A go se yu bak

From the inside, my home looks the same.  Sparse crew members are scattered around the couches this afternoon, checking email and napping.  There are Christmas trees up around the ship, a Nativity scene is starting to take shape, and it's been a little while now since the hospital closed so we could pack it all away.

It's the little things that hint at the fact that life is slightly different today.  The bins to sort out biodegradable trash. The view of sparkling deep blue water stretching out as far as the eye can see...where there used to just be containers and concrete.  The deck isn't quite always where your foot expects it to be, and a constant rumble fills the air.  A walk in town is no longer a viable option.  Instead, we practice our life jacket technique just in case.

As the field service came to a close our leaders discussed all that had been accomplished in Sierra Leone.  Almost 3,000 surgeries of various types, 34,000 dental procedures, health and agricultural education and eye care and mental health and all kinds of different methods of outreach that have touched thousands on thousands of West Africans here over the last 10 months.  Reflecting back over what God has done and claiming promises of what He will continue to do, I saw so much more than numbers there.

Instead of numbers and lists my mind is filled with faces and snapshots of moments.  Sierra Leone is Naamah and Ismael and Finda and Mariama and Hardy and Christophe...all the individuals you've met through my blog and more besides.  It is the incredulous smile on the face of Josi's papa and his wholehearted declarations of praise to God.  It is Jon and Tambo demanding a dance party to the tune of "Jizos go do am for me" (Jesus has done it for me).  It is the heavy weight of Joseph in my lap during a water break at Yams Farm, as he drowsily declares dis na me mama (here is my mother).   It is the look on Isata's face reflecting back out of the mirror during her first dressing change, as she realizes that the tumor truly is gone.  It is getting mobbed by piles of orthopedic kids that remembered me from 6 months ago, scrubs covered in warm drool, roads that look like riverbeds, beaches straight out of a Caribbean postcard.  It is the Krio phrases and songs and humorous comments still here with me, tucked away in the nooks and crannies and corners of my heart.

I didn't save my goodbyes for when we pulled out of the dock.  It was earlier, in the soft haze of a sunrise, and with the insistent call to prayer from the minarets drowned out by the overwhelming Krio praise songs in my heart.  I think back over my time here and realize that I have given months of my life and poured out my heart here, and I have been given back so much more than I ever gave.


I learned early on in my childhood overseas that saying goodbye is just too hard.  People and friends, homes and countries will all come and go...some more quickly than others.  Who is to say when I may see a person or place again, where I will be next year, or who I will see in the multitudes of worship at the heavenly throne.  It is easier just to say A go se yu bak (I will see you later) - not a promise, necessarily, but as a sincere hope.

Only God can know what the true impact is from the ship's field service here and my own time in Sierra Leone.  I can't bring myself to tally numbers or count the years until I may be back again.  All I can say is that God has done amazing things this year in Sierra Leone, and I look forward to seeing what God will do there in the future.  Until then, I'll continue to pray for God to glorify Himself in the hearts and lives of my people there, and that they will continue to proclaim with exuberant joy in celebration of what He has done for them.