A Political Post

So I've been working on this post off and on for a couple weeks, and today I find that my friend Nick Cash has summed up what I wanted to say in a few simple sentences.

"We are all looking for some breakthrough answer, some secret success strategy. But it all comes down to time alone with God and time spent building deep community with each other. There are no secrets, no tricks, no shortcuts. Life is relationships, and relationships take time, effort, investment, sacrifice."

Yep.  Feel free to turn off your computer and spend some time investing in your most valuable relationships!

But if you want to hear a much more rambling explanation of why Pastor Nick is right, then read on.

I have a cousin who swears up and down that there is a difference between the quality of sound you get from a cd and what you hear when a record is playing.  The reason for the difference, he says, is that all digitally stored information must at some point be recorded in binary combinations.  So every subtle variation of tone or timbre must ultimately be reduced to a bunch of infinitesimally small yes or no questions.  Inevitably, there is a variation that falls somewhere between the zero and the one, which must be swept one way or the other.  The resulting music is cleaner perhaps, but not as real.  It has been edited--admittedly at a level beyond what most ears can detect--but edited all the same.  A vinyl record, on the other hand, is a direct impression of the sounds that occurred at the time of its recording, where the creak of a chair is treated to the same level of accuracy as Yoyo Ma's interpretation of Bach.

We face a similar choice in the way we deal with the world around us--to run life through a strainer of yes or no questions so that everything can be properly classified, or to record life as it happens and run the risk of loving the squeaky chair as much as the cello.  The advantage of the digital approach (as any IT wizard will tell you) lies in the immense amount of data that can be processed, not just stored but sorted, counted, analyzed, and interpreted.  But of course, in doing so, we run the risk of forgetting that the data is not reality, but a binary interpretation of reality.

We who live in a digital environment like to think of the world around us as a series of interacting systems.   It scratches our itch for that all-encompassing "theory of everything."  If we could just process a little more information, we would be able to see the whole enchilada...and make significant improvements!  We end up weighing the relative merits of --isms like "Feminism" or "Patriotism" or "Activism," as if the "ism" creates the reality, instead of the other way around.  Which is probably why our attempts to alter "the system" so rarely work out the way we think they will.

Human beings are not digital.  We are gorgeous, unpredictable, analog beasts, every one.  The subtleties that breathe life into our experiences are the same frustrating aberrations that mess up our beautiful systemic solutions.  In other words, the closer we get to each other, the less comfortable we are with the predetermined slots we've developed for organizing the masses.  People do not fall neatly into categories of "acceptable friends" and "ignorant fools."  

So what if we tried living more analog and less digital?  What if we took some of the emotional energy we've been spraying onto the faceless throng whose trolling comments and confrontational bumperstickers declare war on everything we love, and instead we invested that energy into building good relationships?  

But wait, you say.  What about those dastardly powerful people who use their influence to pull all the political strings?  What about all the hatred and anger being shouted at us from the Evil Club?  Who's going to shout them down if not for us?

Well, maybe no one will.  Maybe they'll shout themselves hoarse while the rest of us get on with the messy business of loving each other.

Politically speaking, my grandmother lived a pretty unremarkable life.  She will not be remembered as one who "changed the system."  But she loved fearlessly.  She invested herself in the lives of whoever was fortunate enough to cross her path, from the bitter old lady in the nursing home to the neglected five year old living down the street.  Every interaction was a chance to build someone up.  And even though she's been gone for ten years, the love she invested in people is still alive and active today.  It lives on in the generosity of her husband and her children and grandchildren who regularly open their homes and their hearts to the lonely, the awkward, and the overlooked (all her favorites).  

No amount of political maneuvering is going to have a greater influence on the way I interact with strangers than the love I learned from my grandmother (which was echoed by my parents).  Compared to what my grandmother taught me, the attitudes modeled by any of the presidents I've been served by (from the Bushes to Clinton to Obama to Trump) have about as much influence as "a fart in a hurricane," as Grandpa likes to say.

And I'm not the only one.  

What if the world is becoming more cruel not because of some shady political conspiracy but because at some point we all began to love "the system" more than the humans who share it with us?  What if, instead of reducing everyone to a demographic category, we assumed that the majority of us have had wonderful grandmothers who taught us to love the stranger and be generous to those we disagree with?  We might get hurt, but I think I'd rather get hurt believing in people than take on the responsibility of judging them.  I would rather treat everyone with kindness because that's the kind of person I'm trying to be, than carry the impossible burden of determining how every other person in the world deserves to be treated because of what they may or may not believe in.

If our children are harsh and ungenerous, it more likely comes from seeing us act that way with each other than from the insidious influence of politicians they've only known about since last year or so.

And if our children are fearful, isn't it likely that they're learning that from us, too?

Please don't misunderstand me.  I don't mean to say that we should stop taking political sides and speaking up for what we believe.  I do have definite opinions about the right way and the wrong way to run a country, and they are probably not the same as yours (at least not all of them).  

But I'm not going to talk to you about our political differences until I've invested in our relationship enough to bear the weight of our disagreement, and then probably only if it comes up naturally in conversation.  

I think I'd rather influence you through who I am and how I love you (as imperfect and awkward as that may be) than how I think you should behave.  It's a longer process, and sometimes you can't even see anything happening.  But you know, all the really good things in life are like that.  I'd rather our relationship grew slowly, sturdily, like a tree, than quickly like grass.

Trees last longer.

Hello Again

It's been a while.

I am sorry.

I think I've been waiting to post anything until I had something worthwhile to post, some sort of explanation or justification or even just a bit of resolution to my recent wanderings.  But I can offer you none of those things.  I'm writing this because I'd rather talk to you than wait.  I miss you.

Ever since I left the ship, I've been experiencing my own little "dark night of the soul."  It's a season of dryness, a feeling of distance from God, that scares the poop out of me whenever I think about it too hard (which is pretty much all the time, because I am never not thinking too hard).  I feel like I'm wandering around in a fog.  People keep asking me how things are going, but I can't even tell if I'm advancing or retreating.

Back when I first considered leaving the ship and coming back home I had this mental picture of myself sitting in a huge tree, blithely sawing away at the very branch I sat on.  I suspected I might be headed for some sort of tumble, but I figured that if God was asking me to fall then he would take care of catching me (or picking up the pieces).  And maybe he is doing that.  I just didn't think it would be so humiliating.  Or hurt so much.

I'm alright.  Really, I am.  I know it sounds terribly dreary, but there have been moments of sweetness and beauty too.  My niece Zoe knows who I am now--I mean really knows me.  We have our own little greeting even.  I say, "Hey Z!" (Z for Zoe) and she says, "Hey A!" (A for Auntie Lala--that's me).  I've had some really great conversations with my brother, my sis-in-law, my parents, my grandpa, uncle, cousins, cherished friends.  Things I could never say on the phone were wrestled out in person, and relationships are better for it.  I have been welcomed into homes, fed, ferried around, cared for, prayed for, included in friend circles and family routines.  I am deeply and profoundly loved.  For reals.

And I'm so, so grateful.

I just wish I could give you all some sort of return for the many ways you've invested in me.

Someday I will.
Or maybe I'll pay it forward.

Love is like a micro-loan.  You give yourself to someone in need, and when they're back on their feet, they do the same for someone else.

Thirty three

In a couple days, I will be thirty three years old.

I don't even know what  to say about that.  I suppose I should be happy that I've made it this far.

But I'm looking around myself, and I can't see any of those comforting sort of landmarks that indicate a productive and worthwhile (read: normal) life.

I feel like I've let go of everything that made me legit, or even just me, and all I have left is a scared, disappointed, inexorably aging, lonely heart.

I have no children.
I have no husband.
I have no home,
no ship,
no job,
not even a plan.

I haven't earned a doctorate in anything.
I haven't published any books.
I've never been on tv,
or learned kung fu.
I can't even play the piano.

I am absolutely certain that I have not lived up to the potential that has been seen in me.
I'd give back all those awards and scholarships, but I'm sure everyone else has moved on already (and besides, I spent the money).

But here are a few things I do have.

I have family and friends who love me more than I'll ever understand.  People of diverse ages and interests and languages and cultures all hold me in their hearts and number me among their dear ones.  I am loved.  If this were all, it would be enough.  But it's not all.

I also have three diplomas, two certifications, multiple certificates, and various recordings, pictures, and program notes all bearing witness to the fact that I am capable of starting something and seeing it through to the end.

I have two passports full of stamps, spanning twelve years and four continents.

I have a tattoo that reminds me that I am not alone and that some messages are important enough to be carved into your arm.

I have thousands of crazy notions, precious meetings and partings, random adventures, and spectacular opportunities all simmering away in my memory, like ingredients in a delicious gumbo, adding flavor as they steep.

I have survived failure, rejection, neglect, loss, loneliness, bitterness, confusion, doubt, and far too many fears (rational and otherwise).

I have learned the value telling the truth (and the cost), and I know how to stand before several incomplete pictures of the future and make a choice.

And while this particular birthday finds me in what feels like a crazy free fall, I have thirty three years invested in a relationship with a God who has never once failed to catch me.

So maybe it is a happy birthday after all.

Yes.

Happy Birthday to me.

I am glad to be here.

Big News

I am coming home.

Don't worry, nothing terrible has happened.  In fact, this year has been one of the best years I can remember.  I wish I could go back and live it over again, just because I enjoyed it so much.  Life on this ship is beautiful and amazing, and I only see things getting better for this precious and powerful community next year.  But deep in my heart, in the place where I know things, I know that it's time for me to come home to the US and be there for a while.

Now, I imagine that you probably have one or two questions for me.  I have therefore created this handy-dandy list of "Frequently Asked Questions" for your personal satisfaction and further illumination.

Sarah's Going Home F.A.Q.s

1. When are you coming?
The current plan is for me to finish out the field service here in Tamatave, sail with the ship to Durban, South Africa, and then somehow wend my way to Geneva, Switzerland for one last hurrah with some ship friends (and my mom!).  After that, I'll fly back over the "pond" and be state-side some time around the 12th or 13th of July.

2. What are you going to do when you get here?
This is a very good question.  My first plan is to spend some good quality time with family and friends in California, Idaho, and Washington.  I'm talking like two or three weeks in each place (if you don't mind giving up your couch for that long).  I want to re-connect and to invest in these relationships, to make new memories, to just "be" for a while.
After that, I am not sure what I'm going to do.  I feel myself being drawn in a certain direction, but I haven't quite found the right words to say exactly what that is yet.

3. Where, exactly, is home now?
Honestly, I don't know.  At present, I find myself in the beautiful but heart-breaking position of saying goodbye to a place that has become my home, and to people who have become part of the everyday fabric of Me.  My life is beautiful here.  I love my students, and am so proud of the amazing people they are becoming.  I love my friends, who take such good care of me.  I love my community, this delicious variety of cultures and personalities all bound together for a common purpose.  I love what we stand for, the spiritual hope of Christ made real in the healing and deliverance of the blind, the lame and the outcast.  I wish everyone had a home like this.  I wish we all had the chance to give up a measure of independence and comfort so that we could work as communities to invest in the poor, to heal the broken, to be a living breathing manifestation of the hands and feet of Christ.  I am seriously hoping I can find some sort of community like that when I come back.  I guess when I do, that will be home for me.

4. What about money?
Currently, the money that is donated on my behalf goes into a crew account, from which my crew fees, insurance, and other costs are withdrawn.  When I leave, I would like to transfer any leftover funds into Mercy Ships' general fund, where it will be used to continue the good work that we do here.  Of course I am going to need to spend some money to travel to the states and to start over, and I have a little bit set aside in my own bank account for that purpose.  If you want to help out with that, please let me know so that I can transfer your gift from my crew account to my personal bank account.  Otherwise, any other funds that I receive between now and the end of the field service are going to be used to support Mercy Ships.

5. Is this the end for you and Mercy Ships?
No.  I will always be part of the Mercy Ships family, and I certainly hope that I find myself traveling back to the ship (or even checking out the new ship after it's finished) someday soon.  I just know that for now, I need to spend some time learning how to live in America again.

6. What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?
African or European?  It doesn't matter because the answer is 42.

Crew Galley

Official Disclaimer:  these are not my muffins.  They are gluten-free peanut butter and chocolate chip muffins, baked by my friend Tracey.  And they are delicious.  


I am not much of a cook.  (Ask me sometime about the 'pickle soup' debacle.)  Oh, I know enough to get by.  I did successfully feed myself for several years before I came to live on this beautiful ship with its steady and sustaining 12-week menu, but I definitely fall into the category of single adult who can be counted on to bring the chips and salsa to pretty much every potluck dinner.  Sometimes I branch out and bring bean dip instead.

My lack of affinity for all things culinary notwithstanding, I want to tell you about one of my very favorite places on the Africa Mercy:  the Crew Galley.  (By the way, "galley" is sailor-speak for "kitchen."  Just so you know.)

All of our official meals are cooked by crew members who have been specially trained to handle massive amounts of food in a real and entirely legit Galley.  I have never been there, but I imagine that it is a miraculous place (making pancakes for a crew of 400 qualifies as a true miracle as far as I'm concerned).  Those of us who like to dabble are allowed to cook things in our own little specially set-aside kitchen, affectionately known as the Crew Galley.  It is a beautiful place.

The kitchen, I think, is really the heart of any house.  You can learn more about a family from half an hour in the kitchen than you could from a whole evening in the living room.  People relax when they cook.  It's warm.  It smells good, and if the conversation slows you've still got something useful to do.  Well, the same is true of our Crew Galley, only our 'family' is a little unusual.  On any given Saturday, you'll find people from Africa, Asia, Europe and the Americas all cooking their favorite recipes, the ones that remind them of home.  A warm cloud of curry flavored air clashes with the scent of baking brownies and cooling pancakes, all tinged with the metallic essence of the ever-present boiling fish sauce.  Overlapping conversations blend with the counterpoint of Garth Brooks and West African gospel songs, all over the reassuring clatter of pots, pans, oven doors, whisks, blenders, knives, and plastic measuring cups.  People hover around ovens and sinks like bees performing a complicated dance.  I don't have to be part of it, really, but peeking in occasionally to watch makes me feel all contented and steady inside.  I just know that things are going to be okay. If you're ever in the neighborhood, you really ought to stop by and spend a minute or two in our Crew Galley yourself.  It's well worth the time.

The best part?  Sometimes they let you taste the muffins.

Christmas Greetings from a B.A. Elf

Merry Christmas, everybody!

You know your students love you when they turn you into an elf with a really cool bow.  It's kind of hard to make out, but those big red patches are part of a giant Santa.  Apparently I'm about to fill his leg with arrows and bring him down like a great red woolly mammoth.  I confess that I'm equal parts proud and appalled.

Well, it's Christmas afternoon and I am sitting in my classroom listening to Michael Buble wonder whether he has told me lately that he loves me.  He hasn't, but that's alright.  I mean, we barely know each other.

Christmas on the Africa Mercy is a bittersweet time.  It's not often you get to celebrate such a well-loved holiday with such a tight-knit community.  Last night, the halls were filled with crew members flitting to and fro like overgrown elves as we filled each other's shoes with little gifts and goodies.  There are cookies and chocolates everywhere.  I had some for breakfast this morning as I opened Christmas presents with a few close friends.  (I got a set of magnets called 'Magnetic Monarchs'--portraits of all the kings and queens of England from William the Conqueror to the current Queen mum with her trusty corgy.  Esther, you know me so well!)  Then we all lazed around until it was time for Christmas Brunch, a true Christmas Feast, after which I felt the sudden urge to clean my cabin and do some laundry.  That last bit might seem a little out of place, but the truth is that in the midst of our celebrations we all have little currents of sadness woven in among the waves of joy that are flowing in and out of our hearts today.  At least, most of us grown-ups do.  And doing laundry can be comforting in a practical, getting-something-accomplished sort of way.  So can blogging, now that I think of it.

I guess I'd just like to say Merry Christmas (again) to everyone.  Because Christmas is a beautiful reminder of the heart of God.  Jesus, who had all the power and glory of God before time began, was so moved by love that he gave it all away on a crazy gamble for our hearts.  He looked at the fiery destruction of all our sins and, instead of turning away, ran straight into the flames to burn with us, and for us, and ultimately, to put the fire out.  He was willing to suffer so that he could draw us up to God.  I will spend my whole life trying to understand it.  

But today, I am just glad that he came.  

Life is hard... and other thoughts

Have you ever gone through a season when you'd wake up in the morning and look at yourself and think, Who am I?  Is this even my face anymore?  Heavy stuff to be dealing with at 6:30 in the morning.  This is why I run so often.  When I'm running, all I can really think is, right foot/left foot/right foot/lef...somebody's breakfast smells good.  But my little ole body can't run every morning, and existential crises are no respecters of persons.  In any case, that's what's been going on in my head for the last few weeks.  And it's not a good time to be losing your grip.  I don't know about you, but I feel like this year has brought some particularly tough challenges for everyone.  Ebola, school shootings, ISIS nastiness, droughts, mudslides, separations, rejections, failures... Good thing I'm not the type who worries about everything.  Oh, wait, I am that type.  Rats.

The trouble in the middle east is particularly worrying to me because my brother has been deployed to that area.  This is a picture of him with his daughter Zoe.  He's been out there a month, with six months left to go.  While I realize that this is what he's been trained for, that he made the choice to put his life at risk with open eyes and a willing heart, and while I realize further that if he'd chosen instead to pursue a career in accounting he could still get run over by a bread truck walking home from the office, I still feel like my beating heart is being dangled over a pit full of ravenous wolves.  And I get to watch my sister-in-law and my parents suffer the same worry (and worse) from practically the other side of the world.

Life is hard.

Did I tell you I've been made Head of High School?  Technically, I started learning the ropes last year, but this year is when the rubber began hitting the road for reals.  And you know what?  This whole 'leadership' thing is not easy.  Suddenly, all the problems that I used to quite happily let other people take care of have become mine.  It's not that I have to do all the jobs, but I do have to see that they get done, and the mental burden of it all is surprisingly heavy.  Plus, after all the meetings and emails I still have my own teaching responsibilities, and I am not a fast worker, which sometimes puts me in the awkward position of not having finished the things I've been asking my fellow teachers to do on time.  Also, there's that pesky learning curve to consider, and being in leadership means necessarily that other people will suffer when I mess up(!).  I'm not complaining.  Okay, maybe I am.  I don't regret taking on the job, though.  It is an honor and a blessing, and I just know it must be doing some sort of good.  I'm sure we're all building a lot of character, right?

And then there's facebook.  Gaah!  Facebook! I search my feed hungrily for morsels of home, pictures of family, news of friends, anything that will help me feel connected.  But inevitably, I end up looking at a long line of wedding announcements and baby pictures.  Heck, my friends' babies aren't even babies anymore!  Suddenly, I'm crying all over my lesson plans.  Pull it together, woman!  How many of these same friends are feeling just as small because they don't get to live on a ship in Madagascar?  How can I, in good conscience, complain about ANYTHING when not a hundred meters from where I sit, people who have not had one tenth of the opportunities I've been given are just hoping to be able to walk normally, etc.?  Still, I won't deny that it stings.  After all the Huffington Post articles and mom blogs, I feel like a dead tree in a forgotten garden.  But that's how it is, isn't it?  We none of us know what our own paths are leading to, but we're absolutely sure we can see all the good things on other people's paths, just lying there like ripe apples for them to pick up and enjoy.  Never mind that we have no idea how hard it is for them to keep walking.

I don't want my own petty disappointment to get in the way of any of my relationships.  You are all far too valuable, friends, for me to let go of you.  That's why envy is a sin, you know.  It separates people.  As soon as you start comparing someone else's life to your own, you put them on the other side of a sort of mental see-saw, and the higher they get lifted, the lower you sink.  "She doesn't know what it's like," you say to yourself. "She won't understand, so why bother talking about it?"  Before we know it, we're either worshiping them or hating them, probably both.  Isn't that awful?

Listen, there is enough Beauty in this world for every single one of us to lead breath-taking lives. Beauty and Goodness are eternal things, because they are characteristics of an eternal God.  We are not competing for some finite commodity.  The see-saw is a lie.  Lighting a candle doesn't take away the brightness of those that have already been lit.  In the same way, your gifts and blessings, your triumphs and successes, your moments of love and delight can only add to the brightness of my own life, because I know you, and I love you, and that means that the things that bless you also bless me (just as your hurts also become mine).

So bring it on, Facebook!  Show me all your adorable Instagram pics.  Tell me all about those little angels with their sticky faces and quote-worthy sayings.  I love it.

And I love you, dear friends.  All of you.  Thank you for being part of my beautiful life.

PS- I got a haircut!  You can see it here in this photo of us teachers at the Academy's recent Science Fair. (Just for you, Mom.)

Out to Sea (at last)!

So here we are sticking our toes out over the rolling Atlantic while our ship sways back and forth, vibrating like one of those massage chairs from Costco.  There's nothing like putting out to sea for slowing the heart and clearing the mind.  I think we're all so very relieved to be finally going somewhere that even those who don't like sailing are breathing a sigh of relief.  The Africa Mercy has spread her wings and flown the coop, so to speak, and the sweet scent of freedom and saltwater permeates the whole ship.  The experienced sailors among us have lined their camp chairs up on deck seven port side and, propping their tired feet on the protective white railing, promptly fallen asleep, while the newbies flit about like giddy kids on Christmas morning.  And it's from here, placidly ensconced in my heavy duty camp chair, that I shall endeavor to outline for you, dear reader, the more salient points of the past six weeks.

On Tuesday, the 29th of July, I said the last of many wrenching goodbyes to friends and family in the US and set my face toward the Canary Islands where my ship home waited to take me on my next African adventure, field service in Benin.  That was six weeks ago.  Four weeks ago, two things happened:  we started school (hooray!), and we realized that we probably weren't going to go to Benin (sigh).  It's a long story, and I certainly don't know all of it, but basically the outbreak of ebola that began in Guinea last winter has turned into a much bigger problem than anyone thought it would be.  Whereas all the previous outbreaks rose and fell relatively quickly, this one has only gained momentum, spreading from Guinea to Sierra Leone, Liberia, Nigeria, and Senegal.  It is difficult for a ship full of people who have committed their present lives to providing medical relief for the poor in West Africa to sit by and watch the countries we love and sacrifice for face so much fear and death.  But what could we do?  We are not fitted out to deal with infectious diseases.  We do surgeries and education.  If even one person with ebola came to our normally very crowded screening sites, we would actually be responsible for making things much worse.  While there were no confirmed cases in Benin, how easy would it have been for someone from Nigeria, desperate for help, and willing to try anything, to make the journey across the border and bring ebola with them?  It presented a risk both to us and to the Beninois we wanted to help, and it was a risk our leaders were not willing to take.  So we waited.  People made plans.  Plans changed.  We took our students on field trips to the Science Museum (very interesting--all in Spanish) and the beach (definitely a cultural experience).  We waited some more.  Nurses and doctors got tired of cleaning empty wards and moonlighted as cooks, plumbers, and deck hands.  Some people felt called to go home.  Departments shuffled themselves around, put finishing touches on their chain-of-command flowcharts, and generally cleaned house.  I learned how to negotiate taxi fares in Spanish.  Friends returned.  Birthdays were planned and celebrated.  And still, we waited.

Then a possibility began to emerge, an opportunity that had never occurred to me...

And so we're off.  I can't tell you where we're headed yet, as it hasn't been officially announced.  But I can tell you that the excitement here is palpable.  It's a new road for us, and I'm sure it will have its challenges (like anything worth doing), though at the moment we can't help but smile.  We are so ready to be out about our Father's business again.

Update:  It has been announced, so I can tell you after all.  We are headed to

Madagascar!!!!

Isn't that exciting?  We'll be sailing all the way around the tip of South Africa, with a stop-off in Cape Town.

Here is the official statement that went out this week.

Everyone is just buzzing with anticipation to see what our next chapter holds.
As for me, well, I am going outside to stare at the sea and enjoy the delicious feeling of finally being on the road again.

Summer Days

I guess I would be stating the obvious to say I've been 'off the grid' for a while. I went from being Ms. Dunn, Africa Mercy Teacher Extraordinaire, to being plain old Sarah, traveling companion, cousin, daughter, granddaughter, cherished friend, sister, aunt, one of a million unremarkable faces milling around the West. It has been beautiful. All the parched little corners of my heart that thirsted so long for the people and places I call home have received a generous soaking.  Like a cat in the sun, my tired brain has been snoozing luxuriously, while the world spins on without my help.  I read War and Peace.


I know that these summer days are numbered.  Soon I will be boarding a plane headed back across the ocean. I'll have to let go of the people who have made me who I am so I can go and be that person. I don't want to, but I will. Because that's the way I honor all the love they've poured into me. That is what love means. It means filling each other with everything we can, so that they can't help growing into themselves.

So thanks, everyone. I love you, too.

The month of Good Bye...

Well, we made it!  The last day of school has come and gone (at least, for the students it has) and I feel a little like Rip Van Winkle, emerging from the enchanted woods to find that twenty years have gone by while I was mired in the strange fog that teachers inhabit between the end of the third quarter and the end of the year.  I sincerely hope I haven't aged beyond recognition.

While my students and I were going on Retreat, studying for/writing Finals, and just generally counting down the days until 'freedom,' the Africa Mercy has been experiencing her own change of seasons.  Our last surgeries have been performed, and our last few patients have walked down the gangway.  The tents that were such a comforting and dependable feature of our dock space have been taken down and packed away, and pretty soon our trusty fleet of Land Rovers will be hoisted up to deck 8 and tied down.  The Goodbye Season is upon us.

This is what it's like.  It's like someone has opened up your chest, exposing your beating heart, and, slowly, over the course of about a month, fibers of that precious muscle are being ripped out one by one.  Every time, you bleed.  Every time, it hurts.  Your eyes leak.  There's snot all over your sleeves because even though this is the billionth time you've come down to the dock to watch yet another friend and partner in Christ drive away for the last time, you still can't manage to remember to bring kleenex to these morose little shindigs.

Saying goodbye is hard.  This morning, I said goodbye to my Birthday Buddy.  His name's Matthew, and he's just finished 2nd grade.  One of my first clear memories of coming to the ship was racing Matthew and his two brothers down the incredibly long dock in Tenerife.  That was almost two years ago.  It took me a good 6 months to make it onto Matthew's "teachers I hug" list, but my status as friend was cemented when we discovered that we share the same birthday.  (I tried to convince him that we were actually born on the same day, and that I look older because I was born in space whereas he was born in Texas.  It didn't fly.  He knows too much about space travel.)  Matthew and his family were a part of the fabric of my life on this ship.  And now their threads have been ripped out.  I don't know when (or if) I'll ever see them again.  And they're not the only ones.  Every friend we wave out of the port leaves another wound in our hearts.

This year, I am also saying goodbye to several of my students.  This hurts even more.  My students are the closest thing I have to children, and I love them.  A few weeks ago, I wrote this for a friend who wanted to put together a sort of book of memories before she herself went home:

Sarah Dunn (Academy Teacher)

2^nd May, 2014

It’s the last night of Junior High/High School Retreat, and we are all waiting for the dinner bell to ring.  We’ve been staying at a Catholic retreat center somewhere on the road between Pointe Noire and Dolisie, about half a mile from some lake.  After a hot, sticky, sleepless night in the dorms, and a full day of running around, I don’t know why we haven’t started snapping at each other.  Instead, there’s a sweet, restful spirit in the common room, where we’ve met to wait.  The sun went down long ago, and the power’s out, so the room’s lit up with tea lights and the long, elegant dinner candles that our hosts brought out.  In one corner, Jordan has got Nick Cash’s guitar, and he’s playing all the worship songs he knows, one after the other.  A little knot of students has formed around him, and their voices echo across the room as they pick up melody after melody.  Other students are quietly writing notes of encouragement that they’ll slip into each other’s “blessing bags” (little paper bags with our names on them, all lined up against the back wall).  There’s a Schwebel boy writing in his journal by candle-light.  Jack Dunne has convinced Robert to go outside with him to try to catch some fireflies. Suddenly, I come face to face with the thought I’ve successfully avoided for months:  things are changing—my kids, a whole lot of them, are leaving the ship.  I won’t be seeing them again in the fall, a little taller, a little more grown up, but essentially their crazy, wonderful selves.  I don’t know when I’ll see them again.  It’s like a punch to the gut.  It’s hard to explain to people, but I didn’t fly all the way out to West Africa to minister to West Africans, at least not directly.  I came to teach a handful of awkward, intelligent, isolated, creative, beautiful, amazing teenagers.  These kids have been mine for so long.  I’ve prayed for them, shed tears for them, laughed with them (sometimes at them—I’m not going to lie—they’re hilarious), and worried over them.  All my best stories are about them.   I don’t want that dinner bell to ever ring!  I just want to freeze time and stay in this moment for a while longer.  Maybe a year or two.  I don’t want to face letting go yet.

But here’s the thing about community:  the people we share our lives with never really leave us.  These precious teenagers and I shared life together for two years.  We’ve picked up each other’s sense of humor and habits of speech.  We shared a lot of moments, comfortable and uncomfortable, awesome and mundane, and there is nothing in the world that can change that.  I will carry these years with me for the rest of my life, and so will they.  And when we meet again in heaven, we’ll have some great stories to share.  

And that really sums up how I feel about this whole Goodbye Season.  Yes, it stinks to have little pieces of your heart ripped out and spread to every corner of the Earth, but you know what would be a whole lot worse?  Feeling nothing.  How blessed am I to have loved and been loved by so many people?  

Sometimes I wonder if all our efforts to eliminate suffering from our lives is really effort well spent, because the only way to really avoid having to say so many goodbyes would be to never say hello.  Much better to embrace the beauty of sharing life, with the heartache that comes with letting go.  This is a hard season, but it is not the last word.  There will be ever so many more hellos for us all.

So here's to the next hello.

Poetry and Zebras

Hello!  (Best photo-bomb to date.  I'm kind of proud of it.)

I was feeling a little poem-ish a while ago.  It happens.  Usually, when it happens, I write something in my journal and that's that. But sometimes I feel compelled to share what I've written, and this is one of those times.  As with most poems, it's pretty sentimental.  Feel free to skip to the bottom if you want.  You're not being graded for this. 

Let's get this straight:

I will never know what it feels like to be you.

I was born in the wrong time and place for that.

I'm not the answer to your questions--

not even close.

You should know that I

can't carry much before my knees begin to buckle,

and I make a pretty useless bodyguard, 
(though not for lack of trying.)
In the heat of battle I am just as likely to be a liability 
as a help.  In other words, I could very well be 
the first to fall.

But if you'd like someone to listen while you're
sorting through your heart,
to hold the world at bay so you can rest,
if you want someone to count your tears,
and add some of their own,
to love the things you love because of you,
if it helps to have a witness of how very much 
you matter,
who still insists "those idiots" matter, too,
if you want a friend to walk with,
and don't mind the occasional curve,
then, friend, look no further.
I'm your man.

I think at the time, I was meditating on what it means to be a good friend.  I've been working on this, lately, although sometimes I wonder what my friends would have to say about my progress.  Anyway, the first few lines popped into my head while I was walking down the beach on a camping trip.  The rest had to be wrestled out, but eventually it came.  It's a nice counter-balance to this little gem that dribbled out of my pen, fully formed, a couple months ago.

We are stars.  

Immeasurable depths of fire and light burn out of our souls—
too beautiful to look at directly—we sustain life and destroy it.  
Our gravity pulls in anything that gets close enough to be caught.

But however big we think we are, space is bigger.

Lonely stars.

Dramatic much?  Sometimes, when I've gone real quiet, and the person I'm with asks me what I'm thinking about, well, this is it.  Only in the moment, the words aren't usually that coherent.  So I just say something plausible, and soothe my conscience by thinking about the plausible thing for a while.
I know.  Weird.
Here's the thing, though: you don't get to choose your weirdness.  You only get to choose whether you're going to lean in and own it, or wander around like a restless spirit, trying to get away from yourself.
It's not a disappointment, really, just a readjusting of expectations and priorities.  I can do that.  I've been doing it for years.

In other news, this happened:

Yes, that is a real wildebeest and those are real zebras behind me.  There were no fences between us or anything!  (See, Dad?  Real live African animals in their own natural habitat!)  My fellow teachers and I had the opportunity to go to a special conference for educators in christian international schools in Africa, and this little game park walkabout was our treat afterwards.  The conference took place at the beautiful Rift Valley Academy in Kijabe, Kenya.  Not only were we able to meet with other teachers who deal with similar situations (like having to wait for a container to pass through customs before you can access your school supplies, etc.), we also got to listen to some really fascinating speakers.  This guy shared a wonderful new perspective on the different ways our own cultural assumptions influence the way we understand and interpret the Bible.  For instance, the whole dichotomy between "natural" and "supernatural" turns out to be a Western construct (gosh darn you, Aristotle!).  Drawing an imaginary line between what we understand (the natural) and what we don't yet understand (the supernatural), and then banishing God to the latter side of the line is something we Westerners do without even thinking about it.  In fact, in the original Hebrew, the word for Angel and the word for Messenger are the same.  From God's perspective, it's probably all "natural."  Isn't that a cool (and yet kind of unnerving) thought?  Teaching in an international setting is guaranteed to stretch your brain.  It was rather a relief to find that at least there are others whose minds are pretzled on a regular basis.

But before we could ever make it to Kenya, we had to raise a heap of money.  First, we had an auction on the ship (we called it "Auction of Dreams," pictured below).  It was a wonderful evening.  It's a beautiful thing when people who are already giving so much to be here can be so very generous (and have so much fun at the same time)!  Still, with all that generosity, we were several thousand dollars shy of being able to go.  It was the plane tickets that really put us back.  Flying across Africa is a complicated thing, friends.  

But then, an anonymous donor agreed to pay the difference for us!  Honestly, I don't know why I even bother to worry about money anymore.  It obviously doesn't stop God from doing what he wants, especially when people are willing to listen to him.  Once again, I am incredibly and undeservedly blessed.

Amazing conferences in beautiful places notwithstanding, I was a happy woman when we got back to our dear old Africa Mercy, to be welcomed back by eager friends and (secretly) eager students.  Even with all the wonderful people I talked to and all the cool places they live and work in, I couldn't find any place that was quite like the AFM.  My community lives here.  My students are here, and right now, I belong here.

Today, this is home.  And it is very good to be home.

Life...

Hello, friends.  It's been a while, hasn't it?  Let's see what I can tell you about my life since we last chatted...

We're well into a little thing called "rainy season" here, which means that most days this is the view from my classroom.

The general greyness of things reminds me very much of my own Pacific Northwest, though the effect is ruined as soon as you step outside. (Washington is very rarely this warm unless the sun is shining.)  Those mysterious red smudges are big cargo ships, waiting to be loaded up.  You can see the cranes behind them.  If my student Jack were here, he'd be able to tell you what kind of ships and cranes we're talking about.  He could probably tell you the names of the ships, too.  Jack is an enthusiast when it comes to ships, tugboats, tankers, cranes and anything else having to do with sea-going vessels. I have another student who's the same way, only with planes and airports.  He once gave a 20+ slide presentation on Heathrow International Airport and current plans for the addition of a floating terminal.  I am often struck with the unique lives my students lead.  I pray that they come to see the marvelous gift they're being given as they wrestle with the challenge of growing up on the world's largest civilian hospital ship.  (I have to remember that myself.  The gift and the challenge go together--you can't have the first without the second.)  Maybe someday, I'll eventually get used to hearing things like, "This weekend at our youth camp-out, we got to roast a crocodile for dinner!"  (True story.  They purchased it from a local vendor, killed it, cleaned it, and coated it with crunched-up pringles.)  But it hasn't happened yet.  Ah well, perhaps after another year...  

Speaking of unexpected animals, I saw these beauties mounted on the wall of our mid-ships lounge area just a few days ago.  Don't worry, they're paper mache.  Some of my students have been taking a special art class.  Pretty impressive, don't you think?  I don't remember doing anything like that when I went to high school.  (I'm still waiting for the back half of each animal to show up on the other side of the wall.  Maybe next quarter?  Here's hoping!) 

Last weekend, a couple of friends and I participated in the Africa Mercy version of the Amazing Race.   Basically, we spent the day running all over Pointe Noire completing various challenges and generally making fools of ourselves.  The picture above was taken just prior to our canoe challenge.  (Esther is on the left and Andrea on the right, from England and Holland, respectively.)  Unfortunately, the wind came up and the currents got a little too strong for us to make it all the way out to our goal, but as you can see from the photo below, we did in fact propel the canoe with our oars (which, in my mind, constitutes a real victory).  We may have gone a little faster if that guy on the end hadn't been weighing us down.  Of course, we may also have tipped over, so it's just as well he was there.

Among our other challenges were:  carving a wooden coaster (pictured above--not as easy as it looks, by the way), cooking and selling an egg sandwich from a Congolese food cart on the side of the road, catching some chickens, playing soccer with a few local boys (who very graciously let us win), shining shoes at the airport (I actually earned a dollar doing this!  It's always nice to gain a new marketable skill), trying to cook two fish we bought at the market over a charcoal fire built by ourselves (It's a good thing I know how to shine shoes, because I would never make it in a Congolese kitchen), and a complicated scavenger hunt through a crazy busy market.  My last thoughts before falling asleep that night were 1) I'm so glad we didn't have to eat the fish we "cooked" 2) I am going to be sore tomorrow and 3) I love my life! 

Over or Under?

This happened last week.  I'm the one in the middle.  You can't hear it, but right now I'm murmuring to myself, "Over? Under? Over? Under?..."  I saw the wave begin to swell out of the sea, like the horizon was being slowly sucked up into the sky right in front of me, gathering momentum even as it towered above me, and I knew I needed to do something before that wall of water met my frail girly body.  But I couldn't move because I hadn't quite decided which way I needed to go, over the wave or under it.  I'm no stranger to beaches and waves and suchlike.  I've played in the waves off of California, Florida, Washington (briefly), Kaua'i, and some delightful islands not an hour's boat ride from Conakry, Guinea.  I know that if you time it right, you can jump into the ridge of some very tall waves and be lifted right over them as they pass.  Or, you can dive straight under the base of the wave as it comes and feel its angry power rolling harmlessly over your back and down your legs.  It's only when you just stand there staring that the water can really hurt you.  I know all this, and yet there I am waiting like a fool about to get pummeled, paralyzed by my own indecision.

One of the most depressing things about growing up is realizing that some personal flaws are likely to be with us until we die.  I have never been great at making decisions.  I look at things from every possible angle I can find and make pros and cons lists like a champ, but I'm always haunted by the suspicion that I'm not seeing some key aspect of the problem, so I panic and go with whichever option my gut favors at the time (which would be a fine way to decide things if one's gut were at all consistent).  Then, I spend far too much time cringing because I'm sure I've made the wrong choice and there's no going back.  I'm pretty sure God just looks at me and chuckles, and you know, I don't blame Him one bit.  I am ridiculous.

Some people will argue that God has ordained our steps to such a degree that unless we consciously decide to disobey Him, we will end up where He wants us to be.  Others say that God lets us make our choices and works through those choices to bring about Good in our lives.  If you think about it, we're blessed either way.  Two things I know for sure.  We are flawed and broken people, imperfect in ways that we don't even understand yet.  And we are powerful.  We have influence we don't even see.  Our words, our choices, our character, it all matters more than we can understand.  And so we make messes.  It's inevitable.  The only way I know of avoiding it would be to disengage from living altogether.  Say nothing.  Try nothing.  Risk nothing.  Just keep your head down and don't expect too much.  But even that is a choice--one of the worst choices you can make, I think.

Why all this choice talk, you ask?  Well, it's because I've been struggling to choose whether to go back to the US at the end of this field service or to stay with Mercy Ships for another school year.  My original commitment was for two years, and those two years will be up in May 2014.  However, several people have made it clear to me that I could be a real help to my students and their families if I stayed a little longer.  At the same time, I know that there are plenty of students and families I could help in the United States (or in Europe, or anywhere really).  There are days when I miss my family and friends at home so much that it feels like I'm being stretched all the way back over the Atlantic and across North America, and I can feel the trade winds blowing through spider-silk threads of what used to be my heart.  I'm not going to pretend it isn't hard to walk down the same taupe-colored hallways and climb up the rickety metal ladder that leads to my dark little shelf of a bed every night.  But neither am I going to pretend that this isn't the biggest and most delightfully spicy adventure I've ever been on, or that it hasn't been an absolute honor to be part of the beautiful miracle that is Mercy Ships.  How often do you get to live in a place where, because of the love of Christ, the blind see and the lame walk and the outcast is restored to community?  How often do you get to learn from people who embrace joy and generosity in the midst of crushing poverty?  It's the spiritual and emotional equivalent of being part of one long ever-changing but always breathtaking sunset.

Of course it costs a lot, and I'm not the only one who's had to sacrifice to get me here, both financially and emotionally.  And I'm not saying that God will never call me back to serve Him in the United States (in fact, I kind of suspect He will).  But I'm not ready to be done with this particular adventure yet.  I want to lean in and soak up everything I can here, so that when I do move on, I'm not the same person I was when I left.

And so, dear friends, I've got good news and bad news.  The bad news is that we'll be apart a little longer than we may have planned.  To tell the truth, I don't know when I'll be home again, or even where 'home' is.  But the good news is that you get to be part of this amazing venture for one more year.

I have a feeling it's going to be a Very Good Year.

Love, Sarah

Happy Christmas!

I don't know about you, but this last month seems to have flown by.  How did we get all the way to Christmas already?  Above, you will see some pictures from our Academy Christmas play, which was performed last Thursday.  Every year, the students finish their first semester a week early and then devote the last week before Christmas break to putting on a Christmas play.  With our (the teachers') help, they not only learn all their lines, songs and dances, but they also build sets and props, sew costumes, and create playbills and programs.  Then, at the end of the week (!) they perform.  This year's show was about an hour and a half long.  And it was amazing.  I got to coach the actors, which was maddening and stressful and deeply rewarding.  I also got to help edit/write parts of the script.  

Isn't it great when you're part of a community that needs you?  The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that people need to be needed.  Independence is great, but sometimes I think we equate it with isolation.  Somehow we think that a healthy person is someone who never needs anyone else's help, but that's just not true.  People who never need help will never grow.  We all start as babies, right?  I can't think of a creature that's needier than a baby, precious little puddles of potential that they are.  All they can do at the beginning is eat, cry and poop.  And yet we make such a fuss over them.  Our hearts get all wibbly and we experience that fierce love that inspires an otherwise gentle mother bear to dismember any threat to her cub.  How different our lives would be if every person came fully prepared for independent living straight from the womb.   Whom would we feed, protect, teach, delight in?  For whom would we sacrifice?  How would we show our love?  What would love even look like?  We are meant to have needs just as surely as we are meant to fill each other's needs.

Jesus came as a baby.  There was a time in history when God incarnate could not feed himself, when God experienced hunger, loneliness, weakness, vulnerability.  He chose to embrace these things.  So why do I find myself believing that I should not?  It was good enough for God...should it not also be good enough for me?  Needs and weaknesses are not evil.  They are not a disease to be cured.  They are instead opportunities.  Every time I come up short, I have the chance to be helped, which means that someone else has the chance to make a difference in my life, to be my hero, to show me genuine love.  Every time someone I know doesn't have what it takes, I have the opportunity to do the same for them.  It's not a chore, it's an honor.  It makes our lives mean more than pleasure and comfort and all the stuff we think we should be striving for.  

This Christmas, I hope we all have needs that others can fill, and I hope we see ways to fill the needs of the people around us.  That's love, which is what this day is all about.

Cabin Fever

 This is what you get when a whole lot of bored grown ups get too close to a camera.  Okay, that's not entirely accurate.  There was a legitimate photo booth at our annual Fall Festival, and these are our legitimate photos.  That mustache and I became pretty good friends, as I recall.

How am I doing, you ask?  Well, to be perfectly honest, I'm getting a little bit stir-crazy.  We all are, I think.  We're well into our field service here.  Patients have come and gone, and new patients have come to take their places.  The students and I have been doing this whole "school" thing for what seems like forever.  We had our first good rain a couple nights ago, but other than that the weather maintains a warm and cloying mildness--not unlike the way a small bathroom feels right after someone has showered.  Not that I'm complaining.  It's just kind of surreal to know that somewhere Fall is falling, with Winter close on its heels, while we live in the land of perpetual Summer.  I think Cabin Fever may be setting in.

We all deal with it in our own ways.  From beard-growing contests (No-shave November, here we come!) to movie marathons ("You mean you've never seen Bridget Jones' Diary?!?") to homemade slingshots and blow-darts (I'm not naming any names, but some people I know spent their evening shooting a rolled up earplug across midships with a sling-shot made with catheters.  Not used ones, thank goodness.)  One of the more sanitary outlets available to us is ukulele club.  Last year I learned the benefits of ukuleleing on a regular basis (good for the blood pressure, for one thing--it's impossible to stay angry when you're playing a uke).  And this year, we have a motley little group that meets on Sunday evenings and strums through some of the classics.  It's such a simple instrument.  You don't need any experience, really.  No practice charts to turn in.  Just walk on by and pick up a uke and start strumming.  Here is a short video that my friend Dan took during a typical session.

There now.  Don't you feel happier?

Here's what I think.  I think that it doesn't really matter how awesome your life is, if you live it long enough, sooner or later you're going to look around and say, "Is this it?  I feel so...normal."  You may be tempted to drop everything and join the Circus, but the truth is that's no way to live.  I've got nothing against circuses, mind you.  I'm just trying to make a point.  A good life, in my opinion, is one that reaches beyond its own edges, one that takes root in the Eternal and bears fruit in the present.  And you can't live a life like that if you spend all your time and energy running away from "normal."

So do your worst, Cabin Fever!  I can't hear you over the sound of my ukulele songs.  I'm too busy taking pictures of myself with paper mustaches to listen to your whining.  And besides, I have a group of valuable teenagers to teach, and precious friends to comfort and entertain, and poems to write, and stories to tell, and children to play with.  I don't have time to wish I was living someone else's life.

the Hope Center

Last Tuesday, I locked up my classroom, changed into my jeans, and headed off to the Hope Center.  Every field service, Mercy Ships finds a suitable building in the city and fits it out to accommodate patients as they prepare for/recover from their various surgeries.  Not only does this free up bed space within the hospital, but it gives our patients a more homey environment in which to recuperate.  Nobody likes being trapped in a windowless ward any longer than is absolutely necessary! See me pointing at that yellow flower?  The boy to my right was asking for a yellow flower sticker for his picture, and I was confirming his request--IN FRENCH!  You read that right, friends!  I am now able to sustain simple but useful conversations in the velvety smooth tones of francais!  Vuex-tu une fleur jaune?  Oui mon jeun ami!  See? Myriam, our French, teacher is very proud of me (which is good because I pester her all the time).

Now let me tell you about my little friend in the yellow and blue.  This little girl wrapped herself around my legs pretty much as soon as I arrived.  Clearly, she had chosen me to be her new best friend.  She led me to a plastic chair and climbed right up onto my lap.  She spent the next hour playing patti-cake (which here basically means she clapped my hands together and laughed--she has a beautiful laugh), tickling and being tickled by me (did I mention how beautifully she laughs?), playing with my hair (first she'd pull it down in front of my face, then she'd put it on her own head--more laughing), examining the freckles on my arm (I must look so strange to her), and kissing my hands (my heart exploded into shards of rainbows, butterflies, and cute baby bunnies).  I have not felt so completely and profoundly loved in a long time.  The Single and Independent Childless Female doesn't get a whole lot of physical affection.  I don't think my new friend knew just how much she blessed me.  Isn't it just like God to bring me halfway across the world to be blessed by the people I came to bless?

Selection Day

Almost a month ago now we had Selection Day.  Whenever we come into port, we kick off our surgical activities with one massive call for patients.  We spend some weeks getting the word out with posters, billboards, radio announcements, etc. telling everyone that if they or someone they know has one of the conditions that we are able to treat (benign tumors, cleft lips, burn contractures, orthopedic stuff, etc.) then they need to come to Selection Day and we will see if we can indeed help them.  This year more than 7,000 people came and stood in line for hours.  Some of them had to be carried the whole way.  Of course all the medical crew were busy all day saying 'yes' to some and 'no' to others (heartbreaking work), but the rest of us got to fill such supporting roles as escorting patients from station to station, helping fill out paperwork, taking pictures of patients so that their surgeons can prepare properly, passing out peanut butter sandwiches and water bottles to all and sundry, providing security, and entertaining children.  I got to help with that last bit.  Above you will find a picture of me giving a little boy a sticker.  He took it very solemnly.  I spoke just enough French to be able to tell him he could pick his favorite color.  I think he chose blue.  It seems like such a little thing in the face of all the work that was done that day and still needs to be done.  So many people came.  At times it felt like trying to catch a waterfall in a teacup.

Did you know that Pointe Noire was at one time a major collection point for African slaves before they were shipped off to America and the West Indies?  Just last night, a Congolese friend was telling me about a museum near here that commemorates that nasty chapter of international history.  When you put a price on someone, you assign them a value relative to your own, contingent upon their potential ability to serve your needs.  You say to them 'You are only as important as you are useful to me,' and so you take away their person-hood and burden them with the lie that they must earn the right to matter.  It seems kind of poetic that a few centuries later a ship full of (mostly) Westerners should come and put themselves at the service of the Congolese people.  With every conversation that took place on Selection Day, we had a chance to show the people of Congo-Brazzaville that they are intrinsically valuable, that they are worth listening to, worth serving and celebrating and learning from.  I don't know how to make the world just.  With all the ways we hurt each other and have hurt each other, I don't know how to make everything right.  I don't even know how we're going to manage feeding everybody.  But I can show kindness to the handful of people I see from day to day.  I can try to see them the way God sees them and love them as Jesus is still teaching me to love.  I can speak truth in face of all the lies that have stacked up around us.  And that, I think, is the most powerful thing any of us can do for each other.  It's what I need people to do for me.  It is what we all ought to be doing for each other,
don't you think?

Academy Open House

A few weeks ago, we had our Academy Open House.  Now, since you can't come to the ship and see how we do things here, I thought I'd share a couple pictures and tidbits of information.  It'll be just like you were here, too!

First off, these crazy folks are my colleagues.  Yep, these ladies and this lone gentleman (God bless him!) are responsible for educating about 50 students, from pre-school up through 12th grade.  Average class sizes run from 2 students to a whopping 8 students per class.  That may not seem like much, but squish them all into a room the size of a nice walk-in closet and there is plenty of energy to go round.  Since many of our upper-level classes combine grades, we high school teachers cover material on a two-year rotation.  Last year, I taught World Geography (in addition to Bible and a couple English classes).  This year, we are plunging into History, from Ancient History all the way up through the Enlightenment.  I must say, I am enjoying it thoroughly.  I've had to read quite a bit to stay ahead of the students, but the material is fascinating indeed (and not entirely new--I do remember some things from college).

  For Open House, teachers were asked to provide fun activities for our visitors to do that showed the kinds of things we spend our precious time learning during the school day.  These happy adults are thinking of things to add to a "Mercy Ships Timeline" we were creating, showing all the significant events that crew members who visited my classroom wanted to add.  The timeline ran from 1940 to the present and included such varied events as birthdays, marriages, first baseball games, coming to the ship, the birth/adoption of children and so on.  One cheeky man documented the year in which his wife was born.  He was smart enough not to write her name, though.  Below you will find a picture of the final product.  Not bad eh?

Every so often I have to stop and marvel at the remarkable community I live in.  Granted, we have our disagreements.  You don't get 300+ people all living together without at least a few ruffled feathers.  But the generosity I see around me as people get down to the business of pouring themselves out for each other is just breath-taking.  It's like a preview of heaven.