It’s almost done.

The last lips were repaired last Thursday. Tuesday morning at 5:30am, six of the last pikins (“children” in krio) and their respective caregivers and siblings got on a bus that will start their journeys back to villages all over West Africa. We repeated that potential gong show nearly glitch-free again yesterday morning. By 11:00 this morning, the wards will be empty.

For the first time in over nine months, the wards will be completely still and silent. All the joy and pain and tears and laughter that have flooded those wards will be scattered throughout this country that we have been so blessed to serve this year.

And, I got to catch a glimpse of it.

I walked into this outreach as it was already on its last legs. When the crew of the Africa Mercy had already been stretched and tried. I walked in and got to be a part of it. And, I walked in and got to experience something that I have never been a part of here...the end.

The other night, we rounded the wards, sorting out medications, dressing supplies, transport money, personal possessions, border letters, nutritional supplements, and photos for the remaining fourteen patients. It was obvious: This was all coming to a close. I couldn’t help but notice that last night of camp feeling in my heart.

I started thinking about endings. I’ve experienced a couple of beginnings here. They are exciting and everyone has boundless energy. But, this is my first conclusion. And, I think I might like it even more.

Yesterday morning, as I did my last charge shift of the outreach, we had an amazing time of worship on the ward. Everyone was cognizant that this would be our last one, and as a result, it was no “check it off the list” worship session. We sang and danced and beat on drums and I am pretty sure the phone rang a couple of times but no one could have heard it even if they wanted to. I looked over at Grandma Groundnut at one point and saw tears streaming down her face. She knows she will leave the ward that has been her home for the last number of months and she is sad “to see her family go to another country while she stays here” (in her words). Grandma Groundnut and I spent the rest of yesterday’s worship time with our arms wrapped around eachother - singing, praying, crying a little. Aware that this was goodbye. But, for me at least, aware that saying goodbye means that a good work is complete. That finality only has its bittersweet sting because of the highs and lows that were encountered along the way.

Coming in for the last leg of the race has been a blessing to me. We care when something ends because of the significance it had throughout its course. And, as it turns out, experiencing the end of something significant can be just as moving as being part of its beginning.

It seems that every outreach, one individual child steals my heart. This time, Aminata has, hands down, taken the cake.

Oh, there have been other children, of course.

Like Bed 11 from last week: the 4-month old whose name I can’t even remember because his mother referred to him exclusively as Duck. Duck had an incomplete cleft lip, on the left side that Dr. Gary repaired. Conveniently, this is the same diagnosis and location of my own infantile malformation – which, to Duck’s mama, clearly meant that we were to be married. And thus, Duck & I are in love.

And then there is Kadia, who you have to tickle fight to the bed, in order to get her situated and stationary enough to start her NG feed. At which point she screams at you for a couple of minutes. Then chatters on about what I can only assume is a consideration of how many stickers she currently has plastered to her forehead and what strategy she should adopt to get more out of us.

And, of course there is Sia – our “almost too late in the outreach, but God seems to always provide the way” Burkitt’s Lymphoma kid who is literally a walking wonder. She and I were on a little walk the other day, hand-in-hand, her chatting away, again in some unknown language about who knows what, and I was struck by how blessed I am to get to participate in something that, in any other context, would be a once in a lifetime kind of miracle. And it happens here every day.

But, when all is said and done, it’s Aminata who I hold most near and dear to my heart. When we get up to deck 7 at the end of day shift to allow the patients some “fresh” air time, it’s Ami that I look for. It’s Ami that I will do any amount of running up and down the deck in Sub-Saharan African heat to make giggle. It’s Ami who brings me exceeding joy, watching her take little baby steps when she used to be barely able to sit up. It’s Ami who reminds me of God’s work in all of our lives when I watch her play with toys, not just stare at them, and know that her brain is now nourished enough to allow for close to developmentally appropriate mental processing.

The story for Aminata is far from over. She has a long way to go. More surgery needed. Money needing to be raised to get her to wherever that surgery will need to happen. Her body needs to clear itself of the infection that seems to stick around regardless of the assorted cocktails of antibiotics we have pumped into her. Her mama needs to learn how to treat whatever related mild ailments may surface, as they seem to be having the habit of doing. She actually has a lot to figure out in the next week, before the hospital gets packed up and the ship sails away.

She is by no means home free. But now she has a host of people praying and wholeheartedly invested in her ultimate well-being. That should serve her as well as anything else could.