When I was 5 years old, I learned the “truth” about Santa Clause. I use the word truth in quotations because, despite all evidence to the contrary, there is some part deep within me that would love to believe that there is a jolly, magical man that loves us all so much that he flies across the world in one night, to bring us gifts, based on our good deeds. It seems like a fantastic concept, and I like to believe that it is real.

A discussion about the merits of children’s belief in Santa Clause aside, I am thankful for having a mother that wanted her children to know the true meaning of Christmas. I grew up understanding that Christmas was a celebration of Jesus’ birth. I never questioned it. I read the Christmas story in my bible every December (usually in both Matthew and Luke, if I didn’t have too much homework that month and could swing it), went to church every Christmas Eve, and made sure that I never asked for anything too extravagant so as to avoid becoming plagued by the looming consumerism of the season.

Despite my efforts, I remember often being left feeling like something wasn’t completely right. Even amidst a Christ-filled Christmas, there was always this sense of not being happy enough. And the problem was (and continues to be) that something would always go wrong. Someone doesn’t like a gift, someone gets stuck in a snowstorm and can’t make it to family Christmas, or (as has become a family tradition for the Carrol’s), someone makes a horribly inappropriate comment at the wrong time and “ruins Christmas”. Inevitably, despite our best efforts, not everything will be perfect, lovely, and beautiful. Even at Christmas. Even amidst the celebration of the saviour of the world.

This year, I watched The Nativity Story and it made me think. I know the story well. I have known it well since I was a child. But I know it within the context of children’s pageants and manger scenes and Christmas carols. Things that make the story seem magical. But, as I watched this film, I began to think of how the whole scenario would have felt to experience first-hand. It was more than a story. Mary was a real young girl. She was poor and living in an absolutely oppressive situation. And, she became pregnant without having a husband - which was less than acceptable for her time. When you think about the reality of how it all played out - a 13-year old in labour, in a stable, after having walked for days and days with her fiancé, to pay taxes that they couldn’t afford, to their oppressors - it must have felt far less than magical at the time. It probably felt like an absolutely impossible situation.

The reality is that God’s people at that time desperately needed a saviour. Not so that they could have a beautiful, Norman Rockwell celebration, but because they were living in a world where things weren’t right. God sent them a saviour - in His own way. Which is why we celebrate.

Not because everything in our lives has been made perfect. But because, most often, our lives are quite the opposite. So, if our celebration of Christ’s birth is flawed, or there isn’t enough money for the gifts we wanted to purchase, or someone we love is missing, or if someone says something inappropriate….then we can be reminded of why He came.

And that, more than attempting to have a perfect celebration, in an imperfect world, resonates with me.

It's happened.



I finally got excited. I think that maybe I was afraid to let it happen too early. But ever since I realized that I am less that 1422 hours away from arriving in Africa again, something has felt different. I guess I have been avoiding letting myself feel the way I should feel about doing the thing I think I was born to do. But, with another chance for my dreams to come to realization in the very near future, I am absolutely overcome with joy, passion, and raw excitement



For the last two years I have been wary of implying that serving, loving, teaching, growing, and living in Africa were any more important, special, or purposeful than doing those same things in North America. Any logical person should be able to come to the conclusion that they have to be equal. For the most part, we have little control over where we are geographically located at any given time, give or take a vacation every couple of years. It stands to reason then, that we are called to serve and love the people around us.....not simply serve and love when we happen to be in an area where the the needs are literally written all over peoples' faces.



But the reality is that we were each made uniquely.



I have spent the last two years learning a lot about my brain, and my heart, and my unique strengths. And, as it turns out, this whole theme of mercy is more than a coincidence in my life. While I won't even pretend to take credit for it, I realize that all of those nursing school lectures on empathy must have stuck and I have been left with the ability to legitimately feel what another person is feeling. At this point in my very immature career, I usually lack the tools and skills necessary to solve the problem. But, I feel it. Sometimes, when I am really lucky, as if it were my own pain.



Lately, I have been asking God to "break my heart with what breaks His"....and miraculously, He has. I am starting to feel direct compassion for the patients that I have yet to meet, but that I am going to have the opportunity to serve in Togo.



Some people will change their world by changing policies. Some people will change their world by being influential public figures. Some people will change their world through strategic application of their financial affluence. I hope to change my world through the unique privilege of demonstrating the compassion God first showed to me to someone who may not have experienced it before.



And that excites me.

In sixty days, I will once again pack up whatever portion of my life will fit into a backpack, pray that my luck has not yet run out, and head east. That means there are just over....



60 days until I will hold a beautiful baby on my chest that I havn't even met yet and breath in his scent and melt inside just a little.



60 days until I will begin to yet again pay $700.00/month for my own personal unlimited supply of Nutella.



60 days until that big ocean no longer separates me from friends whose recent absence have left significant holes in my life.



60 days until I embark on the daily struggle of trying to communicate with patients in a language that, despite what the Ontario Secondary School System may have tried to teach me, I am far less than fluent in.



60 days until I go from someone who did something cool once in her life to someone who has a lifestyle that reflects who she wants to become.



60 days until I get to once again witness miraculous transformations in the matter of hours, literally before my eyes.



60 days until "going to work" will mean 25 steps down the hall, instead of a 60 minute commute through a snowstorm.



60 days until I will get to bargain and haggle for rides on slightly less than safe vehicles with only slightly above completely hazardous drivers.



60 days until my heart begins to break in a way that I know I cannot yet begin to imagine.









And I can't wait.