leaving

This weekend was a whirlwind. I feel cliched saying that, but I can't think of another way to describe the sea of faces and emotions. (And no, I don't fail to see the irony of an oceanic metaphor.)

Friday was a classic pizza night coupled with a grand sendoff. The girls, true to form, had created a banner which will hopefully be gracing my cabin in a few days. (Not sure what my roommates will think of me calling myself a queen, but hopefully the art will make up for that.) Paul donned Hawaiian shirt and sang along to a slightly altered Beach Boys song. Feet shuffling nervously, he broke ridiculously far out of his comfort zone to get us all belting out "Help me, Ali. Help, help me Ali." Friday night pizza is amazing on a regular day, but this week was something extra.

Saturday found us cooking up huge cauldrons of chili and recruiting the youth group boys to create corn bread muffins galore. (Hint to novice bakers: blowing into the cup of flour is not the way to level it off.) We joined up with another youth group and packed forty-plus kids into three different houses for a progressive dinner all over the area. We ended it with sweet worship, intense drumming, and a challenge to not stay stagnant in our faith.

Sunday was church. I've never been hugged so many times in one day. The kids made me a card and slipped me notes and baby Judah finally gave me a kiss. Uncle Jim entered me onto his prayer list. The elders surrounded me, the church stood together, and they lifted me up to the throne of the God who's guiding all of this. Paul's words were so simple. "In a sea town there are people." The Sunday School kids stood in the front, making faces and trying (without much success) to wink at me. When we were released, we ran downstairs to act out one last story. At least five times.

Sunday was also the Super Bowl. I've only missed one Super Bowl party at the Haggans' in my entire life. Thankfully, this was not that one. The usual sausage and meatball sandwiches were there, along with the chocolate fountain and a mountain of fruit. The living room was packed with rabid fans wearing all imaginable forms of Giants gear. We lost our voices on the first first down. And when Eli and Plaxico and the boys pulled it off? Well, go ahead and check my facebook for video proof of that mayhem.

I love these people. I want so badly to stay, but I can't wait to leave. Bring on the year of paradoxes.

I'm headed into the city this morning amidst a flurry of snow. I want to lose myself in a sea of people and be anonymous just one more time. I want to walk down city streets alone and not fear for my safety. I want to feel in control.

Come Thursday, I don't know when I'll be able to feel any of that again.

This Christmas was wonderful. For once, I was able to relax and spend as much time with my family as I wanted. I wasn't worried about the kids on the unit or counting down the minutes until I had to race back for another shift. My family is great. When it came time to leave Toronto, I found that I couldn't quite say goodbye. So I left with the promise of another visit (one I'll make in a week or so) and jumped in the car feeling slightly sheepish. I need to get better at farewells.



I've been doing my best to practice. But it's an odd feeling, honestly, knowing you won't see someone for over a year. For crying out loud- this guy is going to be walking well before I get back! I need to get better at this, because it's only going to get worse.





I had a long talk with a fellow Africa-lover a couple of weeks ago. She'll be leaving soon for the Sudan, and she shared with me something that she was told at an orientation session.

"You will never again be as Canadian as you are on the day you leave for Africa."



The same will be true of me. I will leave on the 7th, and that is the most American I will ever be. Interactions with the people and culture of West Africa will change me. It's as simple as that. And I guess that's why I'm apprehensive. Any other time I've left home, there's been a concrete return in sight. I've never left without a return ticket clutched firmly in my hand. I've never gone off into the Great Unknown without some kind of a map. But I feel like God's prodding me towards the edge of the plank and encouraging me to keep on walking.

And here's the thing. I know I'm committed to Mercy Ships through February of 2009. I know they won't let me stay longer than that. And I know I'll be coming back to the States then. But the thing is, it's not going to be me coming back. Not the me sitting here typing this, at any rate. And I guess that's why saying goodbye is so hard. I'm leaving. This next year is going to be incredibly difficult and rewarding and challenging and satisfying. And I'm never coming back.

It's nearly four in the morning. My throat and cheeks and stomach hurt from laughing long. I'm tired with that kind of contentment that comes from hard work and deep study. I'll say it again- I don't know how I can leave all of this.

It crashed down on me tonight, the reality of leaving. I was sitting in my sister's room, praying for the girls gathered there. We had just finished an amazing study and I was lifting them up to God. In the midst of it, it was suddenly clear that this adventure I'm going on really does come at a price. (I'm not sure how that's managed to escape me up until now.) Starting in February, these girls will still be meeting, still be opening the Bible and digging deep. But I won't be there. I won't be there to learn from them, to pray with them, to walk with them. I won't be there to make pizza and play scattergories and have loud, crazy dance parties which I'm sure have the neighbours shaking their heads. And I'm going to miss it.


I can't help but think back to the question one of the kids from my sunday school class asked me after I did a presentation on Mercy Ships at church this past week. His little second-grade self half lifted out of the chair as he struggled to make sure I could hear him from his seat way in the back of the auditorium. "But why don't the kids just go to the doctor or the dentist? Why do they have to go to a ship?"

It is a blessing that I live in a country where the idea of not just going to the doctor when you're sick is completely foreign. Unfortunately, I am the exception rather than the rule in this world. So I'll go. And I'll miss my kids here. And it's okay.

I am (and always have been) a root-sender. Wherever I am, I push quickly into the earth, hoping to find a foothold that will steady me against whatever might try to move me. It doesn't matter if I'll be leaving in ten days or ten months, I instinctively try to hold on to every place I've ever been. Parts of me have been left scattered around this world; Chavuma, Grantham, Tijuana, Bastion, Marburg.

It makes life hard, sometimes, this need for solid ground. Roots, however small, hurt when they are pulled up. I've been experiencing this snapping and tearing over and over again recently. Friday was my last day at work. I clocked out, hugged everyone in sight, kissed the plush cheeks of a baby I love and walked out. It hurt more than I thought it should have. After all, I'm going on to bigger and better things, right? I'm following God's plan and I should be excited and regret-free. Right?

God has impressed on my heart recently the importance of His words in Isaiah 58. If you pour out your soul on behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will shine in the darkness and your night will be like noonday. In a way, I see this as validation of my need to be so firmly grounded. Pouring out implies to me a sort of reckless extravagance. It's not something to be done by halves, this spending of myself. It means that, if I fully abandon myself to this call, part of me will necessarily spill over. Part of me will be left deep in that ground.

And my roots were deep into that place. Inside those walls I learned more than I knew I could. I learned how to assess and how to advocate. I learned how to anticipate instead of react. I fought tooth and nail alongside warriors of medicine to pull children back from the edge. I was present for miraculous recoveries and I held mothers in my arms as they wept their pain and loss into me. I learned there to be a healer, a listening ear, a rock, a teacher. I learned to be a nurse.

So I guess it's okay that it hurt to leave. And it's okay to rest now, quiet in the knowledge that He will fill me up again in time to break me open, pour me out and let me push my roots deep into the Liberian soil.

These days, I find myself running through lists in my head. Silently cataloging the things I will miss when I've left the states and headed off to some as-yet-unknown African country. (Another story entirely, all that uncertainty.)

. Long, hot showers when I just stand and let the water beat down on my shoulders until I'm done thinking.
. Walks through my suburban streets lined with flame-orange trees, leaves drifting silently down as I pass under their branches.
. Stretching myself diagonally across my bed, limbs splayed out to cover the entire space.
. My mother's cooking (especially the rolls she just made, the ones with butter melted over their crisp tops).
. The luxury of getting in my car and driving to wherever I want. Just because.
. Calling a code and knowing that, within seconds, I will be surrounded by nurses, attendings, respiratory therapists and pharmacists.
. A closet so full of clothes that some days I find it hard to decide just how to cover my body.
. Sitting in my sister's hammock at the end of a day and talking about not really much of anything.


And then, all at once, the aperture on my perspective snaps wide open and everything comes into startling, narrow focus.

I'm going to a country in Western Africa, and I'm planning on missing things that those people have never had. The streets aren't safe because of pollution and overcrowding and violence. There are three doctors for every 100.000 people. Their sisters died at the hands of malaria, malnutrition and war.

And I care about what clothes I'm going to pack.


Who else sees the disconnect?