You’ll have
heard of the anguish and fret of the last year or so. The grief, the battles,
the fear, of worlds being turned upside down, the loss of dreams, of life, of
so many things we have taken for granted; of hugs, for connecting in person
with those we love. It cannot be minimised and even for me who has sailed on
the side-lines for the most part, there have been moments of pure terror and
ones I will never forget.
But there
are also stories that hide beneath the surface of the fiery flames that have
deposited rich beauty and they are worthy to be shared. There is always another
side to every story and it reminds me that not only has this season been a gift
of time, but that this journey we are on, it really is just the beginning.
I was in
Senegal from the end of January until late April, working with the Government
and other partners to prepare for the ship to come back and deliver the
promises that had been put on hold a year before. We always knew it would be a
challenge and were seeking the ‘right time’ to go back and it turned out to be
an extremely challenging few months both professionally and personally, not
least because 2 of us managed to pick up this dreaded COVID-19 virus during an
unusual time of civil unrest with riots not far from where we were staying and
from where we could hear the gun shots. We ended up returning ‘home’ to
strengthen our plans, get vaccinated and prepare for a ship return in early
2022. Let me tell you about a few of the untold stories from these last few
months…
Mohammed
Barry, aka flipflop
man. The angel that popped up inexplicably, and always just at the right time. It
was on our evening strolls to the Place de l’Independence that we met Mr
flipflop man. His beaming smile was like sunshine to our souls. The days were
dark and scary and his gentle – almost carefree presence – brought comfort and
peace. It was on one particularly hard day when I had considered what it might
be to lose my job, or to choose to walk away from it that the impending doom
washed over me as I thought about the loss of friendships, relationships,
partnerships…. It hurt and I called out to God, ‘Lord, I really need to feel
your presence tonight’. I couldn’t imagine how I would sleep that night; I was
worried, I was scared, I was hurt. It was a desperate plea. We’d been sitting
on ‘our bench’ for a little while already, just catching our breath. We watched
as our regular evening friends walked by and dusk began to settle. They didn’t
know of our friendship, but they had become sources of comfort to us, and even
joy. The cloud of hopelessness hung heavy that night, until, seemingly from
nowhere, his bright sparkly eyes met ours, hands stretched - fanned out with
pairs of flip flops. ‘Bonsoir mes amies! Bonsoir! Ca va? Et la journee?’. He
then proceeded to offer to buy us a coconut; not wanting to say no, we
accepted, but said just one was fine. He came back with one coconut and 2
straws and looked at us, ‘I need to get you another one’. And off he popped – 2
coconuts it was. Pure extravagant love, melting all my fears away. A messenger
of love and an answer to my cry.
Grapefruit
lady. We could see
her from our COVID-ward bedroom window with her tray balanced on a wooden table
selling little bags of nuts, some grain warming on a little fire and always a
few grapefruit. ‘Coffee man’ had his stall just across the road and each day we
watched as he would help her get her table set up or adjust the umbrella as the
full sun landed on her spot. We felt jealous for her life some days – not
naïve enough to think it was an easy one, but the simplicity drew our hearts
and the tender moments of humans mingling together had an unspoken sense of
freedom and simple joy.
The
security guy.
Parking the car became a pleasure with this guy around because he always gave
us marks out of 10. Sometimes I got 10/10 but sometimes 12/10 or sometimes
100/100. He would write it on the car window that was covered in a generous
layer of Dakar dust. He never failed to make me smile as he came running as our
car approached. He said we were his favourites; I’m not sure if it was true,
but it sure felt like it. It’s so important, isn’t it? The way people make you
feel.
Ramata
(not her real name)
is a beautiful young lady. As a child, she suffered from severe burns that did
not get treated properly and she was left with a contracture which meant the
function of her right arm was very limited. Mercy Ships provided surgery for
her to release this and, in the process, she suffered some complications which
mean she did not get the result she as hoping for. We went to meet her to see
how she was getting on and to contribute to the ongoing support that Mercy
Ships have offered her. I was nervous. I thought she might be upset and I
wasn’t so sure how much more pain my heart could take. My fears dissolved as I
listened to this beautifully humble lady. She accepts that complications
happen. I notice a bulging tear as she shares the hope and dreams that her late
parents had for her. I sense disappointment, grief, but I do not sense failure,
nor do I feel even a hint of bitterness.. She spoke of her hope to write a
poetry book. She twinkled. As we walked away, I wished I would have such grace
if I were her and I feared that I would not. I think she offered me more hope and
healing that day than we had offered her, but then there is always more
than meets the eye.
The
growing relationships on the ground – when the ship left unexpectedly, there were
a whole host of patients that had been delivered a message of hope that then received
the message that they had to wait. Imagine. And so over a year later, we have
finally reached the point where we can partner with the Ministry of Health and
the only Christian Hospital in Senegal to provide some of these surgeries and to end
the wait for these patients. We are about bringing hope and healing and we are
about strengthening the surgical health system…. it’s a delight to me that this
‘gift of time’ has birthed deeper relationships and opened new doors to do just
that.
Then there
was the time we left some remnants of darkness in the sea. No more needs
to be said, but trust me, He is a redeemer and a healer, of that I am sure. I
guess this whole season has been a journey of trust, of walking by faith and
not by sight.
You see, the stories we experience, they are just the beginning… in my longing to feel known, to be loved and to know what it is to love, I am slowly realising that there is another side to this story and it’s only just dawning on me that I can feel known in this way. There is a furious kind of love that is pounding at my door and it feels that same kind of wrenching pain my own heart does when it doesn’t know where to land or if anyone will receive it. What if, just like me, He longs for the day I can fully understand His love? Not pent up or misunderstood, but fiercely, boldly, something I can truly behold?
I’m not
pretending there’s not pain or grief or sometimes even paralysing dread and
fear. I’m just celebrating the One who provides, the One who helps me see, and
the gimmers of gold that are found in the stories that are sometimes left
untold. I’ve felt like I have literally felt His breath on my face these last
few months and if it takes leaving my comfort zone to feel it, I'm OK with that.
May your
stories unfold with furious love and gentle grace.
Love
always, KWW
‘Do we ever really trust when we can see,
Willie Juan?’
‘I’d love to tell you otherwise, John, but what
faith I have has been strengthened in the dark. It’s just the way it is.’
From ‘patched together’ by Brennan Manning
A few of my favourites these last months...
Blessed, by Kalley
You'll see, you'll see
Blessed, blessed are those
