"Our Journey Back To Africa"

After having been told by many, that the last time we were here it was as if I had fallen off the face of the earth, I decided to write a blog. This way, anyone that wants to can read it and comment. The Internet is terrible and it is very frustrating for me to get on and respond on Facebook and keep up with that. Thanks in advance to my friend Becka who will be managing my blog for me and posting pics along the way. I love and appreciate you for being a great friend and manager of my blog!                         Thank you all for being interested in my story and for taking the time to keep up with me! I love all of you.                         January 12th-January 28th 2012             The stress of traveling had been a bit more than usual, as our flight on Continental was canceled two days in a row due to a nationwide strike in Nigeria, so they changed our flight to Air France, which had continued to fly amidst the strike, and we flew the third day. The adrenaline had run out and the feeling of exhaustion had set in, like it always does, when I come to rest for a long journey in my seat on the plane.                         After a brief, pointless inventory of what I had probably left behind in the rush of things, my mind relaxed, gave in to the fact that I would just have to live without those things and I dozed off to sleep. As the night wore on, I looked at my watch, setting the clock to the time that it would be in France. It would be morning in Paris, yet nighttime U.S. time. After a brief layover in Paris, we boarded the plane for the final leg of the flight. I always try and eat well on the flight, as I do not know when I will eat again upon landing. My hopes of having one last meal on the flight before landing in Lagos were dashed when a passenger that had been extremely sick rendered the service area unfit for the flight attendants to bring out the food. I have never been on a flight where an announcement has been made requesting a doctor or nurse on board; but this man was very sick. He had made a mess in the back, which should have been a sufficient warning to me to not use that particular restroom. Let’s just say I was glad that “I was finished” when the door began to shake and rattle as he desperately jerked my door wide open and almost vomited on top of me! Needless to say I flew out of the restroom assuring him not to worry as he tried to apologize in his pitiful state. Poor guy… I felt so sorry for him.                         It is amazing how 18 hours, an open door and one step can take you from one world to another. I watch outside the window as the plane ascends into the clouds, which now block my view below. I know what awaits me…the good and the bad. I am leaving a land, which, although is not perfect in any way, is protected by authorities; where police and military are respected, order is the norm and cleanliness is priority. As our plane clears the clouds of sand due to “Harmattan” season, I watch as we fly over thousands of rusted metal rooftops, more dirt roads than paved, trucks blowing black smoke into the air, chaotic streets and a beautiful people that struggle to make ends meet. As we wait to come to a stop, I look out the window to see people bustling around to unload the luggage. They open the door to the plane and as we approach the opening, I can feel the humidity rush the plane. Here we are…once again. The airport is not as crowded as in times past due to the strike that is ongoing. We are praying that the man that is coming to get us can make it. He does. A very hospitable few days were spent with him and his family. The talk of the town is the strike. Will it end soon? What will the consequences be if it continues? The strike is due to a protest on the government for ceasing to subsidize oil prices. It was from one day to the next that gasoline prices more than doubled. This caused the nation to quickly rise up. All of the labor unions called on everyone to cease movement. There are many that have been killed in some of the protests across the nation.                         Once again, we head for an airport; this time to catch the interior flight. We had already spent an extra day in Lagos due to the airlines not flying because of the strike. We unload all of our luggage, sweat pouring. We are told that the airline is flying. When we get to the counter, however, they cancel the flight due to visibility problems from “Harmattan”. This is a season that at this time of the year, winds and sand from the Sahara desert come in and will cause very low visibility. It is what brings on dry season here and makes the entire house fill with a layer of dust. We decide to fly the same airline to Port Harcourt instead of Enugu. Port Harcourt is about four and a half hours from home. We call Emanuel to come and pick us up in the bus there. He and Ebuka arrive about an hour after we get there to spend the night with us. What a sweet sight to behold. So happy to see them. The man that we had stayed with in Lagos has a friend that opens his home to us to spend the night and feeds us supper. The next morning….no electricity. We get dressed in the dark and we are off by 5:30 a.m. God brings us safely home through twenty or so police blockades and endless car-sized potholes. So thankful. As we round the corner to the house, the green, lush foliage that I left five months ago, is dusted red with sand. It is dry and wilted. Upon approaching the house, I hear drums. Many of the children have prepared a welcome dance for us. Some have run to embrace us, others, begin their dance and song. It is awesome. When they finish, we all take time to enjoy one another’s presence once again.                         Two weeks have passed since we first stepped foot here again in Nigeria. Life continues on here. A couple of my patients that I was treating when I traveled back to the states have since died. Others have improved and still some have donned our gate looking for help and healing. Sometimes I just close my eyes and listen to life as it happens around me. Outside of my screen window in the night, I can hear the nighttime insects singing their songs, the chickens in our coup clucking away, the bush rats running along the tops of our trash cans and then up the roof of the coup, African music playing in the distance as people celebrate weddings and funerals into the wee hours. The local village vigilante (watchman) gongs what sounds like a trash can lid every hour on the hour during the night, every night. I wonder what drives someone to do that, I know he doesn’t get paid for it. My ears have trained themselves to ignore that as well as the local cult that will begin loudly beating drums at 5:30 a.m. They sing Jesus one minute and the next they are beating the demons out of someone and locking them up. The roosters are faithful to give the wake- up call way earlier than I need to get up! The children here at A Place of Hope can be heard sweeping their portion of the compound at 6:00a.m. They fight just like other children over who is not doing a good job, they shout and tattle, and yes…even have to face the wall for misbehaving. The ladies chatter on the way to the market as they pass down our little dirt road; and for those who know me well, yes… I can still go back to sleep!                         My sweet friend, Marisa, gave me the book, “One Thousand Gifts” for me to read on the way here. What an awesome book! I have begun to notice even the smallest things as gifts. Noso’s sweet squeaky voice, Baby Joy and even baby Aka calling me mum, the privilege of applying at least ten or fifteen bandages a night to wounds on our kids, passing out vitamins as they all line up to receive theirs with excitement, the wonderful sound of our kids beating out some awesome beats on the drums and singing into the night, the smell of the fire cooking food outside, sitting as little Dashuma and Kwuasi play with my hair. All of these things…an absolute blessing from God.                       The journey here continues.