He Wants To.

I sat on the beach Saturday morning. Signe, Macullough, and I had taken a three day vacation to Thinker’s. It’s a beautiful beach with a house all to ourselves. We had our own living room and two bedrooms. Signe and I had our own bathroom and huge closet! The man, named Arthur, led us to this beach house that we had reserved and began showing us around. I thought of my sisters and father as I began clasping my hand over my mouth and exclaiming, as if I had never seen one before, “Signe! We have a bathtub! Our own sink and toilet! Look at the bed! The closet! It’s all ours!” Macullough could be heard in the next room as he discovered the luxuries of his very own pad. (To Papa, Kyrie and Chalice:) It was like Survivor. Experiencing such luxury for the first time. It was rich. We had our very own porch. It was small, like 5 Talbot, but it was ours. We had our own sitting room. Our own couches. No other mercyshipers walked around. Only us three. We used that porch during the three days. Oh let me tell you. The porch was gold. It was home. Macullough sat on the left, Signe on the right. I sat off the porch, facing the house, on my white plastic chair. The generator stopped working after an hour so we were without electricity. They brought us a bucket of water. We sat on our porch during the evenings, soaking our feet and enjoying each other in the moon’s light. The porch was still ours when the sun rose the next morning. Signe woke around 8:30. I followed nearly 15 minutes later. I had rolled over, seeing her side was empty, I sat up. I glanced in the mirror, liking what I saw. And that last line Kyrie will understand. I love what salt water does to the hair. It starches it all up. Kinks it and takes the oil out. I get the authentic bed head look. It’s so rugged. No electricity. No showers. Beach. Sand. Salt. Kinky hair. Real living. Perfect living. Kyrie gets me if you don't.

I walked out to our porch. Signe sat. I smiled slightly. Then sat down next to her. The african, Arthur, came up right away. “Coffee? Tea? You want drinks?” He brought us our coffee and tea. I drank three cups of coffee. It was my first time. I’ve never drank coffee. Lowen, I think my taste buds have finally matured, as you always assured me they would. Sugar cubes were lying near the cream. I dipped them slightly in my mug. The drink ran through them. I sucked on sugar for the next hour and half as Signe and I enjoyed our porch.

Sometime on Saturday I found myself sitting alone, Macullough’s Ipod Shuffle in hand. I sat, my knees to my chest, facing the waves. The position eventually tired and I leaned back on my elbows. Finally, I surrendered to the sand and laid my head down. The back of my arms hit the small stones and stuck to my flesh as I rested them. I had brought along Signe’s Bible. Signe bought “The Message” a couple weeks ago which is the Bible in contemporary language. I’m not quick to embrace these sorts of things. As a matter of fact I told her right away, a couple weeks ago, that I wasn’t interested in it and personally don’t believe we need anything more then we’ve got. I worry that through such modern translation we can loose things. One day, when Signe wasn’t in the room, I picked it up though and flipped to my favorite book. Hosea. I read it through. I liked what I read. This Saturday afternoon I had fallen victim once again. I read for a long time. I remembered Marilyn always told people interested in the Bible to start with Luke. Luke was the best gospel to start with. I started with Luke that Saturday morning. Luke 5:13 stuck with me too. A leper asked Jesus to heal him. “If you want to, Jesus, you can heal me”, he said. This contemporary translation of Jesus’s response read “I want to. You’re healed”. I read it back again. Something clicked. I told Signe right when I saw her and three days later I’m still thinking about it. I just finished eating dinner with Sam out on promenade deck and discussed it with him also. Jesus didn’t just heal this man because he was the son of God. He doesn’t just forgive us. He doesn't just help us. He doesn't just freely give us grace. He doesn't just die for us. But he does these things with want. Think about that. I thought about it as I laid there on the sand. Half the time I don’t know what I want but when I do, I know how that feels. It’s a sincere longing. It’s an appreciation. It’s a determination. I begin figuring out how I’m going to get it. Jesus wants me. Then he does something. “I want to. Your healed”. I want you. I’m going to die for you. Then I’m going to continue to persue you even when you repeatedly denigh me.

I like that Jesus wants. I began to get worried though that other translations, older translations, hadn't used the word “want”. During lunch today I looked up a few. I found “I do will it. Be made clean”, “I am willing. Be clean!”, and “I do choose. Be made clean”. I wasn’t feeling as confident when I found these. During dinner tonight I told this to Sam. I told him I worried about The Message’s translation going a bit too far and not sticking with the original meaning as tightly as it should. He got this spark in his expression. Sam loves words. He’ll borrow my laptop and when I get it back I’ll find a word document up with a whole string of vocabulary typed out. I had just given him the perfect outlet. “Sienna, let me explain...I too worry about this but this one they did get right. The word ‘will’ comes from the german word ‘To ville’ which means ‘To want’.” There it was. It was accurate! It was true! Jesus did want me. What a thought. Jesus wants us. And then he does something about it.

I want to show you some pictures of me. So now I’m going to.

for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these...

I tell you the truth, anyone who will not recieve the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.

Perfection. This is the word that swarms my mind when I look at African children. I say it all the time. To Signe. To Corinna. To those I’m around. “Look at their faces. It’s perfection to a tee”. I don’t even say it adoringly. I say it matter of factly. I say it in truth. God gave the african skin such purity. I see no blemishes. The skin is smooth and spotless. All the same tint. It is without stain. Each time I look at them, I state the obvious. I see it especially as I look into Blessing’s face. Her round cheeks are noticed first. Then her pure, shiny forehead. Her lips are perfect. Her nose is perfect. Her eyes are beyond words. All I can do is comment on the art of them. I comment. Others don’t seem to see it as I do or maybe they’re used to it. I talk with them, all the while, distracted by their perfection.

On Thursday I traveled to Boumi County in the Land rover with my Human Resources team. The school we normally teach at was on vacation so we went to Boumi County instead to tour three of their villages. Our Community Development Team has been busy educating and working along side Liberians building bridges, wells, and latrines in their villages. We went to check out their progress. Bungi Town stuck out to me the most. I keep thinking about it. The children, of course. We went to see the the work that had been done in the villages to improve their living but the children stole me. Bungi Town is actually where Housekeeping (Macullough) goes each Friday. They’re helping build a church there.

“SARAH, SARAH, SARAH!!!!” All the children yelled in unison as they poured from the mud huts and ran towards the land rover. I had been confused over the greeting but found later they had mistaken me for one of Macullough’s coworkers, Sarah Woodington. They came in huge numbers, more than the previous village or others I’d been too. These ones defined the word, energetic (showing or involving great activity or vitality). They grabbed our hands, asked our names, stated theirs with confidence, and my favorite, they spoke c-l-e-a-r-l-y. I understood. I could understand each word. I don’t know why it was that these kids seemed quite unique from the rest but I was instantly endeared. Even the youngest ones spoke to my understanding. As I stood their repeating my name to the many inquiring faces I felt something touch my knee. I looked down to see perfection. A little one smiled up at me. She lifted her hands wanting to be held. This surprised me too. Normally, the young ones are frightened by white people. They don’t see them often and would rather stay near their brothers and sisters, those that look exactly like them. The 6 and 7 year olds, just to get a laugh, will drag their terrified 1 or 2 year old siblings towards us. They pick them up, grabbing them around their stomachs, and stand right in front of the white people (me) as the 1 year olds burst into tears and begin screaming at this white alien they’ve never see before. This form of entertainment among the 6 and 7 year olds is a common practice. I’m used to being the spectacle of something terrifying. That’s why this little one in Bungi Town, tapping on my knee with her hands raised, surprised me. But I dropped both the children’s hands that I held and picked her up. Her smile was comfortable. I asked her name. “Fifian”. I asked again, not understanding (as usual). “Fifian”. “Fifian”, the other’s repeated, looking at me to say it too. “Fifian?”, I asked. They sort of nodded. “Ohhh. Vivian!! that it?” “Yes. Yes.” Their nod was confident. Others were named “Fanta”, “William”, and my favorite, “So”. More than once they all burst into song. All 50 of them. Singing in perfect unison. Clapping their hands. Stomping their feet. It was like they were thanking us with their voices. Their strong, african voices. Vivian clapped and mumbled along.

Macullough asked later that evening where I had been during the morning. I told him I had gone to Bungi Town and told him how freakin brilliant those children were.

“yeah. they are.” He commented, less then excited. But his words were true.

Yes. They were. They really were.

She Finally Publishes...

These are from the school I teach at every Friday. This is my class.

Kyrie's Words

I just recieved this email from my sister and I appriciate the way in which she turns her thoughts to words. She has good things to say. I wanted you to read it...

you know you talk about savoring those perfect moments. i remember
lowen
told me once : "the minute you start to savor things, your childhood is
over." you think that's true? i mean, as a child you never know when
your
living in a good memory or not. you just kinda skip from one happiness
to
another in your mismatching outfits and knotty hair. then as you get
older, your more aware of when things are good. when things should be
savored. so it's this bittersweetness. savoring moments and then
knowing
why you are.

So it goes...

This morning work has been murder. It would’ve been alright if I had food to eat at 10 or 11. Normally I always have a bowl of peanuts on my desk or a bag of chips. Jens Schierbecker, the manager of our Community Development team, always waltzes in my office around 11:15 each morning asking for the “snack of the day?”. Just recently I’ve had to tell him there is none. I have to stop snacking. I’m not satisfied by this habit of mine. It runs in my family though. I laugh. I am aware that this trait isn’t an odd one. It’s actually quite common among the human race. But the last thing I want to do is have an office job where I eat all the time. It’s really easy to do that. I so look forward to food. My body sways back and forth, in dance when I make my way to the dining room. The morning is the worst. I count down the minutes until 11:45. Steven comes by around that time and picks me up. Today I was a bit anxious and grabbed the phone to ring his office when I heard behind me, “You ready?”. I slammed down the phone. Oh I amuse myself. Lunch was quite good today though. Macaroni and cheese - it has no equal.

Lunch conversation consisted of our anxiety and depression in the 5th season of 24 going on with out us, the new liberian children being adopted by our executive directed, Warrie Blackburn and her husband Brian, and Marilyn Riechert landing safely in New York and visiting the two high points; the Statue of Liberty and Startbucks. She sent photos of each.

On Sunday afternoons Corinna and I walked down the gangway and into town for about an hour to visit our two friends, Koolah and Blessing. Corinna met these girls last March, when the Anastasis had been here before. Koolah is 17 and Blessing is her niece. She’s 4 years old. We walked the dirt road to the home where Koolah and Blessing live. Every time they see us coming, Koolah will open the door as little Blessing pushes her way out. I’ll kneel down, a smile consumes me, and let Blessing run into me. She’s in my arms and Koolah, not far behind. Koolah offers few words but her eyes light up when she sees us. I know it sounds cliché but they do. She welcomes Corinna and I each time with open arms and this smile that’s so obvisouly displaying gratitude and love. She loves. Even if it not be in many words, I see it in her.

Corinna and I took the girls to the ship on Thursday evening. They had dinner with us and later we attended, together, the Community Meeting. When the offering was taking place, they asked all African crew to come up front and announced we were going to do offering African style tonight. When you go to church in West Africa, the offering plate isn’t just passed around. They’re set upfront, near where the preacher stands and the congregation dances their way to plates. This Thursday evening the plates were set on the floor and as the African Crew began their song and dance, the rest of us, non-africans, made our way towards the front. All I remember was how excited I was to have Blessing in my arms. Immediately, as the music started, her head began moving back and forth. Then came her shoulders. Then her waste moved (exactly in synce with the music). This girl had it going on. She was all of 4 years old and this music, this rhythm, was in her bones. I smiled down at her as I stepped away from my chair, following Blessing’s lead, and made my way to the front.

I'm Trying to Figure it Out..(it's a long one but I know my mother won't mind.)

Last Thursday night was our Thursday evening crew meeting in the International lounge. I love these meetings. It’s basically church, but on a Thursday night. Macullough had come knocking on my door around 7:25. His face showed signs of a wearing day. He must have just woken up from the nap that I almost always take right after dinner. I can’t remember if he said anything, just lifted his eyebrows slightly as I motioned “One minute” to grab my chapstick, a piece of double mint gum, and my bible. He thrust one of his arms forward for me to go first, “I don’t like people on my heels..”, he mumbled. Right before we walked into the meeting he stated very seriously, “Not the middle”.

“Fine. but not the back.”
“I want an isle seat.”
“You lead then. No. not too far back. I get distracted.”
“How’s this?”
“Good.”

So I sat. Content to be amongst my ship family. Content to be on the brink of worship. Content to not be sitting in the back. A boy named Michael Corbielle led worship that night. Alot of the time the leader of worship doesn’t tell us to stand up and sometimes people do but not everyone and I tend to get frustrated about this. What I immediately liked about Michael, as he sat on his chair strumming his guitar, was how he started worship. “Guys, I know I’m sitting but that doesn’t mean you need to. Feel free to stand.” Then he almost started singing and I knew no one would stand but then Michael went on, “Alright...everybody stand up!” YES! SCORE! good boy Michael.

Sam walked in midway through the service. Worship had ended and Beth Ann Kern, one of our chaplains/counselors had begun the lecture. The galley works their people well past 7:30 and they always seem to miss the beginning. It’s a shame, I tell you. The incredible thing is that Sam goes into work around 7 or 8 in the morning and doesn’t finish until 7:30 or 8 that night. Then he has to go back into the kitchen around 9 to cover up leftovers. He brought me back last week to show me around and what he does everyday. The kitchen is completely off limits to the crew who don’t work there. But it was past midnight and we doubted anyone would find us. I stood watching as he wrapped the long, deep trays of rice, beans, and chili and slid them onto their shelf and into the massive ship refrigerator. We heard the door creak open but it was out of our eyesight so there was no telling who it was. Immediately I began silently freaking out. My eyes darted to Sam’s as he was sternly motioning for me to get behind the counter. “Get down!”, he whispered. I looked at him with hesitance, my eyes conveying “I better not get caught.” He shoved the last tray into the fridge and we, as quietly as possible, tiptoed our way behind counters and shelves and slipped out the back entrance. Right as we had got out, we heard voices and loud footsteps sounding quite intent on finding out who had been in there. But we were out. I breathed deeply, glad to be out of such a ridiculously intense situation. We headed for my office, where for the next 35 minutes we would be entertained by the edifying conversation of Marilyn Reichert. She leaves tomorrow. I’m going to be a mess. I’ve already been a mess this past week. Snapping at Signe and being moody for no reason that I wish to express amongst my ship mates. Please pray for me.

At the end of Community Meeting I felt no urge to get up and leave as I normally do. I just sat there. The room’s chaos slowly ceased. My eyes wandered as I slouched low in my chair. Sam was sitting in the front row. His eyes showed all signs of being lost in thought. I walked up and sat beside him. He shrugged “Hey”. He had made visible effort to make it sound upbeat but failed in the attempt. Exhaustion consumed him. We sat there together, talking until the room had emptied. At one point he even got off his chair and laid out on the floor, tucking his arms behind his head. While we talked, I discovered something interesting about this life I lead which is what I wished to share with you when I began this entry. But as usual, my title, inspired by my ultimate purpose, has been pushed away until now by my intrusive introduction.

Sam asked me one of his usual straightforward questions that requires a thought out response. Although my response tends to be delayed most of the time, as I sit there trying to come up with something profound to say, I like these questions. Tonight he asked something like, “Sienna, what are you tired of?” I thought. Not for long though. After about 10 seconds I answered, “Myself”. I went on to explain how I’m tired of the routine. I’m tired of not taking initiative. I’m tired of being sick of people. I’m tired of judging people. I’m tired of my attitude. I’m tired of being so burdened by serving the african people. I’m tired of being self-centered. I’m tired of being tired.

“Yeah. Me too.” he responded.

He agreed. Although he had some different conclusions than me, this is what I came up with:

What’s challenging about this life is that there are two different lives that I lead. I’m not totally absorbed in either. I live the conformable, coffee every morning, air conditioned, clean bathrooms, sweet smelling, no heat or humidity life from 9 to 5. Then it flips over and I head out in the land rover invaded by heat, humidity, death, dirt...a third world country. I’m having trouble adapting properly. I’ve thought it was me this whole time and I’m not saying that alot of it isn’t my own problem, but as I elaborated on this question of Sam’s I discovered, as did he, that I’m living two lives. The normal and the not. The conformable and the uncomfortable. A care free life and then one full of devastation. A life of “One mocha please. Oh and with extra hazelnut” and then suddenly surrounded by starving children, hanging on my every limb. I struggle whether to play with them or just hug them and never let go. These lives are completely different and each are completely present. I’m living both. I don’t know which one to adapt to and I’m finding it hard to truly become a part of Liberia when I always have this escape: coming back to this comfortable ship. It’s confusing. I wonder if I make any sense to you.

I don’t say this to complain. I say it in response to Sam’s question. It’s a theory, and personally, I think it’s a pretty good one. It's very interesting to me; the dinamics of this life. What I find right now, is constant anxiety. When I’m out, in the town, surrounded by chaos, heat and dirt..I can’t stop counting down the minutes until I’ll get that warm shower and smell good again. When I’m on the ship, in this nest of comfort, I have this angst to be out. And I only think this way because I can get there. I have the option of getting a warm shower. I have the option of being in air condition. So there’s this hesitation to adapt.

One day I want to go to a place and truly live among the people. I want to live their way and I want my way to be completely and utterly out of reach.

Sam hooked himself up with a ride to Guinee with a car load of Missionaries that have been visiting the ship for a few days. He'll drive the 3-day's journey there, stay for 2 weeks living with these people and then fly back. It cracks me up but seriously impresses me how he works these things out. Him, Cully, and I were all going to take our vacation days together sometime in March and fly off somewhere. But he's using up most of his days on this trip. I'm in HR though, maybe I can work something out and get him more days.

I went to an orphanage last Saturday and met a girl named Sienna. It was a very something-I’ve-never-felt-before feeling. I stared at this child unsure how I felt that she possessed the name my father had chosen for me. It was crazy. The whole morning I thought she had mearly been repeating my name and by the end I found out she was trying to telling me something entirely different. So it was the first one I met. The first Sienna. She was born in Monrovia. All the way in Africa.

and that’s sort of cool.

His Love

"God gazes at you with love,
because you were his idea.
He loves you
as if you were the only person on Earth."

I came accross this quote yesterday. I've been spending my day in thought. I'm trying to understand it.

I love You Papa.

(alright. I just read Adam Belz’s recent blog entry and I’m inspired to write something “short and sweet”. I’m going to try my best)

It’s Boxing Day today. Each day on the Anastasis, I wake up, jump out of bed (I’m the top bunk, so I really do jump), brush my teeth, grab my soul book, throw some comfy pants on and head for the dinning room. I used to be uncomfortable with entering that dinning room so freaking early in the morning. Just being outside the comfort of my own home, invaded by smiling faces and curious people. The dinning room exhausts. I used to be uncomfortable walking in there with my morning face. Now it’s routine. It’s normal. When I stop to think what my “normal” has become, it sort of astonishing. I was siting out on the dock, Christmas eve night, with Signe and one of Macullough’s roommates, Matthew Cramer, and this question came up. I had commented on how something wasn’t normal and then immediately questioned myself by stating, “Well, what is normal?” My normal used to be family and home. It’s now invasive faces and chaotic streets. My normal is this unsettling independence and a job that a 30 or 40 year old should have taken but they’ve decided this 18 year old would suffice. My normal is full of bad smells, horrific deformities, out-of-this world recovery stories, and the constant battle to serve others over myself. This new normal is the relentless pressure to put this crazy life into words and the daily pushing of self to bigger and better things.

Each morning, after I enter that invading dining room, I head back to my cabin to brush my teeth. On the way though, every morning, I stop in reception. There’s a sign that changes with every morning. It’s titled “Daily Plan”. Each day, the new date appears at the top and it list the events that will take place. This morning, since it’s the ship’s holiday, there wasn’t much planned but it told about the history of Boxing Day. The Chief Electrician, Craig Rogers from Australia, was in my cabin last night and told me there, too, the history of this 26th day in December. The daily plan read: Boxing Day, December 26th, is a public holiday in Australia. The day probably takes its name from the fact that on the day after Christmas in Britain, the alms boxes which had been placed in the churches over the Christmas period were opened. The contents were distributed to the poor. On the same day, apprentices and servants broke open small earthenware boxes in which their masters had deposited small sums of money. In large households, the family may have used this day to distribute Christmas boxes to their staff.

That’s what I stopped for in Reception, to read this morning, after I finished eating my bowl of frosted flakes. That was the 26th day of December.

I woke up the morning of the 25th expecting to feel something hollow. Or rather, I went to bed expecting to wake up feeling something hollow. I woke up though, with usual excitement. Usual giddiness. Usual happiness. Usual smile. I woke up on December 25, 2005 very similarly to my past December 25th’s. I thought I’d be sad. Thought I’d be comparing. Thought I’d be annoyed. Yet the morning had come. The 25th had finally come. All the sadness, comparing and annoyances had their places the weeks prior. During the preparation of Christmas is when I compared. The pre-Christmas frenzy is when I became annoyed. When this morning finally came to pass, maybe it was a feeling of relief that spurred on my happiness. Maybe just knowing all the holiday preparation and all the weeks that come before Christmas, which are supposed to be spent with family, we’re over. They had passed. No more comparing. No more exhausting wishing for what I couldn’t have. Finally this day of untraditional preparation had come. The day, alone, was happy. I loved the day. I woke with childish enthusiasm as I jumped out of bed. Tarme and I sat, 6:30 in the morning, squatting down, pointing with unconfined excitement at the presents that had filled each shoe laying outside our door. Our shoes had filled. Presents overflowed. They laid all around. Small baggies of baked goods and a gift certificate for a mary-kay handmasage I saw first. Lafe Wood, a boy on the ship, was still up, distributing his presents and came around the corner to find us rummaging through our shoes. Embarrassed at our own inescablable childness, we rushed inside.

Tarm had to go to work in the ward at 7 and wouldn’t be done until 2. The girls and I waited to open our gifts until this family member had returned. I went back to bed, surprising myself by how quickly I fell back to sleep, not waking until 10. I woke to Anna’s finance below me. He had come in, waking her gently on this Christmas morning. It made me smile.

I had a good Christmas. I’m especially enjoying these days afterward. I’m relieved the preparation is done. The comparing it over.

(yeah. Adam’s was a bit shorter. I try again next time)

Break Your Fear-of-Man Problem by Agressively Loving People.

Good morning homeland! It’s Sunday afternoon, the 18th of December. It’s exactly 7 days until Christmas and I’ll repeat myself again: It’s never felt less like Christmas in my entire life. As I type I’m lying on a beach called “Thinkers”. It’s the first beach I’ve been to that's a complete reminder of my homeland. The waves roar. The sand, white. The sun blazes. My eyes squint. My head begins to ache. I remember Jack’s words or rather Linnea’s but that Jack had said. “ Don’t squint. That’s what Jack says. Even though you feel like you have to, don’t. It’s not good for your head. Just relax them. Look down a bit. Just don’t squint.” So I remember these wise words and do my best. Oh it’s glorious though, even with the bit of ache in the head, it’s shear glory. Gone from the ship. Gone from the routine. Gone from the 390 familiar faces. Residing at a place unknown to most the crew, along with my three roommates. It’s a nice time. A time completely devoted to self. And I’m reminded of what a wretched, selfish sinner I am, wanting to be all my myself, not interuppted by anyone else concerns but my own. I know I must sound whiny to you, but what I wish you to know is that I really am grateful for this life I lead. I honestly do treasure it and I doubt that’s hard for you to believe. I’m on african soil, living with african people, eating african food, walking down african streets. I do treasure it. I know I’ll miss it. But at this moment, on this beach, I feel like I’m some place familiar, some place like home, and that feeling is so restoring. Does that make sense? Many times I long for home but I know that when I’m home I’ll miss this home...this african home of mine. I think more than anything, and I’ve said this before, I miss those who know me true.

My beloved Kyrie was thinking about coming here and spending New Year’s with me on the ship. Just the thought of that is unbelievable to me. Finally, last friday, I got the long awaited phone call. The phone rang in my cabin and as I jumped for it, I stopped and quickly prayed “Dear God, make me content with whatever the captain has decided. Oh dear God, just give me peace. Help me to glorify your name is whatever decision has been made.” I really did pray that. I wanted to be okay with a “no”. I really did.

I answered and the only thing I heard was “YES”. That’s it. There was no “Is Sienna there?”...just the most coveted “YES”. I couldn’t even process it. I flipped. “Excuse me. what?”

“SIENNA? is this sienna?”

“yeah, it’s me.”:

“He said YES, Sienna..he said YES!”

“You’re kidding me. dang it. oh my gosh.”

Marilyn had called with the good news and had been pulling all sorts of strings for weeks in order for this to happen. She was so excited for me. Right away she called with the good news and then began planning for flight agents and working out out entire agenda when Kyrie would come. Two of my roommates didn’t feel comfortable with having Kyrie stay in our cabin over their Christmas Break and Marilyn immediately offered up her cabin (which holds two) and when I hesitated, wondering where she’d stay, she would have none of it. “No. it’s yours. Kyrie and yours. For two weeks. Don’t worry about me, Sienna. It’s yours and Kyrie’s.” Marilyn is honestly one of the most incredible woman I’ve known. I’m going to have another long cry when she leaves in about 3 weeks. I hate to think. I shutter to think. So I don't think. All that said, there was the possibility of Kyrie coming and I’m telling you, that possibility was beautiful. And you know what else I prayed when I found out the captain said YES to kyrie coming? I thanked God for the joy of the possibility. I wasn’t naive. I knew there were other factors and hurtles that would most definitely get in the way of my sister joining me but I thanked my God for the mercy in this hope.

Plans did fall through and those other factors that I was well aware of, have stood in the way. But even though it won’t work out, those couple days of holding the mere possibility of someone who knows me true, coming to see me, gave me such joy. Unexplainable joy, And so, I thank you God, for that. I thank you for those who know me true and love me in spite of it. Oh God, how I thank you for the immense joy that these people give. And you know what else I’m grateful for? (I know, it all comes out now, sitting on a beautiful beach will do that..make you grateful. Go try it.) I’m grateful for being away because my heart is steadily growing fonder of what I daily took for granted at home.

Kyrie, I’m counting down the days when I can behold your face. And I have to stop writing about this because I’m getting teary and the others sitting beside me are wondering why and I’m probably making them uncomfortable.

Marilyn and I and a couple others went to the markets yesterday. We walked the couple blocks through the polluted and chaotic streets of Liberia, shoving out way through masses of people and loud cars, beeping mercilessly, exhaust fuming, me coughing. Marilyn kept grabbing me and telling me to watch out for the men. She warned me I’d get proposed to more than once this day. She was right. Men kept shouting “I want you. You! Come here.” I’d stupidly look their way and they’d scream again “Yeah. You. I like you. I want to marry you”. They’d then, thinking Marilyn was my mother, persist in asking her permission. Only once did one actually grab my arm when I wouldn’t look at him. I broke it loose and gave him a nasty look and he got angry and walked off. I immediately felt bad and wished I had been kinder.

The african market scene. The first scene that I was totally and utterly absorbed in and had complete satisfaction in. Besides the scary men, there are booths every where, small children everywhere, selling all sorts of things. Countless wheelbarrows carrying merchandise. Anything from girl’s hair clips to dried banana chips to tiger skins and dead rats were being thrown at us for a demanded price. The game of the market is bartering. I began quite shy and unsure of myself. Please just give me a dang price and I’ll pay it, I felt like saying. I’d really rather not sit here and argue. You scare me. I walked into that market a full-blood 18 year old american and I’m proud to say that I walked out still a full-blood 18 year old american but with a bit of african boldness. By the end of the day I was calling these market dealers on their unfair prices, hailing cabs, telling them my price or I’d walk and instead of laughing awkwardly at the boys who asked my hand in marriage, I’d look them straight in the eye and say rather confidently, “You don’t even know me, please leave me alone.” It was a good day. The markets a mosh pit. I thought I’d feel claustrophobic, and there were times I did, but I got confident kinda quickly and, I don’t know, but the scene intrigues and excites me. Maybe it was just the fact that I haven’t shopped in over 2 and half months and that fact alone provided substantially powerful excitement. African materials, multi colored plastic-ware, huge pooh bear and pokemon bags, piles of unmatched shoes, rice, beans, woman and small boys with tubs of apples on their heads, and even Christmas twinkle lights and small fake Christmas trees littered the streets as I squeezed my way through. Macullough was going to come but decided, in the end, that 10 am was way to early for heat, noise and people. So he stayed in bed.

Tonight is the last advent service on the ship. Every Sunday night we have evening services but for the past 3 we’ve had special advent ones. They’re very special. The doors close at 7 so if you’re not on time, to bad. They open again at 10 past but the lighting of the candle and the reading are at 7 and in order not to taint the scene they ask that we be there on time and tell us that the doors will shut at 7o’clcok. I’ve been shut out once. I think Macullough’s been shut out every time. i laugh.

Sam’s been spending alot of his time applying for Harvard these past couple weeks. He’s just got his application in last week and is nervously awaiting their decision. Please pray for him. Pray that he’ll have peace and gratitude in whatever the decision is. Just pray for his peace of mind. The boy’s full of knowledge. He seeks for it relentlessly. His curiosity and thoughtfulness astonishes me. It’s extraordinary. I know he’d do Harvard a lot of good. Covenant would miss him.

If I have faith that can move mountains, but have NOT LOVE, I am nothing.

Alright. I’m setting the record straight. My goal now is to post once a week. This way I’m giving myself a week to process what I should tell you and a week to just let things happen without constantly thinking how will I put this into words. During the week I’m going to just live my life and then by the weekend I’ll write it out for you. Every once in a while you may get a post during the week but, just so you know, my vision as of December 4th, is to live out my stories during the week and then put them into words either on Saturday or Sunday.

I love the verse I used as my title. I really do. I’ve been stuck on that chapter in 1 Corinthians for a while now. It’s in the 13th chapter. The chapter is popular, speaking of love and it’s attributes. It’s familiar to most and was to me too but I noticed it more deeply in this month’s Tabletalk. Tabletalk is a devotional that my father got me when I was living at 5 Talbot. He just sent me last month’s and the next 3 months, so I’m pretty thrilled! I noticed a series from R.C. Sproul devoted to LOVE that you can purchase in the devotional. The cover of the series caught my attention immediatly. If I speak in the tongues of men and angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or clanging cymbol. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have faith that can move mountains,but have not love, I am nothing.

Man, what a profound God we serve. This chapter is so poetic and beautiful to me. I love that about our God. I’m so grateful that he’s concerned with love and that we, as creatures made in his image, are commanded to possess it. Love is required of us as followers of Jesus. We are commanded to be clothed in it. This can be a very frusterating task as times but theres such beauty to it. I like what Mark Dever, a writer in Tabletalk, says about love; “We love, as John said here in chapter 4, verse 19, because God first loved us. If you don’t know or believe in that love, no other love in this life will finally make sense.” No other love will make sense... because what is love? I hate to believe that it’s just a feeling or emotion. I want to believe it’s something more, somthing stronger, something substantial and dependable. Mark Dever goes on to say, “And note, too, love is something to be commanded. To often we think of love as something more like an irresistible, attractive force of nature - like magnetism or gravity. But such choice-less love is not the Christian picture of love. The love of the Bible calls us to have is a love that can be commanded and obeyed - like it is here.” That goes against the grid. But I like it. What I’m trying to say, is that I don’t want to believe that love is mearly an emotion that can’t be helped or stopped. I don’t want to believe that it’s some ‘choice-less’ act. I know that it can be and that it’s beautiful when it happens like that, so beautiful, but that’s not the kind of love I’m talking about.

See, on this ship, it can be hard to love. I’m sure wherever you are, it’s hard as well. I’m in no special circumstance. But as I live with more cultures then I even knew existed, I’m confronted daily with the battle to love. The battle to love inspite of difference and inspite of clashing norms.

I clash with one of my roommates. I clash with her culteraly, in personality, in preference, in attitude, in so many other areas. We had a talk the other day that resulted in things said and feelings hurt. She let me know what she didn’t like about me and since we’re roommates felt that she should tell me and that I should tell her and that we should just get it all out so that we could better live together. I wasn’t ready for what she told me and honestly, I wonder why she felt she had to say some of the things she did. Some things, I think, can just go unsaid. But that’s where were different. She’s used to being very straighforward and I’m not. At this instance in our relationship I had a choice. I was hurt by her and unwilling to see my faults. I had to fight to love her. I really did. I’m still fighting. But I can’t say that it’s drawn us compleatly apart. I mean, yeah I’d rather be around Macullough and Sam any day but I can say the fight to love one another, admidst our severe differences, has not only strengthened our relationship but it’s given us a chance to look at our Savior’s love and to grow in a Christ-like love towards one another. Christ sent his son and Jesus lived among us to save us, his beloved. He came down to live amongst us, to relate with us, to be with us and to show us love. He showed love to the ones who would scorn and forsake him on a whim and who would deny and forget him in an instant. I daily forsake and forget my God. I do. And yet He’s choosen to love me with an everlasting love, despite my forsaking and forgetting him.

I must choose to love Anna with a perservering love. This love isn’t choice-less. I have a say. I have control. I can choose to love her or I can choose to let our differences harbour bitterness and resentment. But that wouldn’t be a christ-like love.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always PERSEVERES. 1 Cor. 13:4-7

Away from family, away from kin, it’s easy to become angry with others and as a result choose to resent them. But it’s so confining to hate. When you open yourself up and let a Christ-like love fill you, let HIS love fill you, then you’re empowered to love others. It’s not done by our own strength, but his. I really want to liberate myself from resentment and learn to love with a persevering and selfless love.

I had no intention of writing about that this moring. It just sort of spilled out. I apologize for the choatic-ness of my thoughts. Thank you for listening as I discover these things.

This November's Thursday

I liked my sister’s heading on her blog, so yes, I copied. But that’s what I am. I’m just a product of other people’s good ideas. My father always says that. When people ask what the secret is to his success and such creative ideas with his occupation in framing, he readily responds, “I’m mearly a copycat. I use other people’s good ideas.” What he means is that he notices things. He sees things. He picks up the small details in furniture or signs or how one color is meshed with another. He's aware. He discoveres the beauty of shapes, colors, and forms ideas by taking intricate notice to the everyday that encompasses each of us. The difference between him and others is that most walk through the everyday and will probably walk through this November’s thursday passively. My father doesn’t walk passively. His eyes are always looking, always seeing, always discovering.

I’ve learned that from him. I’ve learned to watch, to look, to take in, to discover beauty as I walk through my thursday and tomorrow’s friday.

So Kyrie, good job on your blog title. Who’d you steal that idea from? :-)

It’s sailed into friday and I’m lying in my cabin on Signe’s bed. She’s gone out for the evening with a boy from Sweeden. His name is Dirk Jan. He goes by DJ. He’s a charming fellow. Has a chaming accent and I laugh at him too much. He’s constantly using his tenses wrong. “Where’s Signe?”, I ask, “She came back.” I look at him again, slightly confused. “What? oh you mean, ‘She’s coming back’?” “Yeah, yeah.

He’s funny. He calls me “She-enna” (because of his accent). I laugh everytime. I’m laughing right now. I try to wait until he leaves the room but sometimes it’s too hard. I know one thing. I’ve never seen Signe so happy. She glows. She’s been wearing her hair different too and it looks adorably beautiful. She pulls her bangs back, mom, remember, like I used to. You’d always tell me you loved my hair like that. I’d get annoyed because whenever I kept my bangs down, you’d never comment but when I pinned them back, you’d love it. You’d tell me. I pin them back alot here. I think of you when I do.

There was “Cabin Inspection” today. Captain Jurryan walked through all the cabins on B deck and checked whether they were acceptable or not. Then we got a sheet pinned on our door telling us how we did. There are about 60 cabins on B deck that he walked through. Whenever he inspects, one cabin is chosen for the “Captain’s Award”. It actually gets pretty competative between a few of the crew. I’d be into to it more if it weren’t for the reward of $1, which I find humerously unmotivating. I’ve never been a neat freak. I’ve never been messy or unorganized but I like my space to looked lived in. I like it nice and neat but lived in. My cabin mates prefer the non-lived in look. So I deal. We got the AWARD though, so I guess it’s paid off. Anna left the cabin for dinner and ran back in waving the piece of paper in the air wildly. “LOOK, Look!! We got it...!!” So we pinned in to the front of our door and are all anxious to brag to the rest of the ship. “Kiss Asses” has already tainted our certifcate. Our next door naighbor, Scott Harrison (the photographer of the Anastasis), is a sore loser and scribbled his feelings (in fun) on our reward.

Sam’s place got pretty low marks, he’s just told me. Cully’s too. They passed, let it be known, just barey though. I laughed as Sam told me that his next door naighbor got “UNACCEPTABLE” written on his note by the captain. I’m sitting here trying to contemplate the state of a cabin with “UNACCEPTABLE” marks. It’s definitly got the “lived in” factor that I prefer.

We visited the school today in Roysville. My children are young, very young. Three and four. I was discouraged today as I found it challenging to communicate with them. They rememered my name though. They kept saying “Sienna” which made me smile. Pray for me though. I want to affect these kids. I want their attention. I want thier understanding. I hate awkardness. I hate silence. I hate no repsonses. I get all these things. God’s refining me, I keep reminding myself. I’ll come through stronger and better for it, I know. Still, the path is difficult. I stuggle for ideas. I stuggle for words to choose as I speak to these small liberian children. From their expressions, I’m barely convinced they understand.

Pray that I’ll persevere. Pray that even in this situation that seems, many times, hopeless, that my Father in heaven will use me mightly. Pray that he’ll give me words that these children can understand. It’s a difficult situation. I have to be honest, I don’t normally look forwards to placing myself in these positons; going to orphanges, helping out at schools. It requires alot from me when I’d rather just be in my room listening to music. I know, I’m selfish.

Pray that God will change me.

Finally, I Have a Story and am Inspired to Write...

Human Resources took the morning off. Our very own, Ana Schierbecker, in charge of housing the crew in HR, suggested we take one morning off one day a week and head out in a land rover to work with Liberian children. She asked the department during our staff meeting two weeks ago and since no one objected, it was put into action. HR closed its doors at 8:30 this morning and tacked a sign on the door, “We’ve run away. Be back after lunch.”

Steven, Sandy, Ana, Marilyn, and I piled in the land rover. I pulled myself in and slammed the rusty door. We had managed to get one of the nicer vehicles. A treat. It was a 45-minute drive along the dirt roads, covered in markets and woman with babies strapped to their backs. The dust was inescapable. Little boys balanced tubs of food on their heads. I stared. I wondered how they learned this art. We turned off the main road and entered into Royesville. The school was in Royesville. The dirt road was long that led to the school. Deep pools of muddy water littered the streets. The old land rover took a dive every time as we prayed not to get stuck. She tore through like a champion. Mud splashed up on the sides as our bodies were thrown around like rag dolls. Jungles of tangled vines and muddy swamps surrounded the long road ahead. Topless woman were seen picking fruit off the trees with baby on their back. No shoes. No expression. Sweat coated their dark faces. A National Geographic moment, I was in the midst of. So it’s true. There are those who live in mud huts. There are those who walk all day long along the dirt road to bring home dinner. I thought about it.


We neared the end of the seemingly eternal road. We pulled into a field with a large building full of children. Their waving hands could be seen from the glassless windows. Children, ages 3 through 18, inhabited this school in Royesville. A small boy (4 years), named David, approached our vehicle immediately. Ana jumped out. “What’s wrong David? Why do you look so sad?” David said nothing. She felt his forehead. “You’re burning up. Oh honey.” Ana took David’s small hand and asked him if he had taken any medicine and then told him to go home and lie down. “You need rest.” She held his hands and asked him if she could pray for him. The children know Ana. She had worked at this same school when the ship had been in Liberia last March. David has the presence of a much older boy than 4. It shocked me. He answered very calmly, “Yes.”

We walked into a classroom of 83 kids. Their ages ranged from 3 to 10. I was put in charge of the 3-5 year olds. We were given an hour with them. This Wednesday, what we did with them, was completely up to us. Ana asked that we introduce them to ourselves and just try to get to know them a bit. The following weeks Ana will prepare Bible lessons with songs and crafts for us to teach the children. I took my class of 18 by the hands and led them outside their classroom. They followed me to the side of their school as I motioned for them to all “Sit. You can sit. Here, sit. Like me. Come on, right next to me. That’s it, right here.” I motioned. I encouraged. They looked at me with suspicion. I was lucky and delighted to have David in my group. Though he’s merely 4, he helped me immensely. The children and I speak the same language but still are unable to understand one another. The accents are so thick on both sides that even though I may understand some of what they say, it’s very hard for the little ones to understand me. So I smile. I motion. David seemed to get what I was saying and I kept asking him to “Tell them.” They started giggling though and I was awed by their perfect faces. What beautiful and intricate faces African children have. I asked them in they knew the song, “Jesus loves me” or if they knew how to play “Duck, duck goose”. David translated. They nodded and burst into some song, I’d never heard, proclaiming how “Jesus was born in Bethlehem. Praise God. Hallelujah.” They were into it! They carried the tune perfectly. I asked if they knew “This little light of mine” and they held up they’re finger. “Yes. That’s it. Sing it with me.” I started in the song, “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine...” Oh, it was shameful. I couldn’t find the tune. I searched. I kept trailing off into this awful hum. I laughed in spite of myself. I was surrounded my 3 and 4 year olds more musical then I, myself, could ever hope to be. Though frustrating, there was something beautiful in the scene.

So I sat with them. Tried to teach them ring-around-the rosie with little success. There were some silent moments where I had not a clue what to say. They were quiet as they stared at me. As I rose, to head back to their classroom though, they clung. Their small hands lurched into mine and I smiled and looked down at them so excited that I’m going to be able to see them every week for the next 8 months.

We go back next Wednesday. Liberia’s looking brighter by the day.

Another's Words

I’m lying in my bed. It’s 11:13pm. The day has been long. I rose early with the sun and prayed with Sandy, a faithful friend of mine, leaving for India in a few weeks. The ship’s mandatory Tuesday gathering started at 7:45, lasting ¾ of an hour. Work immediately followed. Today was training day. My title will change from “HR assistant” to “HR Operations Facilitator”. This is basically a fancy term for a much more important job. I’m intimidated. Please pray. Training is stressful and requires much of my effort. I sit in the chair beside Cristin, watching as she shows me her routine I must learn to imitate before the week’s end. I struggle to listen. I feel like a little girl. I sit in my chair, nodding my head attentively, my eyes glancing from her to the clock. My leg vibrates as my body is anxious for a visit to the snack bar. I glance over to Steven’s desk for some relief of the mundane. He doesn’t see me. My day proceeded with this anxiety. When the clock read 5pm, I was grateful. I printed emails from home, gathered them up, and headed to my cabin. I read the heartfelt and encouraging words of my asian sister and my dear friend, Jack. I caught some shut-eye after that.

This past week I struggle to find a story to tell you. I struggle for substance that will inspire my writing. Today Sam wrote his weekly newsletter to his supporters back home and I was privileged to read it. I have decided to post it here for you to read. Take a break from me for a few minutes and read what Sam has to say about this ship. His words and discoveries; his experiences and descriptions, are exactly what I have desired for you to hear but have struggled to put into words. So hear them from him. Be blessed by the words of Sam Belz. I sure was.


"Today is election day in Liberia. October’s election reduced the fifty original candidates down to two for a second round of voting—George Weah and Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf. George Weah is the common man’s man. He earned international fame and money through his soccer career at Milan and Chelsea in Europe. And to prove his genuine concern for the welfare of Liberia, he gave away most of his money to the people, even before they considered him for the presidency. He is young, honest and specially appeals to the young men, the former combatants. The ‘’bookmen,’’ as they call them here, scorn Weah for his lack of education. (He dropped out of school when he was sixteen.) He is one of the natives by blood, not descended from the advantaged American slaves of the middle 1800’s. That quickly classes him with 90% of the country. He is, to the people, one of them.

Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf looks a little like Janet Reno. I have heard that both Christians and women are her biggest supporters. The rich like her too. She went to Harvard and worked for the World Bank and the UN. But Liberia is weary of only the semblance of worth and not substance in their leaders. Charles Taylor himself is an Ivy Leaguer, but none of that matters if the shepherds of the people won’t go and guard and nourish the flock. Ellen stumbles at one major point. Years ago, she worked for Charles Taylor. Liberians won’t forget that.

Whomever Liberia elects, let it not be the man or woman that this country deserves. Let a king David reign, who will execute judgment and justice to all his people. May God bare his mighty arm, and make all things new, that all the earth would see his might. Let sinners see that righteousness exalts a nation.

Anyway, Saturday, Mercy Ship doctors and nurses screened patients for surgery at JFK hospital. On the same day, though, George Weah hosted a big rally downtown near the hospital. So the captain held back most of the non-medical crew from going. I awoke Saturday, not at all expecting to go. Not only did I have to work in the galley, but I hadn’t signed up, and teenagers weren’t allowed to go. Triply barricadoed! Downstairs I read my Bible and just as I finished, the captain announced ten open spots. I ran upstairs, met Walter Fuhrer, chief steward of the galley, at the door, who made a quick phone call, and Chris Guillebeau rallied me down the gangway. I jumped into the back of the last land-rover as it slowly pulled out. I surprised myself with the turn of events.

The streets were full of people. I saw youngsters, with their whole bodies dangling out of speeding jeeps, cheering, with George Weah posters on their faces and bodies. One bare-chested youth said (It was told me), ‘’We are gonna put Ellen in the kitchen, and she gonna cook for George.’’ As we got near the hospital, chilling nerves hit me, not unlike the morning of the Cono relays at Coe College, as I would prepare my legs for the mile run. Long lines of people with wide-wasting diseases stood outside the hospital. I settled on a prayer group, which prayed for people that Mercy Ships couldn’t help.

One woman came to us with her toddler son. He could hear but he couldn’t speak. While the women prayed with her, I took the boy on my shoulders. We walked all over the hospital courtyard. He was timid at first. He clutched my face with his sweaty infant hands. I bounced him on my knee and gave him a balloon. Still no sound from his lips. Finally, I took them both to the exit out of the hospital. As they walked away, the boy turned his head to me and his face was beaming. It was a hot day, but there was thick shade where we prayed. I played with some boys, who were rolling a home-made toy, called a ‘’whee.’’ I laid my hands on a man with a very gently throbbing neck tumor. It was a very successful, peaceful screening.

Pray for courage to get involved with the people. Not just for me, but also for Cully and Sienna. The ship is a padded refuge. It would be easy to stay here all the time. On the ship, just days ago, the captain opened up the laundry room for crew laundry. I washed and folded my clothes and sheets and towels for the first time since we left Cape Town. It was wonderful. Yesterday the heat made even the air conditioned spots on the ship uncomfortable. I shunned the heat, and sheltered in a cool linen closet. I got a lot of reading done. Cockroaches and their loathed intrusion are around every corner, on every surface."

We are shaped and fashioned by what we love.

No photos equals no happiness, I know. I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to post any for you. I thought purchasing a laptop would handle the problem and it has only solved part of it. I’m finally able to unload my pictures from my camera and start taking new ones. I have a place to store my photos now but the Computer Manager left the ship about a month ago and ever since, the Internet server hasn’t been too reliable. The entire crew has been refused picture sending. It’s quite awful. I’m a little devastated over it. Hopefully they’ll be able to get it running again but whenever I ask I’m only given a look of disgust and frustration. The IT department doesn’t exactly encourage questions but they’re all geniuses and so we all ask and I think it might get annoying. So I am sorry, for me and you, that I’m not able to share my photos. Maybe I will be able soon but for now, my words will have to make the pictures. I have an IMovie program and the past couple evenings I’ve been working on some slideshows with music and images. I’ll be able to burn them on a CD and send them home. It’s definitely a battle for me. I’m no technical genius and I’m constantly running to Cully for guidance. He knows everything about this machine. When I ask he’ll usually encourage me to find out for myself and give me the manual that I’ve gave him to read. He read the entire thing, cover to cover. I skimmed it but I find the reading material completely un-engaging. So I ask Cully. Sometimes he gets annoyed but then I look at him with my very lost, pathetic eyes and explain how I really do know a lot but this new Apple system completely confuses and frustrates me and he’s just going to have to be patient with me and explain it. Why should two people read that entire manual when one already has? I’d much rather talk to a person that read those un-engaging words. Then he gives in.

This morning the ship had to meet in The International Lounge for Tuesday morning devotions. It’s a time of announcement, instruction, welcoming new crew, bidding farewell to departing ones, singing, and prayer. I look forwards to these meetings. I like it when the ships all together. Most people prefer to skip them, even though they’re mandatory, but there’s just something about them that I really enjoy. I look forward to them. Corinna does too.

A funny thing happened though. After the meeting a lady named Holly Fotheringill, came up to me. She’s the department head for Hospitality. Hospitality prepares everything for new crew and functions and is kind of just hospitable. They have a lot of responsibilities. She tapped me on my shoulder and said one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard. Now this may only be funny to my sisters, Chalice and Kyrie and Brae too. Chalice will especially laugh. Holly explained to me how she was standing behind me and that during the singing, “I could hear you so well and you have the most amazing voice. I just can’t believe it. Mike (her husband) and I were just blown away. I mean, it’s one of the most beautiful voices.” What? It’s always been the joke of the family that Sienna doesn’t sing well. She loves to sing but it’s just not one of her specialties. She’s not bad but she’s not good. Chalice will especially testify to this. My immediate response was “Oh...no no. That was Cristin. Cristin led the worship. You must be getting me confused with her. No, that wasn’t me, I didn’t lead worship. I just attended.” But Holly would have none of that. “No, it was you. You were standing right in front of us.” I started laughing, wishing to the heavens that Linnea or Chalice were there. I thanked Holly for the compliment and very confused, I walked away. It didn’t end there either. The next morning she walked by me, “Mike and I could hear your amazing voice this morning too, even though you were rows away from us.” I am officially confused. But it gave me a good laugh for the rest of the day. I kept laughing when I would think about it. I was annoyed that I couldn’t share my story with others. It’s probably not even that funny to most of you but to my family, it will be. Sam and Cully would have just looked at me, smiling and said something like “Oh that’s nice Sienna. Good job.” Or maybe Sam would have said that, Cully would have just slapped me on the back or looked at my oddly or something.

That’s my funny story. Day’s later, I’m still laughing. Now when I sing, I’m suddenly conscious of where Holly Fotheringill is. I rather not be confused by her any more. I’m now running on “reserved battery”. I must go.

It Rained Today...and yesterday

We’ve arrived. The land of Liberia fills the scenery when I look outside my porthole. The air is moist and the sun has never shown brighter. Today it rained. It rains a lot here. I don’t remember it raining in Cape Town. I love the rain. I didn’t use to love it as much at home. I’m humoured as I remind myself of my mother. She loves thunderstorms. I never understood her. I just looked out my porthole though as the rain beat hard against the sea and it made me smile. Rain fits here. It suits this place. The rain makes us thoughtful. It brings to light what were here to do. I’m beginning to realize that it’s not always going to be enjoyable. I’m beginning to realize how uncomfortable living in Liberia may turn out to be. I beginning to love the refuge this ship is to the overwhelming streets of Monrovia. I feel guilty for not wanting to leave it. Here, it seems dreary. Cape Town was rich in colour and entertainment. Massive mountains and valleys, stunning rivers and streams filled Cape Town. This land looks flat and lacks every ounce of colour that Cape Town so richly possessed. You can taste the devastation. The country has been without war for a mere two years. Bullet holes are seen on the building walls. UN soldiers patrol the streets with machine guns. The roads are crammed with deep potholes and small children. Woman, with bright patterned fabrics draped across them, walk along with a child strapped to their back and something balanced on their head. The toddlers walk with babies on their hips, no mother in sight. One of the small children asked me where my mother was. I told her that she lived in the U.S.A. and that I wouldn’t be able to see her for a very long time. She immediately asked if she could come live with me when I told her I lived on the Mercy Ship. Her hands went in an up and down motion as she asked if we “floated”.

The attitude is much more solemn here than it was in Cape Town. I guess this makes sense, but it’s a change I didn’t see coming. The mood was optimistic and exciting in Cape Town. The discomforts of the world are all too real here. Eight months seems like an eternity. I’m instantly exhausted when I stop to think about it.

I’m going to be honest with my audience here. I’ve been struggling with this specific entry. The only reason I finally sat down to write something was because my older brother emailed me and told me to stop this silence stunt. Early Thursday morning I received very sad news from home. I’ve been discouraged from my writing. I struggle for where to begin. On one hand I’d rather not talk about my news. On the other hand, I do want you to know my heart. I want you to know my sadness and understand the possible difference in my attitude. I want you to pray. I want you to know. But I fear people feeling sorry and I fear questions and so many words. At 2:30am on Thursday morning I received devastating news that my father has been diagnosed with cancer. I tell you so you can pray. I tell you so you can maybe understand any noticeable difference in me. My ship family has showered me in love. They’ve come to my door with food and encouragement. I’m in a strange place now though. I don’t really want to tell you this but I choose to be vulnerable so you can pray for me and for my family. I’m in Liberia and yet I’m not. My drive has been deflated and my vision, not as clear as before.

I do know that when we come forth from our trials that God will have refined us as gold. I do know that I can’t accept the good and not the bad from my Maker. I do know that my Saviour’s compassions and mercies are new every morning. I focus on those mercies when I get down. Please pray for my family. Pray that love will continue to unite us and that The One who is able to do all things for the good of those who love him will guard our hearts and minds against bitterness. May He be glorified.

All Crew to the Bow

Today is Sunday. It started with one extra hour of sleep. The announcement went over the intercom last night, “All crew: set you clocks back one hour. All Crew, clocks back one hour.” Liberia approaches along with a new time zone. I am now 7 hours ahead of you instead of 6. My morning was calm. I went out to the deck, as usual, and listened to a sermon of Pastor Shelton’s. I feel so spoiled out at sea. God’s work and beauty, his power and majesty are so obvious out here. Constant wonder is inevitable. Scripture is so real. During sermons, I constantly nod “Amen”. The ocean roars in front of me. The sun rips through the clouds dispersing it’s colours with more severity than I’ve ever seen. There’s water as far as my eyes can see. I went up to the bridge yesterday evening with Corinna and Cully. The bridge is where the Captain and the steering wheel are. You have to book an appointment to go up. Cully and Corinna held the wheel and were fascinated by all the gadgets and the fact that they were steering the ship. I guess it was pretty neat. I just went out to the railing and looked over. I was the farthest up on the ship as you could be and looking down was so neat. That’s all I can give it: “So neat”. If you could just think of “so neat” to it’s fullest meaning, maybe you’d have an idea. I called Cully over, nodding for him to look over the edge too. I was practically hanging over when he just glanced over and his eyes got wide. He jumped away, looking nauseous. “No. can’t do that.” He muttered.

“ah man...” I Sighed. “You’re missing it. Isn’t it crazy? There’s sharks down there. Sharks that can tear you apart and there’s whales, bigger than you even know. Right down there, right below us. Man.”

But yes, I do feel spoiled here. That will probably change in Liberia, but maybe not. We had worship on the bow this evening. The set setting as our backdrop. The beauty of the earth, as my favourite hymn goes, is so evident here, especially as we sail and especially when I’m out on the deck, instead in my bed with my head in the pillow, feeling nauseous.

Cully’s doing better. He had to work this morning. We hung out for a couple hours this afternoon as he toyed with my laptop and I embroidered on a white tea towel for my cabin. He seems to be doing all right. He may not be enjoying it yet, as I am, but as long as he keeps his mind off it, he seems to be doing fine. I don’t want the sail to end. It rocks me to sleep at night and provides such a perfect breeze when you’re outside. It’s funny too, how it brings the ship together. Anna said it would. I doubted. But we’re all on this ship. On Friday night there was nothing to do but what the ship had planned. So everyone was there. Last night (Saturday) they set up a huge screen outside, on the bow, and played movies. First was veggie tales, then Finding Nemo, and last, Second Hand Lions. I caught the last couple minutes of Second Hand Lions but was busy saving a bird, before that, who had flown into the ship and seemed confused. I was telling Cully though, that they need to be taking advantage of this ocean that we’re surrounded by. They should be showing something like “Jaws”. The sharks are all of 20 feet away from us. Why aren’t we showing these movies when we’re in the prefect scare you pants off atmosphere?

Well we’re 2 days out. 7 to go. I’m going to go to the Mediterranean Lounge now to embroider with Cristin. My love to you all.

Almost Past the Equator

It’s my lunch break. I sit on deck typing away on my laptop, Josh Groban playing in my ears, as the Anastasis sails across the ocean. This song definitely takes on new meaning with the ocean’s waves roaring in front of me. We’re off to Liberia. Two days ago we left Cape Town behind and should arrive in Monrovia in about 7 days.

Cape Town was a great success. Mercy ship's goal was to get 10,000 people on board through tours and publicity. By the first weekend we were over half way there. By the end of 3 weeks we had reached 17,000. We soared over the goal. 17,000 people toured my boat. It was a crowded home. 17,000 people were able to hear about the work of Mercy ships and witness the lives of Anastasis Crew Members. Volunteers were needed a lot during those 3 weeks to follow tours. There was a trained tour guide who led the groups of 200+ people but they always needed someone to stay in the back and make sure that none of the Cape Townians got lost. I followed a few. People would ask me questions and would look at my strangely when I explained that I paid to be here. They’d wanted to know all about the cause and thanked me for helping people. They wished they could but theres a different calling for each and some arn't able to pack up and leave for a year or 2 or 10. Following a tour was always a pretty energizing activity. I was sort of a celebrity and people always looked so amazed when I explained how I got here and my age. It was fun. I was reminded with each tour the great work that’s been done in this ship. I’ve become very proud of this 50-year-old cruise liner. She stands head and shoulders above the rest of them.

Since we set sail, by the Lord’s grace, I have never been better. I made sure to take my seasickness pill a couple hours before and have been taking them every 7 hours since. The Captain made a point in the pre-sailing briefing, to keep our stomachs full. He warned us about this before the sail to Cape Town but I must have not taken it seriously. I’ve been trying to watch what I eat lately; it’s funny how quickly you can put on the pounds when you leave the cooking of your mother. Yeah, it’s sort of disturbing. But now that we’re sailing I have the perfect excuse to eat all day long. It’s quite fun. I’ll work it off once we arrive, for now I’m fighting the sickness of the sea. So as long as I keep popping the pills and consuming the cookies and chips, I’ll be perfect. Thank you dear people, for all who prayed for this sail and my well being. I asked for prayer a while ago when I found out how badly I sail and your prayers have been my saviour. This sail, if anything, is rougher than the last. Cully hasn't been doing very well. He says he's never felt worse. He showed up at my cabin door, yesterday morning, looking thinner than ever. I hate that others are sick when I feel perfect. He laid in bed all day. I brought him some ice-cold water with wet rags to put on his forehead. I didn't know much else to do. I felt at such a lose. Suddenly my office work seemed so stupid. I knew he had to get something in his stomach that would stay there. If you don't keep eating you'll get sick and once you're sick you can't eat and then you only get sicker. I brought him some rice cakes. I think he may have gotten through one by the day's end. He had stopped taking his seasickness pills, which annoyed me. So I took him pills and made sure he took them every 7 hours. He had to work today and says he's much better, only he has a massive headache and blurry vision. Pray for him please and pray for the others that suffer. I forget how awful it is to be ill by the sea. Though I do remember it is one of the worse feelings I’ve experienced. I remember that. A feeling of claustrophobia comes over you and you just become so helpless and angry.

My office chair is constantly rolling backwards as I slam against the wall and when I walk along the corridors my hips crash into the railings. I was holding my laptop, water bottle, book (to kill a mockingbird), my digital camera, and my bible, along with some random cords, yesterday, walking up the stairwell just as the ship sailed over a massive wave. My body slowed down and I started leaning backwards. I tried to grip with my toes since both my hands were taken. It wasn’t working. My body was tense as I struggled to keep myself stable. Veronique walked by just in time and grabbed my arm, pulling my to my balance and off that cursed stairwell. I’m not able to keep myself steady but the medication makes it so I don’t care. It’s quite wonderful.

It’s Friday night and instead of crewmembers dispersing into town on their night off, we’re all stuck on the ship. There’s this lounge called The International Lounge, which has a coffee place called The Sale Victoria Café. I can see it from where I sit. A line has formed as people anxiously await their caramel late or double espresso. I can see Cully and Signe. They’re running it tonight; filling the mugs and placing them in the thirsty hands of Crew. At 8:00pm, there’s ballroom dancing outside on Aft Deck. I think that should be funny. But as Lani already pointed out, it’s much easier this way to blame any awkward moves on the rock of the ship. I can’t really see trying to maintain rhythm as well has balance. But I may attempt it. It has perfect potential to be hilariously entertaining or just plain awful. It’s a toss up, I tell you. I don’t have my trusty partner here. So that’s already one downer.

Here begins a new journey. I’m on the edge of embarking into a brand new way of life. Monrovia anxiously awaits us, as well as the 500 UN soldiers, our personal security men. Our water supply has yet to be secure. Please keep praying for that. I don’t know what Liberia holds. I know it holds heat. So far the weather in South Africa has been cool and humidity free. Long pants-and-jacket weather. I’ve loved it. It hasn’t been hard. I haven’t been stretched. When I feel the air on my bones now, I can already sense it’s change. We’re fast approaching the equator and as we do the breeze steadily rises in warmth. The tours department is busy planning an “equator” party for the crew. They really do make an effort here for us Crew. It’s pretty heart warming. But yes, a war-ravaged land is waiting for us. The Anastasis looks as a saviour to these forgotten people. Their elections have just ended. We not sure of the results but pray, please pray, that a strong leader was chosen, even a godly one, that will lead this nation to their full potential. The Anastasis can only scratch the surface. God can rip it open. He can show his face there. Pray that he will. I ask you this night to pray for the Anastasis. Pray for our arrival. Pray that God will prepare the hearts and minds of the Liberians for what we have to say and that not only will they be changed physically but that spiritually they will be led to eternal life and begin a personal relationship with the true and living God. Pray that God will be with us, that his presence will be evident and that the Crew of the “Annie” will seek his face daily. Pray that we will not loose sight of the ultimate purpose of this ship and that is to win souls to Christ, not merely to heal wounds.

She's Out of Money and Begging...

I apologize, first and foremost, for not writing nearly as often as I would like and as often as you probably wish to hear from me. I’m going to get better though. I promise.

Our time in Cape Town is coming to a close. These past 5 weeks I’ve been attending a church in a Township. It’s in a city called Gugulutoo. The people are warm and they jump all around when we worship. They always invite us over for dinner afterwards or ask if we want to see more of the town. I enjoy very much their excitement for the Lord’s day. Sam’s been attending a Pentalcostal church. Last week, I wasn’t able to get to mine so I asked him if I could come along with him. We were sapposed to meet in reception at 9am. I was there on time. Sam works till 9 though so after a 30 second shower, he showed up at 9:15. We signed out, swiped our cards and walked down the gangway onto the dock. We didn’t see a landrover waiting for us. Sam asked the security officers if a vehicle headed for Plumstead had already left. They nodded yes. We’d been left behind. I didn’t let it get me down though. We’d find a place to worship, even if we had to walk an hour. We started walking, looking here and there for some sort of church building. A friendly cape townian, with hip hair, and a constant smile stopped us and asked if she could help. We explained our delema and she excitedly invited us in her little VW and drove us to a church planted on top of a hill, surrounded by the beautiul ocean. She said we’d most definitly be able to get a ride back with one of the church members and if not she’d be back around 4. Blessed woman.

So I made it to Church that day. Sam didn’t have to be back in the kitchen until 3, so we had till then to do as we wished. We spoke to the pastor and asked if he wouldn’t mind giving us a lift back to the ship. He was willing but it was too beautiful a day to go back to that ship. A postcard beach was a mere 10 minutes away. My expression must have given away my anxious desire to run through the sand. Sam asked. He wanted to stay as well. So we politly declined the pastor’s willingness and he let us know we could get a taxi easily for 2 ran (35 cents). The sun was out, just bright enough to warm my bones. The breeze refreshed me and made my face happy. I had linnen pants on that day. I still remember how nice it was to walk barefoot on the white sanded beach with loose linnen pants. The locals played two-on-two vollyball and those brave enough, surfed in the freezing shark infested waters. I lied down and put my hands over my eyes to block the light. I had a good rest on that sunday afternoon. This was one of Cape Town’s better days. We were in Camps Bay which is one of the richest areas around. The streets bustled with New York look-a-likes.

Sam asked if I was getting hungry. I turned my head and squinted my eyes. Sure. I would love food. “Oh good. I’m starved”, he answered back. I handed him my change purse and asked him to surprise me with something while I lay there. I couldn’t move from that perfect beach. I felt like I hadn’t seen sun in forever. The sun goes down early here. I get off work at 5 and by 6:30, it’s dark. I love the sun. Go enjoy the sun, I tell you. I will have the sun though in Liberia. I musn’t worry. They say you’re instantly drenched when you walk off the ship in Monrovia. The humidity is that intense. You’re clothes don’t dry either, they say. They stay damp all day and eventually grow moldy. I’m looking forward to this though. I must be nieve.

On the beach, I had become entranced by the vollyball boys. I held my hands above my eyes, blocking the sun, as I strained my neck backwards to watch their game. I lied on my back in perfect contentment. Their sets were perfect, Mr. Steve. They stopped it, set it, spiked it. Stop. set. spike. Every time. They played as a team. Their chemistry was perfection. The oppisite team recieved spikes with matchless ease and beautiful form. I was mesmorized. I knew what I missed. I miss vollyball. I miss my team; my girls. I miss you, pink girls. I loved being part of your game. I miss working together for the common goal. Oh and how satisfying that goal was. How satisfying it was recieve a serve, set it and compleate it with a spike. How beautiful it was to complete that sequence with 3 girls. Oh I miss it. All my encouragment to you girls. Press on. Continue in your training. Listen hard to Mr. Steve. He’ll refine you to gold. Don’t underestimate him.

Sam returned with a bag full of groceries and we sat on the beach smuthering jelly on a loaf of bread. We didn’t have enough money for a knife so tearing the bread and dipping worked just fine. We ate 3 oarnges and finished off the meal with one of the best south african chocolate bars. It had melted by the time we tore into it, so we just sort of scupped it out with our fingers. I was enjoying the meal heartily when I looked over at the boy and said assumingly, “You saved 2 ran, right? for the taxi..” I looked away, assuming I’d get an answer in the affirmative. Sam’s eyes went big and then he put his head down muttering about how irresponsable he was. I thought it was all quite humerous. We were out of money sitting on the most beautiful beach I’d ever seen and all of the sudden my status was no better than the man who had just walked past begging for some of my change. I’d find myself doing exactly that before the day’s end. I laughed for a long time. I think Sam felt bad. For some reason, the thought of us having nothing and having to make a two hour treak back to our ship and possibly having to ask for money or rides seemed so exciting to me. It was like being on “The Amazing Race”. I was pumped. Bring it on. I wore flip-flops, a purse on my shoulder, my bible and notebook in hand and a bag of groceries. I was most definitly not in my walking atire and that would make it all the harder and it would be all the better. We walked for about 60 minutes when Sam started darting over to cars,who were about to leave, humbly asking for rides. He must have asked 5 cars and each had a different excuse. We joked. “What is God trying to teach us, Sienna?”, he asked. I laughed quietly, “That alot of people are selfish and arn’t willing to give anything of themselves for others...” Then I tried to curve the lesson. “No. I think I’m learning how humbling it is to ask for help and the next time some one asks me for help, no matter how much it inconviences me, I’m going to help them.” We discussed different scenerios and played with the different lessons that God was maybe teaching us. I told him how my oldest sister, Brae, always encouraged me and showed me through a daily example to inconvience yourself for others. Brae’s always encouraged me to be giving, whether that means to give of your things or your time, it amounts to the same in the end. I didn’t listen very well to Brae when she would tell me these things at home but I’m learning Brae, I really am. I’m learning to hold loosly to my things and to share with others and I’m learning to willingly help others and I’m discovering the beauty. You tried to teach me. I’m sorry I didn’t listen. I’m sorry I was selfish. When I see you next I’ll let you wear all those shirts that I never wanted to lend. I’ll let you wear them all and keep them for as long as you want. I’ll give them to you because I don’t want to love my things. I want to love my people and love for my people can be so hindered when I hold so tightly to my things. I want to hold tightly to you, Brae. Not my things.

Sam kept comparing our situation to the parable, in the bible, In Luke 14 when a man prepares a banquet and invites many guests but they keep coming up with excuses. “I haves just bought a field and I must go and see it, please excuse me...I have just bought five yoke of oxen, and I’m on my way to try them out. Please excuse me...I just got married, so I can’t come.” Excuses. Excuses. It was intersting how many “appointments” people had. They kept saying “No, I’m going to be late for my appointment”. At least that was better then the ones who just looked at us strangley and decided that we weren’t worth words but only looks of disgust. That was pleasent. I decided to toughen up a bit. “Sam, let me ask some people. Maybe they’ll be more receptive to a girl.” A lady and her boyfriend were getting into their car. I quickly assesed the situation. They looked like nice enough people. I made my move; started walking confidently towards them. Half way there I noticed a yappy, rip-your-head off dog in the back seat and knew there was no way I would ride with these people now, but I was to close now and it would be awkard to turn around now. I had to ask, even though there wasn’t a chance in me getting in. Well I guess you could say there response worked out for the best. It made me feel like a fool though. They never actually stopped their car as I politly asked for a lift and as the woman was looking at me very scceptically the man just shot me some get away street-rat look. I had been laughing. I now grumpled along, frusterated and humiliated at my defeat. I wanted to solve the problem. I had failed. Afted asking one more and getting something similar to the rest, I swore I’d never ask for a ride again. The mood didn’t last long though. It was an excellent day. We did make it back to the ship. I had blisters on me feet and I felt like the champion in a reality T.V. series. It was a good feeling.

Crew membres passed me in the hall the next day, mentioning how they saw us walking and were seriously thinking about asking us if we preferred a ride but that we looked happy, so they didn’t. I don’t like to dwell on those things to long though. I’m glad we walked though. It was a long walk, 120 minutes and I’m proud that I compleated it. Sam and my face though got fried. I room with one of the nurses that works on the ship and she told me I was “ENFLAMED”. It’s nice living with a nurse though. She took good care of me. Very good care.

Vangie = Evangeline

I was sitting at my desk this afternoon with most all my work complete. And just a reminder, for all of you who have this idea that my job is mearly office work and of no consequence and that I'm not being used to the best of my ability (because I know it's easy to think this), my job is extreamly fufilling. HR is a huge help to the Anastasias Crew Members and lately, I've been able to help alot of them when they walk through our door, and I havn't had to yell for Steven or Cristin. How rewarding it is to be able to do this by myself. My job is very much needed and apprciated here for the life of this ship, so if you worry or doubt, you musn't.

Along with my story...

There were still two hours remaining in my work day but my work load seemed all complete, or that is, all that I felt like compleating was complete. Steven kept waltzing through my office talking of how badly he wanted to bleach his black hair. I tried hard to talk him out of it. I told him his hair was really too dark and that it might turn orange. You just really don' t want to go through with this, Steven, trust me here. He looked at my somewhat discouraged so in attempt to provide some hope, I explained of a friend of mine, back home, who had dark hair and when he bleached it that it worked very well and looked quite good. But Steven, your hair is way darker than Jack's. If Jack had your dark hair, he'd keep it. Leave it alone, I'm warning you. My warning wasn't sufficient. The boy went along with his plan and it happened the way I predicted. He was charged $70 for orange hair. He wasn't very happy. Later that day he had a wedding to attend in the botanical gardens of Cape Town. That night he asked me if I'd heard of Redken and bought a box of black hair color and dyed it back.

I told you that accidentally. I had all intentions of sharing with you my "loading" experience. This week alot of loading has been going on. Equipment and food and who knows what has been hauled onto this boat for the Liberia outreach (we sail in a week and a half!). At different parts of the day, if the loaders need help, an announcment will go over the speakers, "Volunteers needed at the gangway. Volunteers, the gangway". Normally my work calls but today it did not. So I popped my head in Steven's office expectantly and he nodded. Ten minutes later, after flipping the strap on my croc, We found ourselves in an assembly line, hauling boxes down some dark hallway, towards the bow of the ship. For all my belize family members, you know what I'm talking about. I'd suddenly broken into a sweat. I began wondering, intensly, how people do this all day and when I returned to my office, I had a new appriciation for the task in front of me. Twenty minutes later, with this fresh sense of determination, I returned to my work with new zeal.

Well, my title; I haven’t touched on, as you may have noticed. I wanted to start my entry by introducing Vangie but I wanted to end with her too. There were other things I wanted to tell you also so I was forced to choose. To choose between introducing Vangie through a thoughtful conclusion, leaving you with some insights of mine to chew over or to catch you in the beginning with a sharp introduction. I was very tempted to use the introduction but I decided on the conclusion. I wanted badly for you to know of this woman, who’ve I’ve grown to love and I wanted to start off with some snappy beginning about the colour of her hair or the way her hands catch my eyes. Yet as I wrestled back and forth, the introduction wouldn’t do. I want you to remember her. People remember conclusions, I believe, more than they do introductions. Although of equal importance one leave a more lasting and evitable impression. So instead of starting with her, I will leave you with her.

Vangie. Her real name is Evangeline, which I find, in it’s self, a story. There’s something very substantial I’ve found in this woman of 38 years that I’ve grown to admire and become endeared to. Vangie is to Steven what Corinna is to me. No, Corinna is not like Vangie. They’re two completely different individuals. I doubt they’ve ever spoken. I hate to use the word “mentor” because it’s a little too belittling but maybe you’ll understand more of the picture I try to paint. Steven and Vange are always doing things together. You won’t find one without the other at mealtimes and you won’t sense either one feeling a burden by the other’s company because of the apparent generation gap. They sincerely enjoy the other and I appreciate that. I appreciate that ages are being clashed here and that generations come together. The young find company with the older and the older find fulfilment in the younger. I like that aspect of the ship. Steven and Vangie have known each other for three years though so they’re relationship is a little father along than Corinna’s and mine. So maybe I shouldn’t compare, just so you’ll get an idea though.

I’ve found myself, lately, seeking out Vangie at meal times. She told me she likes me. Told me I’m young and maybe a bit naïve but she likes me. I’ll tell her my problems with other people and maybe I should tell those other people but Vangie asks, so I tell her. The other day I was telling her about my work. In my administrative position people tend to talk down to me. And it’s not even that they realize it or mean to, it’s just that I’m 18. The age difference between the facilitators (who I assist) and me can’t help but be apparent. Crew members will walk into my office and ask to speak to an HR representative. I breathe calmly as something like this goes through my mind: I’ve been here for six weeks. I may look small and I may seem inadequate but I’ve been hired to work in HR and I’ll be here for a year! I AM AN HR REPRESENTIVE, DARN IT! Hit me with your questions, try me!! I’M THE REPRESENTITIVE, NOT SOME LITTLE GIRL WHO SITS HERE DOING NOTHING!!! I can’t say that though. I smile unwillingly instead and say essentially that in a more polite order. Other times, crew will waltz right on through my office to the facilitator’s offices, without even stopping to look at me. I’m supposed to filter HR traffic. It’s not that easy when they don’t give me a chance. And then sometimes it’s the mundane things I feel belittled by. And it’s my pride, I know. The other facilitators will ask me to take their trash out or call out to me that their trash cans are full or they’ll give me some of their work, that seems so unimportant and boring, but I need to complete it for them. I know I am the “Facilitator Assistant” so I will go about my assigned duties willingly. I just sometimes know that other people don’t think I’m capable. They don’t even realize that they’re relaying that to me but it leaks through their questions or requests. So it’s hard when the people I’ve been sent here to help hold little trust in me. Especially when I already struggle with trusting myself with the position they’ve gave me, they’re lack of trust is of no help. Vangie knows I’m young but it’s of no consequence to her. She sees me. But she not only sees me, she trusts me and her faith in me in a daily encouragement that I can do what I’ve been sent here to do. For I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. She reminds me that I am able and to not let other’s pre-supposed opinions and judgements intimidate me. I like Evangeline a lot.

When you read this entry I don’t want the focus to be me. I don’t want you to leave your computer feeling sorry for me or only taking from this entry what’s annoying me at this moment. It’s really not s big deal and will quickly pass in time. I want you to see Vangie. I hope that you get to see her instead of me. Don’t worry about this girl. She’s alright. Like Job says, when God’s finished with me, I’m going to come forth as gold. Think about Vangie though and try to appreciate the person she is. She gives people chances and that is something. I’ve noticed that she doesn’t tend to judge by the outer shell but that she gets to the heart and then makes her opinion. That way the opinion is worth something instead of just some critical judgment. I know it sounds cliché but thers something huge to be said for that quality. Yes. I wish you knew her.

Steven turns 21 soon. October 27th. We’ll be sailing and Vangie’s throwing a party for the boy. It’s going to be sweet. 21 isn’t as big of a deal, though, in England. They can drink when they turn 18. So 21, mine as well be the same as turning 19 or 20 but a birthday is a birthday and any reason to have a party on this ship is worth it. We all could use it. The theme is going to be Superheroes. Vange was telling me this and I actually had no idea how into Superheroes Steven was. I went out to breakfast with him yesterday though and was completely filled in. He was disappointed that I hadn’t heard of most of them. Steven knows all there is to know about He man, transformers, x-man, and lots of others that I don’t even remember now, because I’d never heard of them. Vange picked up power ranger tablecloths, blowers, and party hats and batman napkins and spider man suckers and “21” balloons and streamers. She wants me to help her with decorating. So I’m excited about this upcoming party on the Anastasias.

I’m going back to my cabin now. I moved two weeks ago to a new one. Betty moved out and I was invited in. Four nationalities live in this cabin, which we all think is pretty neat. There’s Anna from Holland, Signe from Norway, Tarme from Australia and then me from the States. Tarme’s one of the nurses on the Anastasias. I find that very neat. It really is the most wonderful cabin. Everyone that comes in says so. It’s very homey with warm lighting and soft music, with nice pictures on the wall and flowers on the shelf. It’s tidy and it’s pretty. It’s the cabin that I found refuge in during the last sail and where I heard Eva Cassidy for the first time. And it’s crazy that I now live there. It’s simply a dream. I’ve been making things for it and getting very domestic in this room of mine. Suddenly I’m intent on learning the fine art of cross stitching and I find cook books the most fascinating reading material.

Imagine that.

My Friends and Monkeys