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.

I am one of the lucky ones who actually stayed friends with their university roommates. Miraculously, all of the “best friends forever” declarations stuck, and eight years later (give or take a day or two), I spent the day with the same girls I met in frosh week at Wallingford Hall. Our ever-changing and improving, yet still so kindred-spirited selves, and the next generation of McMaster grads spent the day welcoming Joshua, the newest member of our club, into the world.

The funny thing about our gang (the “Westside Story” kind – not the “hood” kind….none of us would last 2 minutes in the hood) is the fact that we have all ended up in some degree of the same place. Despite significantly different paths of life, we are all proud contributors to the crazy world of health care. And after taking the longest, most atypical routes imaginable, we nurses have all found ourselves living the nurse-to-George-Clooney dream (minus George – he has yet to show up in my ER – but he will).

As always seems to be the case, our experiences in healthcare drove the majority of the conversation today (between pauses to debate whether or not Joshua really could be any cuter. He couldn’t).

Kate has been an ER nurse for a year. I have been an ER nurse for about 5 minutes. Becky has been an ER nurse for minus 2 days. We’ve all got a lot to learn. This predicament provided the groundwork for my second-favourite moment of the day:

Jenn: It’s overwhelming. I feel like in the ER, you have to know everything. And, that’s a hard skill to learn.
Sara (Social Worker….but still pretty cool): How do you measure your progress toward knowing everything? How do you know when you know 50% of everything?

She was mostly being funny….but 10% serious. She’s probably working on the measurement tool right now. That’s why Sara’s great.

And, what would a second-favourite moment of the day be, without a first-favourite moment of the day???

Jenn to Becky (yep, again, I set the stage): How come you don’t wear your wedding band with your engagement ring?
Becky: Did you ever see a Disney princess with two rings on?

It finally happened.

Saturday afternoon. Mid-shift 2 out of 3. I was walking down the hall and one of the attendants asked me if the patient in Fast Track 3 had gone home.

And I, with all of the competence and confidence of someone who works in the ER and actually knows what she is doing, responded "YES!"

At which point I knew....there was no turning back. I was now officially and functionally part of the team. I knew what was going on. I didn't have to ask anyone else the answer. I didn't doubt for a second whether or not *Mr. Adams* had been discharged or not. I answered the question with absolute brilliance and continued on to do one of the eight oh-so-important tasks that where on my to-do-list.

And that one moment - amidst the thousands of "I wish I had some clue what was going on right now" moments that occurred that day - made me realize that it is only a matter of time before more ER light bulb moments occur. And that before I know it, I will wake up one day to find myself feeling like I belong there. And that once that happens, it will only be a matter of time before it all makes sense and the whole reason I decided to climb this crazy mountain reveals its beautiful purpose.

Because now that what I believed to be impossible has happened, I know the miraculous is possible.

*name has been changed to protect patient privacy. Obviously. This isn't Liberia.