philly to see our braebrae.

We went to Philly yesterday to visit our brae. I know now. I know where she lives and why she doesn't blog so often anymore. I've never been to that city before. I'm a small town girl who likes my house and the park that surrounds it. I like all our trees and the neighborhood kids running everywhere. The city was a thrill though. I just looked up all day amazed by its height. I know now why she doesn't blog though. Every second in this city is a million words and it's impossible to choose which second to remember and then share with the rest of us. All my seconds yesterday were a million words each. I will not share them with you because of that. The task is too large. But I took my camera, and in this post I've chosen to share these with you instead of my words.

But do go to Philly some day. I really loved it.

philly ----> the land of beautiful houses.

the pretty blonde girl.

Two days ago I flew home from college with my sister, Kyrie. I finished my first year. It's surprising to me. 12 months ago I came home from a place I sort of ran away to simply because college scared me. I didn't feel ready to enter that adult world. It looked so full of responsibility and college was a place where really smart people went to. I didn't feel capable.

So I went to Liberia instead and learned a few things.

I met a girl there. I met her the 2nd night. Her name was Signe Hannas Lindland and she was the first one I noticed when I walked on the ship. Her back was facing me as she stood at the front counter talking with a group of people. I remember her laugh was loud and her hair was very blonde. She was extremely pretty and put together. I stared at her, probably glaring, and nudged Sam, "Look. Isn't she pretty? She doesn't look like someone who���d come here." She looked so glamorous and hip. I couldn't think long before we were greeted by overly friendly hostesses ready to explain our job descriptions, where'd we be staying, ship regulations, meal times, and then of course leave a little room for us to talk about ourselves.

The next day Sam and I attended our computer introduction class around 3pm and the pretty blonde girl sat next to me. I was so scared that day. So scared. I knew no one except Sam and Cully and since they were already friends before the ship I constantly played the nagging little sister role, begging to be included. I had to find my own friend. As computer instruction swarmed the room my mind thought only of how I was going to ask her to be my friend. I didn't listen to how to set up my email account or how to upload pictures. I didn���t care about that. The lesson finally ended and I fumbled around with the mouse and hit a couple keys. She wasn't getting up. I remember I could sense a bit of fear in her so I risked it. I asked her.

"Are you new?" My heart beat. I was so scared she'd already had friends and wouldn���t need me. But her answer came so quickly and a smile poured out on my face.

"Yes! Yesterday I got here. Are you new too?!"

"Yeah... you wanna be friends?"

I smile so big as I write now, remembering how pathetically scared I was, how desperately I wanted a friend, and how ready Signe was to be that. I remember clearly Signe's longing as well and how we stuck together for those seven months I was aboard the Anastasias. A couple months later we became shipmates and shared a cabin and the rest... well, it will be continued this summer in her homeland.

I'm leaving for Norway in 4 days. I'm going to live with the pretty blonde girl who became my best friend on that ship and who was one of the most lasting blessings I received when I sailed away from home last year. I'll be away for 2 months.

Please pray for me. I'm about to leave for another daring adventure. I'm running over with possibly dangerous excitement.

As Hellen Keller would say, "Life is either a daring adventure or nothing."

Home again, home again, jigitty jig.

I’m home. I’m back. It’s been two weeks now and I still stare. My feet are firmly planted in a developed land. I’m surrounded by family and those who know me true. This aspect is refreshing. I become easily confused these days though as I’m confronted by the question “How was your trip?” or “How was Africa?”. I’m confused in a sense. There are times I feel alone. This is a normal reaction, I suppose, but it leaves me, sometimes, wishing badly to be back living that hot, uncomfortable life. And not because it would release me from the questions or the pressure to answer perfectly so that you may get an accurate glimpse - but so I might be back living that “simple” life. So that I may be back living amongst those who counted every breath a blessing. And yes, it sounds cliché, but there’s truth as well. Living amongst those who were daily confronted by the idea and reality of death only caused me to daily live amongst that as well. I found certain things falling away. I found my own preferences falling away. I found myself questioning not only myself and what I’ve held important these past 18 years but I found myself questioning my God as well.

I was sitting in a doctor’s office last week. It was a perfectly square room. The walls were blue and the chair I sat in was sturdy. It was cushioned. It had arm rests. There was a trash can in the corner of the room with a clean white, plastic bag lining it. I’m barely accustomed to these things but quickly getting used to them. There was a table beside me that was home to a green plant. The plant seemed to be living a healthy life. It was given water at least once a day, I’m sure. More than a liberian boy I knew named Francis. On the coffee table in front of me laid countless issues of National Geographic and Relevant. An issue of Relevant caught my eye. I pulled it from the rest and smiled to see this continent on the front where I had just come from. The headline read “New Hope For Africa; A Frontline Look at a Solvable Crisis.” I flipped immediately to the article and read it like food. An american girl, Jena Lee, had written of her experience living 30 days in Kenya, West Africa. Though her and I lived in two different parts of this continent and for two different lengths of time, her opening paragraph explained, to a tee, what I’ve been feeling as I’ve reentered...

"I thought, how can I tell you about a land so beautiful in it’s environment and, more importantly, in it’s people and yet so tragically broken? It’s hard to unpack. It’s all wrinkled and smelly in my mind as I try to iron it out, clean it up and present it to you. I am hesitant to focus on the devastation of poverty. I feel that you will label Africans as victims or you will run and try to fix the problem yourself without considering the consequences of what happens when we are compulsively stirred by our need to immediately alleviate a problem. And I hesitate to focus on the joy and richness that are rooted in the lives of so many in Africa because I fear you will hear that and justify their suffering with the 'even though they have so little, they are so happy' statement and that you will make it an excuse for our inaction."

Jena Lee has captured my feeling of complete inability to reflect on this experience and then somehow present it to you without scratch or blemish. She has put into words both my fears. And yet, at the same time, I want nothing more than to process my thoughts through words and for you to be the recipient. So bear with me as my thoughts may seem scrambled and annoyingly cliché at times.

It is all wrinkled in my mind. It smells as well. It is hard to iron out. It is confusing as I find myself forgetting how devastatingly hard it was living there and sort of idealize the whole experience. I do know that as humans it is not only our nature to quickly adapt but to begin, immediately, taking for granted the moment that we live in. We tend to wish for what we had or what’s to come, instead of saturating ourselves in our moments. Our present moments. I did this in Africa. I do it now. Though I may idealize my past 7 months to some degree, through this idealizing, I am able to somehow objectively look at what I had, how I lived, and what I learned. I was used to my new life by last November. I took it for granted right on through March. It became my way of life instead of one I only knew of. I miss it terribly.



I miss living in a community where so much was unacceptable. It was a rather unrealistic community. A good one to live in for a small chapter of your life and then leave and spread the love. I knew a man, Charles Dodgen, on the ship who had stumbled across a community in Liberia of disabled adults living and sleeping on concrete floors with barely anything to eat or drink. When he came back to the ship that night, he stood before the Anastasis community explaining what he had found and of how it was unacceptable to him. We took an offering. Over $3000 was raised. Another evening one of my dear friends, Corinna, stood before us explaining of a local school she was involved in. “They have nothing to write on and no chairs to sit in.” She explained. “There is only a board where the teacher will write.” Corinna desired something more for these children. No pencil and paper, no chairs or desks was unacceptable to her. Corinna handed out pens that night to each of us to motivate us to give. We actually had to be motivated. It was normal to hear of schools with no materials and concrete buildings where dozens of disabled lived with only the clothes on their back. These situations were daily brought before us and we could daily make a noticable and immediate difference. It was a way of life. We got used to it.

Within this community, this ship community, I was surrounded by people paying to work. Not working to be paid but paying to work. I was surrounded by many who sacrificed home, career and the privilege of living near those who knew them true. There were others living on the Anastasis who came because they didn’t know what else to do with their lives. They came to “live in Africa” for awhile. They came to fill this space of their life with something “worth while” for lack of better ideas. I could be classed in that last group, I suppose. I went because I didn’t want to go to college but still wanted this 19th year of my life to be sort of productive and somehow useful to others. I miss that unique usefulness that living on the Anastasis had to offer, a usefullness that I did not anticipate or expect.

So I sit in a waiting room this day reflecting of my time spent away. Away from what I’ve known for the last 18 years of my life. A computer sits on my lap. A bottle of clean water and a cell phone lay on the table beside me. Music plays from a decent looking stereo towards the back of the room. The atmosphere is comfortable, thanks to an air condition unit. There is a light switch on the wall that when flipped on, always works. There’s a purse sitting on the floor below me with enough money inside it to send a child in Liberia to school for a year. And keep in mind, I am the poorest in my family. There is barely any money in that purse. There’s a magazine laying beside me that I’ve just read an article from. I can read. I can drink. I can feel cool even though it’s hot outside. These are aspects of life that my liberian friends did not know.

I met Francis when I was walking on the dock, in Monrovia, Liberia, one evening. He called out to me and we started talking. He was 15. He had no parents. Both had been displaced during the war two years ago. He’d never attended school, but longed too. The sandals on his feet were his only pair of shoes. He lived about 5 or 6 miles from the ship with an older man in some worn down building. He walked everyday to our port wondering if this day one of the crew members of the Anastasis would give him a piece of bread. I walked on our dock 3 evenings a week for the exercise. Francis was there waiting for me each time. He’d call out..”heeeey Sienna..Sienna!”. I'd pull my headphones from my ears and look behind me, towards the yell. There was something about Francis that intrigued me. He loved learning. He’d tell me about different animals and countries. He longed to sit in a classroom. One day he humbly asked for my help. Two of my friends from the ship helped pay his tuition and I provided the money for a pair of new school shoes, ones that were mandatory in order for him to attend. I remember when Francis came to see me after his first day of school. He was so excited. He just looked at me with this incredible smile, one I’d never seen from a school boy of 15.

That’s not happily ever after for Francis. I know that. It overwhelms me how much Francis doesn't have that I wish I could give him. Parents. Home. Food. Peace. Sleep. Safety. I miss talking with him and learning from him. I miss being able to just be there for him 3 nights a week, to offer him some sort solace or love. I hate that my leaving the mercyship meant leaving Francis. It meant leaving Koolah. It meant leaving Blessing. It meant leaving those I had only begun to understand and relate with after months of knowing.



Atticus Finch from “To Kill a Mockingbird” said “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view...until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.” New shoes won’t change Francis’s life. Neither will a whole year of school. But I believe that people who take an interest in him and who take the time to understand his life and walk around in his skin and through this, offer him hope...I believe that this is what might change Francis’s life. I miss being a part of that. A small part of that.

I’m glad I was able to go to Africa and walk around a bit. I hope one day I can really climb inside their skin and be able to help them more than I did the first time around. It is my goal. For now, I must learn to be content here and apply these insights to those beside me.

When I think about Francis, when I think about Koolah or her small niece, Blessing, I am worried for their souls. I hate that I can’t get to them. I hate that I’m not there for them. I pray they will find a peace and comfort that will help them rise above each of their unfathomable situations. This passage from Ezekial gives me hope...

"For this is what the sovereign Lord says: I myself will search for my sheep and look after them. As a shepherd looks after his scattered flock when he is with them, so will I look after my sheep. I will rescue them from the nations and gather them from the countries, and I will bring them into their own land. I myself will tend my sheep and have them lie down...I will search for the lost and bring back the strays. I will bind up the injured and strengthen the weak..."

I believe that.


This is Blessing and her brother, Christian. I miss them.

The Third Wonder.

'Two things,' said Kant 'fill me with breathless awe:
The starry heavens and the moral law.'
I know a thing more awful and obscure--
The long, long patience of the plundered poor.

-Edwin Markham

Three more gone...

The Schierbecker family left last Friday. I found
myself, once again, unraveling at the seams as their
departure neared closer. I never think about these
goodbyes until they’re actually upon me...right there
in front of me, staring me squarely in the face so I
can do nothing but stare back, helplessly. I’ve
become quite good at completely denighing their
actuality until it’s absolutely necessary. This
moment of absolute was upon me last friday on March
10th. The Schierbecker family lived one stair level
down from me. I was always welcomed into their
family, their cabin, their time, their lives. Jens
was from Germany and Ana from Mexico. They had a
daughter about a year and half old and named her Tabea
Paulinna. Tabea was my girl. We were tight. Jens and
Ana reminded my very much of John Lewis and Ann Watts.
I imagine Tabea will grow to be a mixure of Posie and
Levi. I’m almost sure of it. This makes me smile.
Offspring of such thoughtful, hospitable, active
parents always excites me.

The Shierbeckers, Jens, Ana, and Tabea, left a gap in
my life on the ship. There’s this empty spot now that
I’m not sure how to fill and I hesitate to fill it
with anything because I don’t want to replace them.
I’m hestitant to allow anyone to take one step into
that space. It’s the Shierbecker’s space. They
filled it perfectly. They filled it beautifully.
They defined “family” for me on this ship. Jens is
from Germany and he was gentle and sensitive to me.
He like motercyles and cigars. He was the manager of
Community Development team on the ship. Jens always
asked how I was doing. When he asked, it wasn’t in a
tone that barely cared. He did care and he’d always
looked me straight in the eye and ask me twice and
said something like “are you sure?”. It would make me
smile inside even it if I didn’t always show it
outside. I knew he cared. He wasn’t just playing some
part. He was genuine to me and made me feel cared
for.

Ana worked in HR with me. She was the housing manger.
Ana was a daily example to me of selfless love. She
freely gave to those around her. She gave without
thinking. It’s just how Ana was. She's from Mexico
so it must have been in her bones. Those around her
were family. She tuned into those right beside her
and she gives them, she gave me, a feeling of
importance and significance. I was so worth her time.
At any time of the day, I was worth it. I could
always count on Ana. There was also this passion in
Ana that I will always remember. She had a love for
the African children that was so powerful to me. I
wish you could have seen her with the children. Not
only were they excited to see her but you could see it
in her whole body how grateful she was to be with
them. She was love to them. She was exactly what
they needed. She was always enthusiastic about
sharing the love of Jesus with them and that stuck out
to me. It was something remarkable the love she had
for those children and how real her love was, how
consistant it was.

But those three have gone. They've gone on vacation
to Mexico for 3 weeks. When they return, I'll have
left already for China.

I read this quote in the book, Life of Pi...

“It is true that those we meet can change us,
sometimes so profoundly that we are not the same
afterwards, even unto our names.”

I am not the same afterward. Even unto my name.

The Howard Kids

There we are! Lowen Grey, Kyrie Anna Ruth, Marian Chalice, Aubren Sienna, Brae Lawren, and Pax Nathanael. We're in Georgia, Cambridge, Monrovia, Chan Chung, and Washington D.C.

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.