.
It was then that I realized how much bigger the story is than the tiny part I can hold in my hands. We thought we were supposed to save Baby Greg; it turns out all we had to do was love him and love his mama. God took care of the rest, just like He always does, and a broken family was pieced back together again, one fragile step at a time.
Whenever things seem hopeless, and when the night threatens to last forever, I remember Baby Greg, and I know that the sun will rise again. God is at work, and He will never leave us stumbling in the dark; the morning just might not look exactly the way we expected it to.
(Photo of Baby Greg courtesy of Mercy Ships.)
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