Does anyone care?

Provincial elections are set to begin in Sudan next week.  Elections that have been in the works since at least 2005.  An election would be a breakthrough for this devastated country.  But now it's falling apart and it will probably only get worse.  The government thrives on intimidation and threats, making empty promises to people desperate for relief.  Civil war will likely resume and many more will be killed.  Evidently more than 2 million dead isn't enough.  Women and young girls raped, children mutilated, little boys taken into slavery, families burned alive in their huts.  No war is okay, acceptable or justified.  But war in Sudan is brutal, unfathomable, possibly the closest thing to hell on earth.
I have seen the faces of those who survived war.  I have walked through a village that was bombed, raided and burned to the ground.  I have seen people drinking contaminated and disease laden river water because dead bodies were placed in their clean water wells.  I have seen young children with stick figure bodies and protruding bellies due to severe malnutrition and protein deficiency.  I've held babies too dehydrated to muster a cry.  I've seen a grandmother attempt to produce milk from her own breast for her orphaned grandson.  I've met men, with tribal symbols etched into their foreheads, who tell stories of men on horseback who rode through the marketplace and killed everyone in sight.  I have cared for a mother and her newborn, all the while wondering how this mother can love her fifth baby when the previous four have died due to entirely preventable and treatable reasons.  I learned that a mother is a mother anywhere in the world.  A mother who has experienced such grief and loss is still capable of loving again.  Even more surprising to me, she loves without condition and without limit.  She loves her baby everyday of its life, not knowing if tomorrow will be the last.  Loving and nurturing her little one, her touch is gentle and her heart is full.
I hope someone cares.

The Future

So I'm 27 years old.  So far, it's been a good year.  It also feels like there are some new ventures up ahead. 
Here are some things I am pondering:
-graduation from nursing school May 2011 (the 20th, if you really want to know)
-transition into a new role at hospice as an RN
-purchasing a home
-continue to pursue my goal of foster care/adoption
-create my own family, made up of those people dearest to me, those not related by blood
-would love to return to Africa, although I'm not quite sure what that looks like or when that will happen
-need to keep walking down this long road of healing, seeking wholeness and health in all aspects of my life

There's just so much to do...

The Difficult Road

The Journey
by Mary Oliver


One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Missing you

Dear Sweet Boy,

I was thinking about you today.  Like I do every day.  My heart feels heavier than usual today because of how much I miss you.  An acquaintance that I haven't seen in a few months asked about you the other day.  I didn't know what to say.  My eyes got watery.  I quickly changed the subject.  A friend's little boy, who is about your age, is building up quite a vocabulary.  I wonder what you are saying these days.  I would love to be able to teach you words, like car, hot, or kitty.  It would be fun to make animal sounds too.  I remember how much you used to smile when I made the sound of a horsey.  

You will experience your first Easter egg hunt this year.  I wonder what that will be like for you.  You will look adorable holding your basket, I know that for sure.  I try to imagine what you look like.  If I didn't have pictures, I'm afraid you would feel like a figment of my imagination.  Your Christmas picture is the last one I have of you.  It hangs on my refrigerator so I can see you everyday.  I have a special box and journal for you.  I hope one day I can give it to you.  So far, I have saved one of your burp cloths, a onesie you slept in at my house, your books, diaper pad, toys, even your little spoons.  I also put in the sippy cup you never used.  I bought that before you were even born.  I will probably add your Easter card to the box and all the pictures I have of you.

Sweet boy, know that Auntie Carli loves you more than you will ever realize. Even if you don't know who I am. 
xoxo

Really? Really?

Could it really happen?  An opportunity to return to Africa?  The thought is too much to comprehend most of the time.  Even though nothing is for sure, dates have not been confirmed, plane tickets and visas have not been purchased, but the possibility is there.  Really there.
There is a long and involved story behind all of this, one that is too complicated for the world of blogging.  However, the passion for Africa is alive and well within me and resides in a sacred and protected corner of my soul.  Even more profound is the experience of being on the magnificent African continent.  The journey to Africa is long, tiresome and not for the timid traveler.  But the exhiliration of landing on African soil is beyond words.  Africa is a desperate and hopeless place though.  It is a place of extreme poverty, injustice, suffering and at times, unspeakable atrocities.  Yet this place resonates with me. 
Walking into the compound living quarters in a village only accessible by plane, just south of the Darfur region, where just a few years ago massive air attacks were carried out and thousands of innocent men, women and children were savagely murdered, actually feels like home.  There are no phone lines, no running water, electricity is produced by solar panels on top of the huts, and the Sudanese people can be heard singing and drumming in the distance as the sun sets.  Water is carried in buckets from the river, children die from diarrhea, men herd cattle, there is no school, no grocery store, no written language.  And this is where I long to return.  To bring help and hope, relief from suffering, acknowledgement of trauma, nutrition to a starving child, immunizations to prevent disease, and maybe even deliver a baby.

http://www.sudanproject.org/

Feels like home

-a warm, welcoming place
-not having to ring the doorbell
-able to curl up on the couch in comfy clothes
-reading a book by the fireplace
-conversation about the events from the week or difficult subjects
-watching the Olympics
-knowing where the water glasses are
-laughing
-crying
-being real
-playing games
-experiencing true acceptance
-feeling valued
-having popcorn and ice cream for dinner on a Sunday night

I'm overflowing with gratitude after experiencing all these things.  Sunday nights are worth more than a million dollars to me.  I couldn't ask for more.  I am so blessed.

Home is the one place in all this world where hearts are sure of each other. It is the place of confidence. It is the place where we tear off that mask of guarded and suspicious coldness which the world forces us to wear in self-defense, and where we pour out the unreserved communications of full and confiding hearts. It is the spot where expressions of tenderness gush out without any sensation of awkwardness and without any dread of ridicule.
~Frederick W. Robertson

A day at work

*To shine brightly requires burning*
I read this quote as I left the house of a 42 year old patient with cancer.  He has a wife, six young children, a degree in engineering.  He is a brilliant man, truly in relationship with something greater than himself.  But he is not ready to die.  He can only lay on his abdomen in the electric hospital bed due to tumor growth.  Weakness and pain prevent him from standing.  His bed is positioned so he can look out the window, watching life continue around him as his own slips away.  Cards, photos, inspirational verses and crayon artwork surround him.  His younger children play outside while the older ones help with chores and do homework. 
He is too tired today for a bath.  Just moving from side to side in bed is exhausting.  I remove the compression stockings from his pale thin legs.  Legs that once ran and climbed stairs no longer bear weight.  I wash his feet and massage them with lotion.  I think of Jesus washing the feet of the disciples.  I wonder who was more humbled?  I am the humbled one now.
I review his medications, spend time listening to his wife and affirm the care she provides, encourage the family to call the hospice 24hr # if any needs arise and plan to visit again later in the week.  As I walk to my car the man's two youngest children follow me.  A girl and a boy, maybe four and five years old.  They wave to me and say "thank you for coming to see my daddy today."
I drive away from their home with tears in my eyes, my heart is touched.  I am completely drained, unsure if I can make it home, dreading the paperwork that needs to be completed.  But more so I am thankful.  Thankful for my health, thankful for the ability to walk, thankful for fresh air and sunshine.  Thankful for the children's words.  Now I know why I got out of bed today.  I am so blessed to have this job.