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.