Under the Influence

I am really enjoying my new jobs and nursing roles on the ship. I am feeling comfortable in my role as VVF Co-Coordinator and this past week I had my first set of consecutive shifts as Charge Nurse. I love the challenge, critical thinking, and diversity these new roles bring to my job and nursing on the ship. I continue to work shifts as a ward nurse as well and this past week I added some training in my schedule to help out as an Admission Nurse, too. With my new leadership roles in the VVF department and as charge nurse, I have been given more responsibility and I am finding myself in a position of power to help make decisions. I would ask for your prayers that I will stay humble and that I would be a servant-leader. Recently, I heard this question, “Do you want to be a person of influence, or a person with a title?” I have been pondering this question a lot lately. Am I living in such a way to be a person of influence, or do I live for a “title/position?” It has been good to ponder this question. My desire is that I will remain humble and strive to be a person of influence, not merely a person with a “title.” I watched a segment from a DVD called "Faith Lessons on the Death and Resurrection of the Messiah" the other night and it prompted me to reflect more on the subject of striving to be a person of influence versus a person seeking recognition or a title. The narrator of the film, Ray Vander Laan, a historian and pastor, was holding small shattered pieces of stone and marble from the ruins of the Biblical city of Caesarea. Ray Vander Laan went on to explain, Caesarea was one of the greatest cities of its time; it was comparable to Rome in the areas of technology, development, and society. The narrator of the movie pointed out that King Herod was largely responsible for the greatness of Caesarea, but now all that remains of that ancient city and Herod’s greatness, is rubble, rocks, stones, and ruins. Today, few people take time to consider who King Herod was and his past accomplishments. But on the other hand, most people familiar with the Bible know the story of a simple shepherd boy and what he did with a few rocks and stones. In the face of adversity, ridicule, and challenge, David picked up a handful of small stones, put them in a sling-shot, and killed a giant. Yes, David, later became a king, but it his shepherd boy story that still influences many today. When we are willing to live under the influence of Christ, great things happen! God will take what we offer Him and transform nations. (The previously mentioned insight does not come from my small brain; all credit goes to Ray Vander Laan and the movie "Faith Lessons on the Death and Resurrection of the Messiah"). (I would fail university now if I cited like this, but I am doing the best I can, I cannot remember how to write formal papers, but at least I cannot be accused of plagiarism!) I am more and more aware that in life, we have the choice to take what we are given; the gifts and talents we are blessed with and we can push, trample on others, and fight to make a name for ourselves. After our struggle, we may earn a title, but we will soon be forgotten. Or we can take our abilities; give them back to God, and watch his influence spread through us. Having a title and a prestigious position is okay, but my prayer is that my heart and life will show that I want to be a person of influence, not just a person with a title. I hope that I will be responsible with the tasks God gives me and I pray that I charge into each new day, under the influence of Christ.

Root Beer Colored Children and Clothes Flying Everywhere

The group had just arrived at the beach bungalow and they were busy setting up camp for the day. Some women in the group grabbed pieces of straw to sweep the floor. Others neatly arranged large, colorful carpets on the cement floor. I looked around the beach hut and saw a bunch of little root beer colored toddlers ripping off their shoes, shorts, and shirts. Little pieces of clothing were being thrown everywhere. From the corner of the room an African woman attempted to make order of the chaos. I certainly don’t speak French or Fon, but from her hand gestures and what transpired, I think she instructed one person to gather flying clothing, another to cover diapers by putting cotton shorts on the little girls and underwear on the little boys (makeshift swim costumes/suits), and another person to keep the small children from making a mad dash toward the ocean. As I watched this site, my mind flooded with memories from Liberia and the last time I saw little children with black velvet skin ripping their shirts off. I thought about all my precious babies at the Sisters of Charity Orphanage in Liberia. Oh, those dear little ones! As I thought of my little babies in Liberia, I wasn’t sad; instead my heart was filled with priceless memories and joy knowing I was at the beach with a group of nuns, orphanage workers, and Mercy Ships crew; chasing babies from the Benin Sisters of Charity Orphanage. This past week, my schedule finally permitted me to volunteer once again with my favorite Mercy Ministry Project: Sisters of Charity. People from the ship have been going to the Sisters of Charity Orphanage weekly since the ship arrived in Benin a few months ago. Our noble, trustworthy reputation from our service with Mother Theresa’s Sisters of Charity Orphanage in Liberia paved the way for our work with the Sister’s Home for children here in Benin. Every Wednesday a few land rovers full of African-baby-loving, Mercy Ship Crew, volunteer to work with the children and support the work of the nuns. Normally our volunteer work takes place at the orphanage, but this past week we ventured to the beach with the nuns, a handful of orphanage staff, and about thirty chocolate skinned toddlers! We thought the Sisters were either crazy or very brave in their endeavor to introduce a troop of small children to the ocean. So, there I was. The majestic ocean waves crashed loudly on the sandy shore in front of me. It was a beautiful, sunny day and thirty shirtless toddlers dashed toward the crystal, blue waves. There was no question as to my role in this situation, I kicked off my sandals and ran after the busy bunch of children! As the children neared the water most of them came to a screeching halt. They realized the water was cold, scary, and all of a sudden my previously, frightening, white skin became a safe haven. I relished the opportunity to snuggle the startled, little, black, angels. After a few minutes and close observation of the water rushing around, a couple of the children mustered the courage to test the waters. I held them closely and let the waves rush around us and their little squeals filled my heart with joy. We spent a small amount of time with the babies near the water because most of them were not impressed by the cold, forcefulness of the ocean. I don’t blame them; I am still afraid of water for the most part! We made our way out of the sun and found shelter in our beach bungalow. We helped feed the shirtless, children yogurt before drying them off and changing their clothing. It is a universally known fact, that it is better to feed kids when they are half-naked if you have limited access to laundering facilities! After a few hours of loving the little ones, we helped the nuns load their pickup truck with the sandy toddlers, and we went our separate ways with the promise to return to the Sisters of Charity Orphanage next week, I cannot wait!

VVF Screening

I climbed the steep stairs leading to the aft gangway. Emerging from the ship, I stepped into the bright African sun. Ahead of me stood a weary, but eager group of Africans huddled together under a canopy on our dockside. I was dressed in my blue Mercy Ships scrubs and when the Africans spotted me, looks of anticipation and hope spread across their faces. The chocolate faces in the group all spoke at once. I had no idea what any of them were actually saying, but I knew they were echoing pleas for help. They were hoping I was there to escort them into the ship for their chance to be free from pain, suffering, and a life of hardships plagued with medical problems. I approached a cluster of women with somber faces; I was certain these were my potential VVF women, ready for screening. When I neared them, they stood and huddled around me, as they gathered around me, smiles spread across their faces when the translator told them they could follow me into the ship.

I escorted the group of women into one of our 10- bed hospital wards/ make shift medical screening facility. I recruited a group of nurses willing to help with screening on their day off; between the hospital beds, we set up three tables for history taking, and equipped with a handful of translators, we set to work. We began the tedious process of taking medical histories on our potential surgical candidates. The ward was packed with women and the noise level was anything but quiet. Obtaining a health history can be a complex task under normal circumstances, but this history taking process gave a new meaning to the word complex and forget about patient confidentiality and HIPPA.

I began the health interviews by introducing myself and asking the name of who I was speaking to. After a few minutes, my translator would have a name for me. At the beginning of the day, I attempted to write the names I was told, but quickly I gave up on that and had my translator write for me. The next question I asked was, “how old are you?” I thought this was a simple, easy question, but man was I wrong. I was totally shocked by the number of women I spoke with that had no idea how old they were. It was both stressful and hilarious at times when I would ask this question and my translator, in all seriousness, would tell me an outrageous answer like “she is 11 years old.” By merely at looking at the patient I could tell they were well over 40, but still I would get a blank stare and no sure answer on age. I knew it was going to be a long day! Next, I had to determine if the women actually had a medical definition of a VVF. The trouble with offering “free” surgeries is that nothing in this world is actually “free;” someone is always paying and our funding only pays for operations on women who are leaking urine as a result of pregnancy induced or related fistulas. It made my heart ache when I reached this point in the interview process. Sometimes it had already take 20 minutes to determine the woman’s name and age and then to find out she had been leaking urine since she was 12 and it was a spontaneous issue, not related to pregnancy, meant I had to crush her hope and tell her we could not help, even though our surgeons are capable of fixing the issue, funding did not support fixing it. Although I had a crowd of women waiting to be screened, I could not stomach crushing the hope of the women sitting in front of me. I would continue the interview to see if there had been a misunderstanding in the translation process, which was highly probable.

I had to play nurse/detective to reveal what actually happened in the medical history of my patients. I needed to know how many times each patient had been pregnant, how many babies, they delivered, and how many living children they had. This was a 10-15 minute conversation, at least. Many of the women did not know how many pregnancies they had carried and sadly, many of their babies had been miscarried. I also got really confused several times when someone would report having 6 living children, but only being pregnant twice. I am not a math whiz, but those numbers did not add up. After another 10 minutes I figured out there had been two sets of twins and some adopted children. Are you getting the picture of how tricky this screening process was? I haven’t even mentioned that fact that at times I had 4-5 people in my translation train, just to talk with my patient.

After the medical history was taken, we would send the women to the surgeon to perform a physical exam. The surgeon had to establish if the damage was repairable, or too extensive. The hours were passing quickly and there were still a number of women waiting for screening. We were informed that a few of the women had babies that they had left at home; we decided to move those women to the front of the line so that they could return home to their children sooner. From the corner of the room a sweet, mischievous aged woman stood up announcing that she had a baby at home too, so she needed to be next to see the doctor. It was funny, I looked at her and through my translator said, “You have a baby at home that you need to breast feed, I don’t believe it!” She was shocked by my perception and boldness and soon a sneaky little grin spread across her face and she started laughing. I had my translator teach me the French word for “liar.” I daringly called the lady a liar and all the French speakers in the room rolled with laughter. A bond was formed and my mischievous friend sat down resolving to wait her turn.

The day continued on. I interviewed patient after patient. I couldn’t believe the stories I heard. Some of the women I spoke with had endured such pain, rejection, and hurt throughout their lives. If I had doubted in the morning if I had approached the right group of women standing in the screening line, all doubts were erased at this point considering a horrific, nauseating smell of leaking urine and urine saturated clothing wafted throughout the ward I was sitting in. But no matter how much it smelled, it faded in comparison to seeing the crystal tears of happiness run down the black face of my mischievous friend when I had the privilege of handing her a surgical appointment card. I spent 12 hours in that tiny, little ward that day. When the screening finally came to an end and I escorted the patients off the ship with surgical appointment cards; I was tired and exhausted. While I was cleaning up the ward I looked around the room at the chairs scattered about and I saw the unmistakable remnants of VVF ladies; chairs shadowed with circles of urine. I took a deep breath and said a silent prayer a found comfort in the fact that after their surgeries, the women that had left moments before will never have to be haunted by the shadow of urine stained chairs again.

In the middle of it

Please pray for me. I am struggling to say the least. I mentioned to some of you that they warned us when we came to the ship that trouble would arise. We are humans; relational trouble will arise, it is reality. I am experiencing some intense relational trouble. I don't exactly know how I found myself in the middle of it, but here I am. Your prayers would be appreciated. There are many places for miscommunication to occur on this ship considering we are from so many different cultures. I am in the middle of a mess of miscommunication and attack on my personal character. Please pray for my head and heart to believe God's truth about myself and pray that I hold to his promises in this difficult time. Thanks.

Father, show me what I don’t see I hear their plea, but I miss their need I have been blind… change me May my mind be open as I embrace the broken Help me not to plan, but be lead by Your sovereign hand As I aim to rescue… don’t let me drown for my own thoughts may pull me down May my goal be for their complete restoration rather than temporary imitation of my salvation Instead of reinventing their wheel… let me rest upon the truth You reveal May I not merely bring another tourniquet that stops the bleeding until volunteers quit I pray You give me strength to dig for the root rather than being satisfied with picking the problem fruit Father, show me what I don’t see

I wrote this poem while at Gateway. It is my prayer. The words were inspired by a song called "Give Me Your Eyes" by Brandon Heath. Be Blessed!

Snorkeling with Hansel & Gretel

The sun cast its warm rays upon my face as I sat relaxing on the sandy, white beach. The crystal clear, teal, ocean water of the Caribbean danced in front of me. It was a beautiful day, a perfect day. After a busy week of loving and hugging the Dominican children, it was beach time. Some of my friends sat quietly reading their books; others were enjoying playing tourist and were bargaining for some good deals with the locals. I had just drifted off into a magical sleep when my friend, Jesse, startled me and woke me up. He had learned that for an “amazing price of $5 USD” we could rent snorkeling gear. He had convinced one person to join him, but he was certain I needed to partake in the adventure, too. I was entirely content sitting on my ample derriere soaking up the sun. There was no possibility that I wanted to snorkel even for the “amazing price of $5 USD!” In my head, I went through all the reasons for why I didn’t want to join the snorkeling pair. The biggest reason: I AM A FRAID OF WATER! Yes, I live on a ship, on the water, but when I am inside the ship, I don’t know I am on the water, so that is beside the point. But along with being terrified of water, I am equally afraid of what may be swimming around me. I just imagine that as my body floats on the service of the water, there are huge sharks, sting rays, and clown fish with crazy teeth just hoping for a snack of “white meat.” There was no chance I wanted to actually stick my head in the water and stare the scary fish in the face as they chewed on my toes! I haven’t even mentioned my fear of drowning and the fact that I don’t even like to eat fish, why would I want to swim with them? After reciting in my head the top 100 reasons why I never would snorkel, I realized Jesse was still staring at me and waiting for me to share his enthusiasm about the chance for another adventure! I politely reminded him that I had eye surgery 6 weeks earlier and “I shouldn’t stick my eyes in the water” (the least of my worries, but most socially acceptable excuse). Jesse is a persistent little punk to say the least and with the assurance that our retired marine, super athletic, friend, Tracy, would coach me through the entire process, I decided it was the perfect day to conquer some of my fears. We stood in the refreshing water and I attempted to get my flippers on. I took more than 5 minutes to don my flippers and I am certain Tracy didn’t know what she was getting into. Jesse swam ahead saying he would meet us at the reef. I slowly swam in the clear, blue water toward the reef and my “coach” asked me if I wanted to put my mask on and look in the water. I said, “Not a chance.” We then decided it would actually be better for me to get the hang of swimming with the flippers on before I added another new concept to my adventure. Apparently, I don’t have the best swimming form and with the way I was flapping my wings and feet, I would have scared away all ocean life that was near. Once I was able to maintain a proper, gentle float and paddle in the water it was time for skill number two; putting on my snorkel mask and learning to breathe with it. It took no small amount of convincing for me to venture putting on the mask and mouth piece. While afloat and a fair distance from shore, I realized the masks in the Dominican aren’t sterilized and I didn’t know how many other people had sucked on the mouth piece I now held in my hands. Tracy convinced me that since we were in salt water; it was like cleaning the mouth piece with Normal Saline, just like I would on a hospital ward. I thought that logic was slightly faulty and I secretly wished I had an alcohol swab or autoclave to boil the germ infested thing, but no luck, I took a deep breath and placed the breathing device in my mouth. At this point, we were nearing the reef and I could see my friend, Jesse, bobbing up and down with excitement each time he emerged from the water. He made some smart remark like “it’s about time you showed up and good thing you stopped your floundering, you would scare the fish!” I gave it back to him and yelled, “Pipe down, I am working on conquering years of fear, you can show a little patience and you invited me!” I also reminded him that he better not make an swift movements and that I would KILL him if he dropped pieces of fish food near me (the rental place gives bottles of bread to customers to, which they can use to draw the fish into view)! If I worked up the nerve to stick my head in the water I didn’t want to touch the fish! After some serious Lamaze breathing, I figured out I could actually breathe with my mask on and I put my head into the water. A whole new, incredibly, wet world was in front of me. It freaked me out! I rapidly pulled my head out of the water, ripped my mask off, and coughed up a lung. My mask didn’t fit correctly. Tracy kindly, switched masks with me and things improved. I worked up the courage to stick my head into the water a few times. Tracy would find something interesting, like an actual piece of the reef that was still alive (because stupid tourists have touched and stood on the reef, so the majority of it is dead) and then I would put my face in to look, but that was it. I also saw a sea urchin, some beautiful colorful fish, and a star fish! My friends saw tons of creatures, but I was content to bob in the water, with my head above the water, as long as my friends came back to the surface every 45 seconds to check on me. It was nearing time to return our rental gear and I was going under for a few more looks. I exhaled and took a deep breath. I stuck my head under the water and much to my surprise there were fish ALL around me. They were so close. I screamed! Some were touching me. Unlike most tourists; I was not impressed. I started kicking and swimming away as fast as I could. I then looked over my shoulder to see Jesse snickering and laughing his head off. That little punk friend of mine was playing his own little game of Hansel and Gretel. While I was innocently bobbing around in the ocean water he had been swimming around me under water and had spread a layer of bread crumbs all around me in a circle and the fish had come to eat the bread! The little Hansel and Gretel trick was enough for me. I swam back to shore and turned in my snorkel gear. Tracy and Jesse followed laughing and laughing. Weeks after the experience and now that my lungs are free of all the ocean water I swallowed, I can say Tracy was such a champ to put up with me in the face of my fears. I wouldn’t have completed my snorkel adventure without Tracy’s encouragement and as for Jesse…humm…my current challenge is resisting the temptation to get even with him… Just kidding… I thank God for friends that challenge me to grow and I am so thankful that God is with us whether we are facing small fears or big fears. He is always there! May you know that truth today!

Life & Death

Although many of us hate to think about it; life is short. Each day we are given is a gift. We do not know the hour or time our lives will end. One day you may be remembering the “good old days” when you used to cut grass for the old lady from church. The next day you hear death snatched her, your grandmotherly figure, away before you got to tell her how important she was to you. Or consider this, a humble, servant hearted, middle-aged father of 12; gone in the blink of an eye. Death is not prejudice and no matter how hard we try to fight it; death is a part of life. Death is the only certain thing in life, but still it surprises us. And somehow we still try to convince ourselves that we can escape it with the right formula. Suppose I quit my job, move to Africa, and serve the poor. Can my life then be free from the pain and hurt that death brings? No. She came seeking “hope and healing.” Sure, her surgery was risky, but we are trained professionals. She was a middle-aged mother, it couldn’t have been “her time,” but it was. What did we do wrong? What if we had gotten there sooner? What if we would have had more advanced technology? The “what ifs” could go on forever, reality; she is gone. What about the wee babe, merely four months old. The babe was wrapped tight, but breathing softly while being held closely by a loving African mama. The hospital crew member escorted the pair into the ship to wait in line to see the doctor. While in the cargo hold (patient waiting room), death came and snatched that precious babe away from its young, loving mother. Why? How? What? Can’t we be immune from the horror of death? What about the young life waiting in line at another screening location, why them? How was it that when we scanned the room moments earlier, all appeared okay? Why did the tumor win when help was so close? With a heavy heart and mind plagued with the intensity of losing three patients in one week, I run around the hospital ward getting ready for one of the most exciting events in the lives of our VVF patients: the “Dress Ceremony.” When our patients have successfully recovered from surgery it is something to celebrate. My job as VVF Co-Coordinator includes helping prepare the women for their dress ceremony. Our VVF women come to the ship smelly, constantly soaked in urine, plagued with frequent infections, without work, homeless, alone, and “dead.” After surgery they are “reborn” and given another chance at life. To celebrate we give each healed woman a beautiful, traditional African dress during a special ceremony in their honor (see photo). The women have a chance to share their personal stories and my patients that wouldn’t smile upon arrival to the ship now dance like teenagers to the sound of the conga drums banging in the corner of the ward. Their excitement is palpable and songs burst forth throughout the hospital. One lady stands and shares, “I came with tears… I go home with joy!” Another woman, who had been leaking urine for over ten years, timidly admits, “I tried EVERYTHING; I even went to the fetish priest, but he couldn’t help me, but HERE I found help. No more witchdoctors they just take my money. I will keep my money and eat my chicken… no more sacrifices!” The intensity of life here is unreal. I could go home and ignore it all, but would that really change anything? No; life begins and life ends, no matter where we are. I grieve. I celebrate. No matter the pain and confusion my heart may feel, it is my pleasure to celebrate and grieve with my patients. I have no doubt that life truly is a gift and for the time being my challenge comes with learning how to open that gift and enjoy the “present.”

My World is Rocking

My world is rocking; mentally, spiritually, physically, and literally. As I sit here in my new cabin, the Mercy Ship, which I call my home, is gently swaying back and forth; left, then right, left, and then right. My stomach threatens to revolt against the ever so gentle, but constant movement. The ship did not move this much in Liberia, I am certain of it! The rocking ship is only one of the differences I am encountering as I have returned to my “home” and in far too many ways; I reminded I am “home,” but my home has changed. The biggest difference, I am not in Liberia anymore. The ship has moved to Benin, West Africa, a country boarded by Togo, to the west, and Nigeria to the east. I will be honest with you; I miss Liberia. But, for the next 10 months, Benin is my home. My arrival to Benin has given me the chance for new adventures and new challenges. Challenge number one, my new role and job on the ship. While I was in Texas, the Ward Supervisor from the ship emailed me and offered me the position of co-coordinating the care of our Vesico-Vaginal Fistula (VVF) patients. VVF patients are women who have experienced tragic pregnancies causing intense damage of their internal anatomy and plumbing causing them to constantly leak and drip urine. As you can imagine, these women smell horrific and they are often oppressed and considered “dead” to society. Because of limited education and access to healthcare, there are many young women suffering from this horrible condition. The good news, we can help, and that is what we are doing. I am sharing the role of coordinating the care for these precious broken women. When I arrived on the ship, two nurses were sharing the coordinator role, but one of them is leaving this week. So, in my jetlagged state, I am assuming the position of a sponge; soaking up all the knowledge I can before my trainer leaves. It has proven to be interesting. I am starting to get the hang of things, but there is still so much to learn. I am basically sharing the role of tracking the surgical process and care of our VVF patients from admission to discharge from the hospital. I make rounds with the physician every morning, we discuss the plan of care for the day, I write doctor’s orders, I monitor the progress of our patients, and I do everything else in between. I share a pager with my Norwegian colleague and one of us is on call 24-hours a day. I answer questions from the ward nurses about the care of our patients, run back and forth from the pharmacy, track statistics, and come up with outrageous, creative ways to solve problems without modern supplies. The title to my job would imply that I know something about what I am doing. I am not so certain that is the truth at this point, but I have had experience in urology and gynecology surgical nursing and I cared for the VVF patients for almost 1.5 months straight in Liberia. Hopefully, the rest will come. Challenge number two; language. The official language in Benin is French. I don’t speak French and if I did, I am not so sure it would help considering some sources report there are around 51 languages in Benin and possibly 162 dialects. It is an incredible challenge to communicate with my patients. We have translators on the ward, but there are so many languages in Benin, it is impossible to always have a translator that can communicate with every patient we currently have admitted. It is time consuming and often comical trying to get answers to simple questions that nurses love, such as, “did you poop today?” Picture this process. I speak English to a French translator. She speaks to a translator who speaks French and a tribal language. The translator that speaks the tribal language talks to a patient who speaks the same tribal language and the tribal dialect of the patient I am trying to communicate with. My question is finally asked to the patient I am caring for and then the answer attempts to get back to me in one piece. It is worse than a 6th grade game of “telephone tag.” Worse yet, every time I try to speak to someone, Spanish words come out, because my only foreign language is Spanish and any time I hear a foreign language, my brain automatically spits out Spanish! Yikes! Oh, you will never hear me say my life is boring! Are there more challenges in my life? You better believe it… Maybe I should say “adventures” instead of “challenges.” Yes, let’s put a positive twist on the matter… Adventure number three; we are terribly short of ward nurses and other medical staff. Therefore, I will not be able to dedicate my time solely to the VVF co-coordinator role. I am needed on the ward and I am needed as a charge nurse. Umm… I am going to fit in my VVF co-coordinator role, do two or three refresher shifts as a ward nurse, and then three training shifts to learn the role of charge nurse for the ward. At that point I will balance VVF co-coordinator, ward nurse, and charge nurse. I think at this moment in time a good word to describe my feelings would be…. FREAKED OUT! Oh, but on a positive note… I am still a licensed nurse in New Hampshire! The details don’t matter, I have a nursing license! As I write, the ship continues to rock back and forth and my eyelids are getting heavy and beckoning me to surrender to sweet sleep. Well, we hope the sleep is sweet; the air conditioner has been under repair since my return to the ship… It hasn’t been as cool as I would wish for. But if I can only have one of my recent 27th birthday wishes, I will endure the heat and continue to wish (pray) for strength, passion, and energy to carry on and trust in my powerful God as my life is rocking back and forth in so many ways.

Hotter than Hades- A Blog from the Past

Thick smoke came billowing from the structure. Flames danced about and the fire was getting hotter and bigger. The potential for serious damage was increasing. The brave firefighters, dressed in their heavy fire gear, entered the burning structure. The pair hit a wall of heat immediately upon entering the treacherous scene. The estimated temperature inside the flaming building was 500*-600* Fahrenheit. The two firefighters clung to the fire hose in their hands; their life line. Crouching to escape the heat, the courageous crew sprayed short intense bursts of water above the fire in hope of cooling the thermal heat layer that was intensifying, without creating too much steam. Next, they shot powerful floods of water at the base of the fire. Soon the fire was extinguished, but the building was still hotter than Hades and the smoke-steam combination made blinding conditions. The fire team slowly and carefully backed out of the room following their hose as a lifeline. Outside in the fresh air, the fire fighters ripped off their muggy face masks and collapsed on the ground. I sat on the ground, exhausted, over-heated, and quit proud of myself for surviving the first practical phase of the basic safety training; fire fighting. I couldn’t believe I just stared deadly fire in the face and I began to wonder what in the world I was doing as a nurse, dressed in fire gear? Then I remembered if the ship that I live on catches fire, it isn’t like we can call 911…we (the crew) are 911… I was training to be “911!” Before I had time to really catch my breath, I was pulling the pin out of a fire extinguisher and spraying down a simulated Class C, electrical fire. Next, I found myself with a team of others, trudging forward with a heavy hose, shooting a powerful spray of water toward a dangerous fire. One step after the other, working as a team, we made a water spray-shield to protect one of our team members from the heat of the fire as they shut off the fuel supply to the boiling, liquid, fire in front of us. Training exercise after exercise, continued all morning long. Sweating and physically drained, I made a mental note to thank all the firefighters I know for their hard work and service to the world. Finally, the long day on the fire field came to an end. My heart and mind raced with adrenaline after the intense day in the heat and heavy fire gear. I had successfully faced some incredible physical challenges and I was on my way to completion of the US Coast Guard’s Basic Safety Training Course. It was actually fun and an adventure, I dare say I would be willing to sweat, get scared out of my wits, and fight fire rather than sit in class any day! With one course down, only First Aid, CPR, and sea survival ahead!

Black Water

I hear the rooster crow outside my window far before I want to wake up, but the constant crowing reminds me that I better get out of bed if I want the luxary of electricity to help me find the toilet and sink in the bathroom. Maybe it would actually be better to not see the friendly little cockroaches on the floor in front of my feet! In the Dominican Republic, electricity is a luxary and is only on certain hours of the day.

Each day begins with a quick breakfast, conversation with God, and review of the plan for the day. We hop into the rental vehicle and pull onto the street in front of our hotel. We are greeted with a fresh, ocean breeze and view of the teal, blue, ocean water. Our group heads into a neighborhood of Puerto Plata, known as ¨Aguas Negras,¨ or ¨Black Water¨ ... A section of town no tourists visit, but a slum often littered with rubbish and dirty water. But nonetheless, a part of town in the process of an incredible reformation thanks to God and years of service from volunteer organizations, and Mercy Ship's crew. In a neighborhood previously viewed as destitute and hopeless there now shines a glimmer of hope. We are working with the local

¨Mother Teresa¨ of the Dominican Republic. An incredible woman of God with a passion and burden for her community and the lost. Through this woman and mentors from many volunteer agencies, there is now a club for boys and girls where they are taught life skills, to make a living, which helps them get off the street. There is a sewing business, a clinic, a church, and two schools.

We pull up to the school and there are numerous toothless grins to great us. The young milk chocolate and carmel children are our joy and focus. We have been given the gift of time to share and teach the children anything we wish. A few years ago, these children only dreamed of the opportunity to go to school. The local government refuses to enroll these children in the public schools because they have no papers, birth records, and they are extremely poor so...

¨they are none existent and not important.¨ Praise God, things have changed for these children and they are now able to attend school and learn. And more importantly, they learn the TRUTH! The school these children are attending was built by Mercy Ships!

Our assignment: teach the children about health and spiritual truths, teach in manner that the children will remember it and not only remember,¨once when I was small....some white people came to my school...¨ Easier said than done! With much thought, an infamous dental rap, in Spanish, was ressurected from the past. The main rap star, you better believe it... me... The best part, this past week, I taught 10 street boys, ages 11-14, the rap and they took over for me and were the star performers sharing the rap in the school we worked in this week! Dental and hand hygiene were topics of one teaching session, in the other sessions we focused on reminding the kids that each of them are unique and special in God's eyes. We helped the kids make little dolls out of pipe cleaners, yarn, and tongue depressors. We then shared with the kids that just like each of their dolls were created, they too were created and they are special.

For another class session, we took individual photos of each kid and printed them with colored ink and then the kids made picture frames for their photos. The kids loved all the activites! Many of my hours these past few weeks have been spent with the school children. I have hundreds of new little friends ages 4-8! The schools we worked in were very small and at times the noise level in the school was intense! Imagine twenty 3-4 year olds in a room 20x10 feet! Oh, my goodness. At one point all the little kids were screaming in Spanish and I was sitting on a little chair in the center of them. They were throwing balls at my head, singing songs, dancing, clapping, and attempting to saw my arms off with their fake chainsaw. Oh, the fun. I used some of my limited Spanish and said, "I'm scared!" The little kids would giggle and continue to "saw me apart limb-by-limb with the chainsaw." I have been up to many other things... but those stories will have to come later. For now, I enjoy the fact that my little lumberjack friends call my name and come running into my arms any time I walk into their community and cross over the cultural divide into the "Black Water."