Uncle Randal's homecoming

It's late. I'm tired. In nine hours I'm leaving for the airport. But tonight I heard that a good family friend passed away from cancer a few days ago. And how will I be able to sleep now?

Uncle Randal is in heaven with his Saviour. I know that. And his death isn't sudden. We've known he was dying for several years, in fact. But this fall it suddenly became a reality to me, as though I hadn't known it before. And this past month, when I knew his time was particularly short, I kept hoping he'd hold on until I got back to my husband. I wanted to have someone to grieve with.

And instead, I'm here in an empty living room, crying by myself, with no one to hold me or comfort me.

Never have I felt so alone.

_______________
This is a photo of Uncle Randal (centre) and his wife & children.

Forced Exile, Day 22

First, let me assure the world at large that my sister is a fantastic mom. She knows what she's doing, and she's great at what she does. She has patience that I could never hope to have, and she sure loves her kids.

Now that we've got that cleared up...

It's funny having an infant in the house with two pre-schoolers running around. This is an entirely new experience for me. Naomi asks Josiah, "Do you want to pet Ethan?" When Ethan squirms, Naomi says that he wants to "play and run around." Yesterday Josiah offered Ethan a piece of white-chocolate-covered pretzel, and we had to explain that the baby will only be eating milk for several months.

And Lisa leans over and says, "So this doesn't make you want to have babies?"

It's not that I don't want to have babies. They are cute and cuddly, and I'm sure when I have my own infant, I'll think he's the best thing that ever happened to me. Sure, apart from the being exhausted all the time and cleaning up poop and spit-up and waking up all during the night to breastfeed, babies are great!

No, it's the little kids that unnerve me. It's the Naomi shouting, "No! I don't want to!" and running around the house, refusing to take off her ballerina outfit to put on pajamas. It's the kicking and screaming when it's time to wash their hair in the bath. It's the "I don't like broccoli" and "I don't like pizza" and "I don't like that." It's the gooey stickiness on the furniture after Josiah disobeys and rubs his face on the couch after dinner before getting wiped... Oh boy.

So someday I'll have kids, if God grants them. But in the meantime, He's gonna have to work really hard on my heart to prepare me for motherhood!

But there's nothing sweeter than hearing, "Ish!* I want to give you a hug and kiss good night!"

So maybe I'm on my way... :)
_________
*"Ish" somehow came from "Aunt Saralynn" when Naomi started talking three years ago.

Forced Exile, Day 18

I have a new nephew!!

Ethan Andrew Gertz was born at 10:59pm on Wednesday, December 20. He weighs 7lbs, 10oz, and is 19-1/2 inches long. And he's just adorable. (Unfortunately, I've got this awful cold, so I can't even really hold him.)

My sister Lisa is doing fine, recovering a little slowly as she had an unplanned C-section. (I'm sure she appreciates prayer.) She was glad to have the baby before Christmas, especially considering the docs originally wanted to deliver him on New Year's Eve, which is Lisa's birthday!

And even though I'm down with a cold, I'm glad I could be here! I was at the hospital when Ethan was born, and what a joy that was! And I'm really glad I can be here to help watch Lisa's two kids while she's in the hospital. It turned out well.

But I'm still horribly homesick and eager to be back in Jos. I leave a week from today!! :)

I'll be home for Christmas, but only in my dreams

My passport & visa arrived today from the Nigerian embassy! Yay! I now have permission to return to my husband. They'd told me at the embassy that the visa would be ready by Tuesday, but you never know for sure, so I'd already bought my ticket for after Christmas...

So the good news is that I have everything I need to get back to Nigeria. And I'll be home with David on New Year's Eve.

And the bad new is that I still can't leave until the 29th.

Sannu!

So I'll be here in rural Virginia for Christmas, but I'll be dreaming of a brown Christmas at home.

Forced Exile, Day 11

I left home eleven days ago, and I have another fourteen to go. I'm taking bets on whether or not I'll make it another two weeks without a nervous breakdown. Anyone willing to put money on it?

I had a fine trip from Nigeria back to the States, including a layover in London. I got to stay with my friend Vikki, a med student who spent a few weeks in Nigeria in 2005 and knows my husband David a bit. I got to see a lot of London in the dark. :)

I spent 2 days in San Diego with my grandparents, and then I came here to Virginia to stay with my sister Lisa and her family (husband Steve and two kids, Naomi - 4-1/2 - and Josiah - 3). They live about three hours south of DC, so I decided to go in to the Nigerian embassy in person to deal with my passport situation.

I was going through my documents Monday when I realised I didn't have David's passport with me. Oh crud. When he gave it to me before I left, I was terrified of losing it. He looked at me and said, "It's okay. I'm giving it to you. You have my permission to lose it." If only he'd known! Grampa & I went to photocopy his passport in San Diego last Friday, and I left it in the photocopier!! An emergency call to Grampa alerted him to the situation. He called the shop and called me back with the news that they had the passport in their vault, so he would send it immediately. Phew. Thank God for honest people!

Fortunately, I had all the copies I needed, so Lisa & I decided on Monday to drive into DC that afternoon and spend the night with her friend Uta, then go to the embassy in the morning. So we packed some clothes & blankets, jumped into the car, and headed to DC. When we arrived, Uta helped us a find a parking spot where we could leave the car overnight.

...Or so we thought. When we got up the next morning and went out to where we'd parked the car, it was gone! We looked at the parking sign and discovered we'd misread it - all three of us had misread the sign! So instead of going to work, Uta helped Lisa get the car back (it turned out it had only been towed to a quieter street a few blocks away). And I walked about 2 miles to the Nigerian embassy. (It took me an extra twenty minutes to find because there was no street sign at the correct intersection!) And once I got there, they told me I'd forgotten to make some necessary copies. Oops! I begged and pleaded, and they finally made the copies for me. Phew!!

Lisa & Uta pulled up just as I was coming out of the embassy, so we dropped Uta off at work, spent an hour or two on a driving tour of the monuments, and headed home, with a quick stop at Borders for coffee.

And then I had to decide when to try and return to Nigeria. I could assume I'd receive my visa when promised, and leave before Christmas, or I could play it safe and purchase a ticket for after Christmas. This became a family decision because I'm super indecisive. And I cried and fasted and prayed. What a nightmare.

But we finally decided to get the ticket for December 29th, getting me home on Saturday, the 30th. So I'll miss my first Christmas as a married woman.

To add to the mayhem, Lisa is about 37 weeks pregnant and will be delivering probably while I'm still here. We've started putting together freezer meals for her to make after the baby's born. This is a madhouse. Lisa and both kids have colds. I'm depressed because I'm apart from my husband, especially at the holidays. Wow, what fun. Did someone say something about Christmas being a time of joy? Praying for joy in this household is like praying for world peace. Someone just has to keep praying, but somehow we don't expect to actually be answered.

...The story of my life.

Wedding links

Until I have time to write about the wedding, here are some links to keep you happy.

Photos:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/blyth/

A slideshow my dad created using a song my brother, sister, & sang in the wedding:
http://www.ecwaevangel.org/videos/wedding_400.wmv (7.6 MB) or
http://www.ecwaevangel.org/videos/wedding_224.wmv (4.6 MB) or
http://www.ecwaevangel.org/videos/wedding_120.wmv (2.4 MB)

Eye of the hurricane

I've been married for two weeks now! And perhaps someday in the near future I'll write about it. It was an eventful day, obviously, with highlights including being attacked by a swarm of teeny flies (no-see-ums?) during the photographs and being dressed (twice, mind you) to look like a Tiv bride. Phew. Quite a day!

And now the honeymoon's over, so I get to relax a little, move into my new house, and start living the married life...

...or not.

Nope. My life recently has been a whirlwind - but for a few days here and there on the honeymoon, also about which I'll have to write at some point in the near future - and it doesn't stop here.

I found out a few weeks ago that I might have some trouble with my visa and immigration, and since then we've been scrambling for a solution... to no avail. It seems that the only solution to my problem is to return to the States and reapply for an altogether different type of visa. Actually, this was made quite a bit simpler by the fact that I already have a return ticket to the States (I had to purchase a round-trip ticket to get my current visa). So I'm leaving Tuesday morning, the 5th, and flying back to the States.

When will I be back?

I entirely sympathise with the song "Jet Plane." I don't know when I'll be back. I'm leaving my new husband without a return date in mind. We're all hoping and praying it will just be a few weeks. And I don't imagine I'll be gone very long. But my fate will rest in the hands of the embassy employees. What a relief that God's made plans for me that I don't know about - plans to prosper me and not to harm me, plans to give me hope and a future!

So maybe I'll have a white Christmas after all.

Married but Not

So this is what Purgatory must feel like. I'm married... but not.

No, I really am married. Really.

In order for my marriage to be recognized in the U.S., David & I needed to have Marriage Under the Act (a court wedding), so we went ahead and got that done on Wednesday, November 1. It was a small affair - just the two of us, a couple of friends who married in almost the exact same way ten years ago, my mom, David's brother, and the officiant (who is probably not much older than I am). We confirmed that we were there to get married. The officiant said, "I'm now supposed to confirm that you are not biologically related, but I don't think that's necessary," and we all laughed. We each put a hand on the Bible while reciting vows after the officiant. And then we signed the marriage certificate. That was it. Nothing special. But we're married!

And yet that's only a legality, and in my mind, I won't be married until the 18th. My name has changed. I've practised my new signature again and again. But I'm still living in my parents' house. I still can't be alone in a house with David. And I'm still a proud member of the Virgin Lips club. Sannu.

In other news, wedding prep is going well. I'm getting a little panicky about the music aspect of the ceremony. And one of my bridesmaids hasn't gotten her visa to enter the country yet. But I'm sure it will all come together, and worrying about it isn't going to solve anything. We'll just keep praying.

Talking to ghosts:Hyo Jin Lee (1983-1996)

I talked to a ghost last night. All right. Fine. To be more accurate, I spoke to a departed soul. Sure, I might be crazy. No, I'm not mystical. But I absolutely agree that I'm a little strange. I go into the cemetery at night, for I have absolutely nothing to fear, other than fear itself.

Do you want a little background?

Ten years ago, on October 7, 1996, a 13-year-old Korean missionary kid was killed in a car accident about five hours from here. I was 14 at the time and didn't know Hyo Jin very well. But for some reason - I can't explain - her death made a tremendous impact on me. Whenever I'm in Miango, the village in which she's buried, I visit her grave and just have a short one-sided conversation with her. It's something I've done for ten years now.

I wonder what she would have been like today if she'd lived. Would she be finished her first year of med school? Would she be vibrant and energetic, or studious and quiet? Would she have sent her younger sister long letters about life and making wise choices? Would she be married to an incredible young man who shared her goals and dreams? I wonder. Obviously, these are thinsg I'll never know, for her life ended all too soon.

So I will continue to kneel by Hyo Jin's grave and talk to her ghost.

Last glance at America

I leave the U.S. tomorrow, and this time I don't know when I'll be back. When I was a child, I always knew I'd be back in the States within four years. It was a given. This time... Who knows? It could be a year; it could be ten years. So far this doesn't seem to bother me. But there are things I'll miss, each of which can be "traded" for something Nigerian:

--Ice cream for Kunu (a ginger drink)
--Cheese for Groundnuts (peanuts)
--Chedder-wurst for Suya (spicy grilled kebabs)
--Burger King fries for Kosai (fried spicy bean cakes)
--Vanilla yogurt for Coke in a bottle
--Pears for Mangos
--Driving on the freeway for driving through an African rainstorm
--Wearing shorts & trousers for Wearing fancy Nigerian outfits
--Sunsets on the beach for Sunrises through the dust
--Post-It notes for Cellotape
--LOST for Real Football (you might call it "soccer")
--Traffic laws for Laughter over cows in the street
--Hot showers whenever I want them for Sumptuous bucket baths when the power's out

Hmm, I think I'll do just fine. :) And it all begins tomorrow when the plane leaves Los Angeles. (No liquids!) I should be excited. I should be sad. I should be going out of my mind with frenzied packing... Oh wait, I am going out of my mind! But tomorrow that part is over. Yes!! Tomorrow I'll be on my way to becoming an immigrant. (Never give up; never surrender your U.S. passport!)

Okay, my brain is fried, and I stopped making sense after I said I'd miss ice cream. I think that thought caused a nervous breakdown.

Next post from home...

Changing gears

I never learned to drive a manual transmission car, but it looks like I need to start learning.

I'm back in the U.S. of A., and that in itself is changing gears for this blog. Obviously, for the next few weeks I won't have any touching stories from the hospital in Nigeria.

But the reason I need to learn to drive a stick shift is in preparation for returning to Nigeria permanently - and soon. (Automatics are hard to find in Nigeria.) God has placed in me a passion for Nigeria and its people, and I'm overwhelmed with gratitude that He's called me to live there full-time. I always expected this would come in the form of some sort of work opportunity, but God works in mysterious - and surprising! - ways. God brought into my life a wonderful young doctor who's asked me to be his wife, and I've agreed.

Dr. David Dennis Nege is a first-year resident in family practice (yes, he is a full-fledged doctor!) at our hospital and is from Taraba State in east-central Nigeria. He's been a family friend for two years, and I've known him since last summer, when he was finishing as an intern. We plan to marry in November in Nigeria. Only three months away!

So for now I'm here in California, packing and sorting. There are so many uncertainties and questions. But I'm trying to let God work out the things I can't solve myself. I'm terrified and excited about all that's in store for me, for us. And I really miss Nigeria. But there it is. Anyone have wedding ideas?

Today's farewells

This summer has been a summer of farewells, and today is no exception.

Today, Baby Elizabeth is going home! She's been on admission for two months, and yesterday weighed 1.85 kg (4.1 lbs)! Baby Elizabeth is shown here with Dr. Dennis. She's roly poly and has finally been weaned off oxygen. We're all terribly excited that she's ready to go home, but I personally will miss her.

Of course, I would miss her anyway because I'm leaving today. My heart breaks, as usual, to be leaving this land I love. But sometimes farewells are necessary, and this is only for a little while.

So I'll shake hands - hugs aren't the cultural norm - and say, "Sai na dawo" (Until I come back). For I will be back and soon. This is home.

The Road Not Taken

I could give you a whole literary analysis of Robert Frost's poem "The Road Not Taken." Even the title itself is a statement. But if you know the poem you'll understand why I really like it just now.

My life came to a crossroads this summer, and I shocked myself and everyone I know by the road I chose. I had planned to go to medical school, to become a missionary doctor and return to Nigeria. Everyone was excited for me. But the road was long: going to medical school would mean not returning to Nigeria full-time for at least another ten years.

I fought the battle of indecision that I so often face (as an extremely indecisive person) and finally came out on top. I decided not to go to medical school. Instead, I decided to return to Nigeria as soon as possible and make a life here.

Within days of making this decision, it was confirmed by certain relationship developments regarding a young Nigerian doctor. I'm reluctant to jump the gun, but my hopes for our future are extremely high, and I believe we can face and overcome many challenges together. Nigeria is my home, and I rejoice that God has led me to be here permanently.

My current plans? I leave Nigeria on August 13, spend several days with my sister and her family in Scotland, and then return to the U.S. to find closure. I'll be packing up, selling my belongings, and saying my goodbyes to familiar people and places (and food!). I hope to return here by mid- to late-October. I have no income and no prospective job yet, but I'm trusting that God will make a way for us.

It's scary! And I'm sure that some days I'll regret it. But I am convinced this is my future, and I accept it with joy.

Returning

There are reasons I haven't written... not good ones, perhaps, but they are reasons. I was sick for several days – not malaria, thank God! - and have been away from the hospital since then. Why? Good question!

This week I became a substitute Middle School English teacher! Our full-time teacher hasn't arrived in the country yet, so I'm teaching her classes for two weeks.

I have to admit I never saw myself as a middle school teacher. I finished middle school only ten years ago myself, and I still remember it vividly. My days were full of cat fights and bitter backstabbing. (Maybe that's why I became friends with the guys instead.) It's different as a teacher, I expect, and my first three days have been super!

I'm cheating, though. Because I'm only here for two weeks, I'm not following the curriculum but trying to get the kids interested in learning first. We're doing a lot of creative writing (my specialty and passion) and reading aloud. Yeah! I have just about 85 kids total, in grades 6 to 8, and they've been good to me so far. We'll see how the next five days turn out.

The cool thing about my school is that I've got kids from all over: U.S., Canada, Nigeria, Korea, Syria, Lebanon, India, New Zealand, Australia, to name a few. And the funniest part is they almost all sound American!

Find out more about the school at www.hillcrestschool.net.

Saying goodbye with hope

Baby Peter died today.

I don't even know the details. I know that he was "gasping" yesterday when the electricity went off for a half hour, and no one thought to connect his oxygen mask to the oxygen tank... And I guess he just didn't really recover. He had three or four more apnoea attacks and finally "packed" at 16:15 today. I was at the paediatric ward but not present when Peter died. And now he's gone.

And I remember the songs I've heard about babies' deaths, including "With Hope" by Steven Curtis Chapman.

But still somehow, after having seen Baby Peter every day for the past month, a little bit of me has died with him. Still, I believe babies go to heaven, so I will say goodbye with hope.

May I have this dance?

Why do I love spending time in the paediatric ward? Because of...

Samuel!

Samuel is three years old and one of our HIV+ babies receiving anti-retroviral drugs. I met him five weeks ago when he climbed onto my lap during PEPFAR clinic. He smiled and sat happily on my lap, playing with my beeping watch, for at least twenty minutes. I wished I'd had my camera.

So the next time he popped into the paediatric clinic carrying a drum, I immediately got out my camera. After I took this snap, he sat on my lap, and we played the drum together. Whenever I stopped hitting the drum, he grabbed my hand and forced me to drum again! The child is stubborn and knows how to get what he wants with his winning smile!

I saw Samuel again on Monday. This time I scooped him up into my arms and took him around the ward, showing him the animals my aunt has been painting on the doors and walls. His favourite was the monkey, and we kept returning to the door so he could touch the monkey's mouth. There was music on TV, so I danced around the ward, a handsome boy in my arms. The visit was short (because he was well), and his caregiver came to get him before I was ready to let go.

But I'll never forget the day I danced with Samuel.

Off to See Ahmadu

We visited Ahmadu on Thursday. He'd been into the paediatric clinic just the day before, and there had been a commotion over whether or not he was on course with his anti-HIV drugs. So we paid his family a visit to see for ourselves. Stephanie drove us less than ten minutes into the Muslim part of town – the wrong way down a one-way street – and we parked outside a shop. The remaining trek was along a dirt path beside a stream. There were women knee-high in the water, scooping sand from the bottom to sell. Nearby was a group of women making mud bricks. I baaed at the goats we passed, and the children watching us laughed.

“You can hear his grandmother's grinder from here,” Stephanie pointed out as we came within a few hundred meters of the house. I averted my eyes as we walked past a group of men seated outside a house. We turned a corner, and there was a young woman with Ahmadu on her hip.

“Sannu! Sannu!” she greeted us and welcomed us into her tiny home. There was just enough couch space for the five of us visitors, so the rest of the household sat on the table against the far wall, and Ahmadu and his grandmother sat on the floor. Stephanie was delighted to see Ahmadu looking so well. To me he looked thin and wasted, but to her he looked like someone brought back from the dead.

“You should have seen him a few months ago,” Susan said later. “He was just skin and bones, too weak to suck or sit up or grab things. It's a miracle what God has done for this little boy.”

Ahmadu is 15 months old and fighting HIV. His grandmother cares for him, feeds him and makes sure he gets his medication. Whenever Ahmadu wasn't in his grandmother's arms, he began to cry. But he sat on the floor without falling over. When the grandmother placed a container of kwashpap* powder near him, he grabbed at it and tried to get a handful of powder. We laughed.

Stephanie confirmed that Ahmadu was taking his medications faithfully after all, and she left him some paracetamol for the lingering fever from his malaria. We snapped some photos, prayed for the child and his family, and left – all within 15 minutes. We left with optimism about little Ahmadu and his future. He may look scrawny and sick, but this baby is growing and getting well. Let us hope the best for little Ahmadu.

*Kwashpap is a nutritional porridge given to malnourished children.

Licking Wounds

Did you see that match? Did you watch it? Kai!!

France just lost the World Cup, and I'm still ranting about it. They lost fair and square - Italy played better, in truth - but it's still a hard blow. I'd only been rooting for France for about a week, once my favourite teams were out (Ghana and Brazil)... But still. Oh oh.

I watched the match tonight at the home of one of our doctors. We had minerals (sodas) and popcorn, and I listened to the live running commentary provided by my doctor friend and my uncle. Even though some of us were rooting for Italy and some for France, we were all equally disappointed about the red card in overtime. What a way to end one's career.

I have no eloquence tonight. Just needed to vent. Vive la France!

Gone Home

Lydia, James, and John went home today!! They each weighed at least 1.8 kg (~4 lbs) and looked great! I got to hold Lydia for the first time yesterday, and she was so tiny. Lydia's parents are Fulani, so I can almost guarantee they won't name her Lydia. (The Fulani are a nomadic cow-herding tribe found all over West Africa, and in Nigeria - at least - they're predominantly Muslim. So my giving her a temporary New Testament name is quite ironic, when you think about it.)

I'll miss my babies. But Elizabeth and Peter are still in the SCBU incubators, and I anticipate seeing them every day for a long time... unless Elizabeth's fever (?malaria) takes her home before her mother does.

Yarana (My Children)

Why do I love spending time in the paediatric ward? Because of...

Lydia, Elizabeth, Peter, James, and John!

The nurse laughed at me when I came in on Sunday to visit the incubator babies. The next morning, she asked me in Hausa how my children (yaranki) were. I was confused; did she think I was married and had children? She explained that she'd meant the incubator babies! I laughed and went to check on them. None of them have been named yet, so I've named them all in my head.

Elizabeth and Peter were both 14 weeks premature and are each about 1 lb, 13 oz at two weeks old.

Lydia (upper left) is about 4 lbs and should go home today!

And three-week-old James (3 lbs, 8 oz) and John (4 lbs) share an incubator (upper right). They're two of a set of triplets, one of whom died before he was a week old. Their mom is finally feeding them herself, so they're rapidly gaining weight.

These are my babies, yarana, and they bring me joy!

Light in the Paediatric Ward

Why do I love spending time in the paediatric ward? Because of...

Nehemiah!

"Your shoes are wet," I told the little tyke who wandered into the paediatric clinic after hours today as the rain came pounding down outside. He looked at his shoes and looked at the floor behind him. "My shoes are dry," I said. "See?" He looked at my shoes and nodded. I held out my hand, and he grabbed it; it was cold. While his mother tried to talk the doctor into examining Nehemiah, I sat, warming Nehemiah's cold hand. He didn't talk, and I didn't talk, but we were friends. He nodded when I asked if I could "snap" him (take his photo). He was just so darn cute.

The doctor refused to see him today, since it was after clinic hours, so we had a short visit. As Nehemiah walked out, I said goodbye, and he finally spoke.

"Bye!" he called behind him as he hurried after his mom.

I look forward to seeing him again tomorrow!

Visiting Miriam

It was 10:30AM before Susan, an American nurse, was ready for the home visit. She put on her headtie, and we were off, led by two Nigerian women, Theresa and Ladi. We crossed the street from the hospital gate - which is in itself an ordeal - and hailed a taxi. (In other words, Ladi stuck her head into a parked car and asked the driver if he'd take us where we wanted to go. He agreed.) So we all four piled in and were on our way.

We didn't travel far, but too far to walk. When the asphalt road ended, the taxi driver turned around and refused to go any further. We all scrambled out and started the short trek. Susan greeted everyone we passed, especially the children: "Yara, sannu ku!" The kids were all delighted and happily answered the greeting. Goats wandered across our path, bleating mournfully.

Ladi took us to the house of a woman named Miriam (not her real name). Miriam's aunt met us at the door and welcomed us warmly. She ushered us into a bedroom and sat us on stools and the floor. Only after I sat did I notice Miriam, an emaciated woman lying across the lap of her mother. Everyone around me broke into Hausa, and I lost the conversation.

Hollow eyes. I now understand the term. Miriam - who could not have been more than thirty - was a human scarecrow, so weak she could not speak or lift a finger. Her arms and legs were just skin stretched over bone, her face drawn and pale, the eyes of a wraith. When Susan gave her a sip of water, Miriam could not swallow it. Instead, it came out her nose and dribbled out of her mouth. Susan explained to the mother that Miriam should be turned every few hours to prevent her getting bedsores.

Theresa quietly told me some of Miriam's background: Miriam was divorced with two children. Her brother and sister-in-law had recently died of AIDS, and their mother was now taking care of all the children. Miriam's aunt showed us a recent photo of Miriam and her mother, and I gasped. The woman pictured had long hair and a full figure - and a smile. There was almost no resemblance to the woman lying before me. Theresa told me that Miriam, who'd tested HIV+ only six months earlier, had come to the hospital a month before our visit with fever and vomiting. The doctor discharged her after two weeks on admission. (Because they could no longer afford it? I wondered.) Theresa was shocked at how quickly Miriam had deteriorated in the two weeks since her discharge.

All the women in the house covered their heads, and Ladi prayed for Miriam in Hausa. Afterward, we sang to Miriam, first in Hausa, then in English. I tried to pick it up as we sang: "I will go with Jesus, wherever he leads. The road will not be easy, but I will go with Jesus, wherever he leads." Miriam's lips moved as we began the song, but only slightly and briefly as her strength failed.

Susan gave a few last medical suggestions, and we got up. In the next room, Susan told Miriam's relatives she would die in the next few days, so they should encourage her and remind her that Jesus was with her. Miriam's mother and aunt walked us out and down the road a little ways. Finally, we bade goodbye and God bless you to the women, and went on our way.

"She may not even live through the night," Susan said, "and we cannot save her life with medicine. But at least we know we talked to her and encouraged her not to be afraid of death because she dies with Jesus." She was right; I knew it in my head. But my heart didn't understand. We walked along the dirt road, and I was silent.

When we returned home, I expressed myself to Susan, who told me something another missionary had said to encourage her:

"I would rather love deeply and become scarred when my loved ones die, than not love at all and go through life unmarked. I don't want to live a safe life. I want to step out and love people, even when it hurts."

After Susan left, I tried to write in my journal about our visit with Miriam, but I found I could not.

A few days later, I heard that Miriam died that same day, only eight hours after we were there. I wasn't surprised. In this place I have often seen death, and Miriam was not far from it when I saw her. Susan was right: There was nothing we could have done to save Miriam's life. But we were hardly helpless. We did what we could to ensure that Miriam would die in Jesus' arms. Sometimes that's all we can do.

Drawing Close to Goodbye

I just got here two weeks ago, and I'm already saying goodbye. I'm a missionary kid and a pilgrim. I learned to say goodbye almost before I learned hello. You would think it gets easier.

It doesn't.

Four of my doctor friends are moving away this week, and I'm already starting to say goodbye to them. This afternoon I attended a "send-forth" for the doctor friend I've known the longest (pictured with me above). I was only there a half hour, and yet it was still a struggle not to cry. The rest of the week will mean saying goodbye to the others - not just a spoken farewell, but the unspoken: realising this is the last time I'll go on rounds with Dr. So-and-so, the last time I'll be on call with Dr. Such-and-such, the last time I'll hear them laugh. The Last.

No, saying goodbye doesn't get easier. At least, with the assurance of heaven, it's only goodbye for a little while...Thank God for that.

John Mark

It all happened so fast. Monday night we received a call to see if we could foster an HIV baby, and by Wednesday, he was gone.

Gone home, that is.

I met John Mark in the Special Care Baby Unit (SCBU) of the hospital on Tuesday morning. He seemed simply huge (at 2 kg - about 4-1/2 lbs) compared to the babies in the other incubators. And he slept peacefully, healthy and quiet. I fell in love with him, as I'd fallen in love with all of the other babies in the room, including the one who was only 800 g (1 lb, 12 oz) at birth. He didn't have a name, and the nurses refused to give him a temporary name since they thought he would be confused when he got a real name later on. I laughed at this and called him John Mark.

John Mark's mother was HIV-positive, and so he would be taken care of by a local Christian organization that works with those affected by HIV/AIDS. A representative showed up on Wednesday to pick him up and take him home. John Mark's mother wanted to pray for her son before she gave him up, so we all waited outside and chatted.

At last, the chaplain, Justina, emerged from the SCBU and told us that the mother couldn't give up the baby.

So John Mark went home with his mother. My heart broke. I know that in general, the best place for a baby is with his mother. And that is probably what was best for John Mark. But... what will happen to him when his mother dies of AIDS in a few years? Will his extended family care for him or abandon him? Will his mother give him the drugs he needs in order to conquer HIV? Will she agree to give him formula instead of breastfeeding? If we're to be honest, what are his chances of survival?

I can't answer any of these questions. And I never will be able to. John Mark will change names and likely be passed from home to home, heart to heart. But I won't forget John Mark. And I pray he will live an abundant life.

What am I doing here?

What am I doing here? Ha. Sometimes I wonder that myself. Here I am, a young geek with aspirations of becoming a doctor, in Africa in the rainy season. Actually, it's home. I grew up here. But this time I'm back to do my own work.

I'm here in Jos working with an HIV/AIDS ministry... I hope. So far, there hasn't been much to do, but I'm keeping a look-out. I'm just learning in any case. I'll sit in on some counseling sessions, visit clients and patients who are HIV+, ask questions, and write about it all.

There may also be some writing about being at the hospital where my dad is a paediatrician. I just can't help myself: the hospital is my second home. But I'll try to keep my focus on the ministry.

I'm here until August 2006. Who knows what can happen between now and then? I guarantee I'll be excited and depressed - some days probably at the same time. But come along for the trek, and I promise it won't be boring!

A Path Through Tall Grass

Here I am in Jos, Nigeria, once again - at home. And this marks the beginning of a new journey, a path through tall grass. Here in Africa, we're taught to watch out for the tall grass, for that's where the snakes live. And it's true. But sometimes you have to go straight through the tall grass to reach your destination. You may have a machete to clear the grass; you may not. But you have to get through. Beware the snakes!

AIDS is real in Africa. Oh, I know it's real in the rest of the world, but here... Here you can talk to anyone on the street, any single random person you like, and he will tell you someone he knows who's died of AIDS. It's that simple. No one is left unaffected.

Here, I walk through tall grass. I spend time surrounded by needy, hurting people, people living with HIV, people dying of AIDS. I have just begun to clear my path because I know, gosh darn it, there is something - something - for me deep inside the jungle. I'm not sure what yet, but my heart and soul tell me I need to push through the grass. I know that death lurks in this tall grass, preparing to strike. And I have no machete to clear the way.

But I have faith.

And I will make a path, if it means trampling through like an elephant, snakes or no snakes. I have been brought here for a reason. I need to know what that reason is. And in the meantime, I must throw caution to the wind and plunge straight into the grass, embracing those most in need of God's love.

I am terrified.

...And did I mention I hate snakes?

But here I am, in Jos, Nigeria, and my path begins here. So help me, God.