I don't want to forget Africa. I know that I won't ever forget their faces and their stories and the way my heart would break with empathy. But, I am worried about the little things. The things that made Liberia Liberia. Made me laugh and wonder what kind of alternate universe I had stepped into. The things I had no choice but to embrace with open arms.

Already, I find myself answering questions verbally, as opposed to granting the questioner a slight head nod and raising of my eyebrows (which, I have concluded expends the absolute least amount of energy possible, and thus makes it the obvious choice for responding in Liberian heat). I no longer drop off the last two syllables of every word. I might actually go out of my way to enunciate when I speak, in attempts to be taken for an educated, respectable, professional North American. I havn't heard anyone "trying" or "trying small" in far too long.

I haven't been asked to hold or care for a stranger's newborn in over two weeks. The last three items I have purchased have been from a store where you make your selection from a shelf, as opposed to a wheel barrel, and there is no option for a discount if you allow the vendor to keep their "plastic". There are price tags attached to the items, which tell you how much you will end up paying, even before ten minutes of bartering. Mothers in North America apparently have first names and one is expected to refer to the woman by her given name, not "mama".

It is not acceptable to ignore any and all previous engagements due simply to the fact that "it is raining". ("Rain" is a perfectly acceptable excuse for missing appointments, meetings, surgery, etc. in Liberia. Good system.)

Sidewalks. Enough said. Where's the fun in that?

I am worried that I may never again see a 30-year-old man thoroughly enjoy colouring with crayons. Or a teenage girl carrying a large bundle of lumber on her head. Or that next time someone asks me to marry them, they might know my first and last name.

I miss pretending to care about football (soccer). I miss pretending to sell mangos from a basket on my head to the inhabitants of the ward. I miss hearing a stranger's life story while sitting in ridiculous traffic in a 7-berth cab. (I will note that I don't miss continually explaining that giving him my email address will most definitely not facilitate him coming to "America".)

I am refusing to forget what it felt like to live in a culture that truly loved. That truly valued relationships. That prayed without ceasing. Where the response to "How are you?" was "Thank God". Where patients prayed for the doctors and nurses. Where people who had never met made true sacrifice for one another.

I think I will make it my goal to be mistaken for an African someday. I'll let you know how that goes.

I often feel unprepared for life. Before leaving for Africa, I remember being swamped with questions from well-meaning friends, family, and colleagues about my plans, intentions, and preparation for this trip. And, despite as much preparation as I could possibly stomach, it seemed that there were just so many unknowns. Africa was quite a big step for me. To be completely honest, I hadn’t really done a whole lot else in my life. When I got on the plane last February, it was my second time ever setting foot on an airplane. My first nursing shift on the ship was the first time I had every taken care of adult patients. And when I opted to portage through Belgium on my way home, so that I could fly to Scotland to visit a friend, it was my first time alone in a non-English speaking country.

I often make this joke that I feel like there is some instruction manual for life that everyone else has read that I somehow have missed. People joke about things that they believe deep down.

In spite of all of this, the world doesn’t really scare me. I like to seek out the unknown, just to see what might happen. And, deep down, I live with the attitude that “it will all work itself out”. I guess most people would call this naivety. I have had too many experiences convincing me that it is God.

Because, I am too lucky to be lucky.

My last four hours in Liberia were easily the most frightening of my life. I literally had a “Brokedown Pallace” nightmare flashback and wondered how on earth I had ended up in such a crazy situation in a very unstable country. I sat in a locked landrover in the parking lot of a Liberian Police Station in 100 degree heat praying with all of my heart that we would be safe and the whole thing would be over. Then, like what most would call magic, it just was.

By the time I reached Scotland I had successfully boarded two planes, two trains, and one bus with only minutes to spare each. I would have bet money that I was on the wrong trains both times. Turns out, I would have bet wrong. I had no money for the bus ride so the driver just let me on. I made it to Scotland exactly how I was supposed to.

I came home to the most welcoming and loving parents, brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephew that a girl could ask for. My sister-in-law Amanda gave me a welcome home book called “Scaredy Squirrel” and wrote in the inside that she is glad I am not a scaredy squirrel.

There are things that I believe to be true despite all logical evidence to convince me otherwise. Like, the fact that having absolutely no worldwide traveling experience, I would be able to go to Liberia, and figure it out. And, despite the fact that there is every reason in the world to be scared, I don’t have to be.

Over the past five months, I have seen legitimate miracles. Babies whose chance of overwhelming infection shouldn’t have allowed them to live, thrive, and go home. Friends whose lives prior to coming to Africa and learning to sacrifice and serve I wouldn’t have even believed. Mamas whose entire personalities changed because they learned what love felt like. Against all odds, things turn out right.

I could write it off as chance. That, with all of the pain and hurt and evil in the world, sometimes good things just have to happen. Or I could step back and recognize that when I pray, God listens and answers. That He watches over me with every move I make.

I know that I am just way too lucky for it to be luck.

We went out for one last dinner tonight at our favourite Lebanese restaurant. Ali is working nights so I stopped by the ward when I got home, before heading to my room to say hello and bring her some Chicken Bread to help her survive her twelve-hour shift. Darling Boy, Prince, and Angela charged at me and, amongst perpectual hugs and kisses, used me as a human jungle gym. Greg’s Grandmother looked up from her loving gaze into her grandson’s eyes to give me a whole-hearted welcoming hello.

I went over to greet my new favourite set of twins, Hope and Joy, and they were immediately plopped into my arms by mama. Nurses, who have over the past five months become my family, came over to hear my stories of my last Liberian night out and we passed the babies around the group, gawking, tickling, and soaking up every single baby belly laugh. Hope started crying because he was hungry. Without a word, mama handed me a bottle, expecting me to feed him his bedtime snack.

Ali told the children in exceptionally fluent Liberian English that it was getting close to bedtime and they need to start being quiet. Bendu (a twenty-something year old burn patient who has become a mainstay in the ward) offered affirmation of the importance of a strict bedtime. Another nurse who was off-duty as well stopped by to check on everyone and say goodnight. I kissed and hugged my beloved B-ward children goodnight, bid my dear colleges a lovely nightshift, and walked the few short steps back to my cabin.

It is partly inevitable. We eat, sleep, work, breath, and play with the same small group of people in a very small space. It’s partly Africa. We have learned to take on each other’s needs, hurts, and joys as our own based on the example so strongly set in the African culture. And it is partly God. We have learned to appreciate eachother for who we are. To value the qualities and uniqueness that we each posses. To view eachother not in light of or despite our merits, but to simply love based on the fact that as humans we have an inherent desire to love and be loved.

So for the time being, this is what my life has become. A wonderfully intertwined world of community, codependence, and love. A family of used-to-be-strangers from all over the world brought together by this wonderful inexplicable thing and learning to love and need one another. An absolute blessing.

In less than 48 hours, I will get on a plane and leave behind my unique little world that I have come to love and depend upon. But, I will forever treasure these faces. These moments. This life.

It's almost over.

I am trying to get mentally prepared to transition from this season of life into the next. Some parts of me feel ready. I am ready for mom's hugs, coffee dates with my girls, and the freedom to walk outside independently.

However, I find it quite hard to imagine leaving this place in five days.

Mama Sue sent me a beautiful scrapbooked card a couple of weeks ago encouraging me to "finish strong". To quote my ever inspirational mother: "This experience represents a chapter, maybe a couple of chapters, in your life and I know that looking back, you will want it to be a good read". I can confidently assure her that it will be. I don't have regrets. I have learned, grown, served, loved, cried, laughed, worked, and danced hard. My heart is different. I know I view the world differently. The way I look at people is different.

I think that, like so many people, I came to Africa desiring to change the world. It would be incredibly hard to leave this place if I still felt that my calling was to change the world by being a nurse in Africa. I feel like it is my calling to change the world by loving people. By serving people that others don't want to serve. By showing people that they are important. My showing them that God wants to use their brokenness for healing.

I walked into ward church today and learned that last night, Greg drank from a bottle. An insignificant stride by most standards, but a major accomplishment for a baby in his condition. There is a small chance that a local surgeon may be able to help Greg using a technique that has been successful for him in the past. There is a chance that Greg is going to get his miracle. There is a massive army of people praying for this little baby all over the world. Today Marion (Greg's mama) became part of "team Greg” which is outwardly identified by a light blue string tied around our ankle. Inwardly, it means we are praying for our baby. Whatever the outcome in Greg's life, Marion has learned that we love her. People she has never met love her baby.

Prince sat on my lap today. He was wavering between sleep and wakefulness during the sermon. I would call Prince more of a princess. He screams relentlessly anytime his dressings are changed, or comes near him in a vaguely objectionable fashion. He demands "stickas" for his forehead on a regular basis. He started crying in church today because he was thirsty. But I have this theory that children whose physical needs have not been consistently met develop an obsessive concern with their physical state. Even the most attentive of Liberian parents would be hard-pressed to consistently meet the needs of their children. Therefore, I am left not blaming Prince for what we would call at home, whiny neediness. I instead have immense compassion for it. And, today as he laid against me and wrapped my arms around him, and rested his head on my chest, drifting slowly into a peaceful state, I felt nothing but love for him. I stroked his burn-scarred hands and was reminded of how God is so capable of using our imperfections. Of how God loves us past our imperfections.

This is what Africa has been for me. A realization and understanding of God in a greater way. Life lessons that have nothing to do with a geographical location. A chance to see people in a completely authentic way.

It makes going home exciting. Because, I am still me. I will take this part of me with me. And I cannot wait to see how it will be used in the rest of my world.