I Hope You Dance.

Today, I want to dance.  I want to push the table over to the far end of the dining room, open the door to the crisp night African air, and jig the night away. Unfortunately, my Nashville life has an acute shortage of African air and free-time at night, so it's probably not going to happen.

We spent many nights dancing the soles off our feet last summer, and I remember them fondly. Elegance and grace are not my strong points (let's go play in the DIRT!), but I did at least enjoy myself.

Towards the end of the summer, we decided to try and teach the kinders the Irish Jig.

I'm a glutton for punishment.

Johnny didn't want to dance with anyone and was exceptionally uncooperative. Queenie was incredibly confused and kept tripping over her own long legs. Ernest cried because Queenie wouldn't dance with him.  Chola was mildly baffled, and Theresa tried really hard but couldn't quite get the counting down.

And then there was Elias.

Going into it,  I didn't expect any participation from him at all.  We had played group games like soccer and kickball several times through the summer, and many times he simply refused to participate. He generally did okay with Duck Duck Goose, but if there was a ball involved then he wanted no part of it. Every other kid had their thing that they excelled at, but I just couldn't figure out where Elias fit (other than in the time-out chair).  Johnny loved the pig organs I showed them, but Elias was thoroughly disgusted.

Photo credit Zeger Van den Broele

Elias didn't just lack the general gusto of avid participation, but he also frequently deliberately acted up. He took a pair of scissors to his new book and beanie baby and shredded them both. Here he is picking up the innards of the poor stuffed walrus that he disemboweled.

 But the second that music turned on, something clicked for him.  It was as though music ran in his veins instead of blood.  I tried to walk him through how to do the Jig, but he was having a hard time doing it and learning it simultaneously. So he stepped back and watched my footwork as I walked through it one time. Then he did it perfectly.

Not only did he pick it up almost instantly, but he clearly loved it. His eyes lit up and he looked at me with wonder shining from his eyes, as if to say, "Look! I did something right!" We danced for an hour or so, and then they all scurried off to their next activity. Several times over the next few days, he would come and tug on my shirt and say, "Auntie Meghan, will you dance with me?" Here we are mid-jig:

There was kind of a running joke this summer concerning Elias's lovability.  I would often inform Amy that she would have a few free beds come August when I had to leave, because I fully intended to take a few... or all... of the kids with me.  I had two suitcases and a carry-on to work with, so I was pretty sure I could fit most of them. "I'm taking them all!" I would threaten. Her innocent reply was usually, "Except Elias?"

After much deliberation, I've decided I would take him too.  I could teach him to play the saxaphone and the piano.  I have some friends in a (freaking amazing) a capella group here on campus, and I would love for him to see and hear them sing.  His little head would probably just explode from sheer delight.  The sounds and beats of Nashville might just sync up to the odd little rhythm of his michievous, trouble-making, jig-dancing soul.  I think he should come and visit Auntie Meghan for a while...

Then I would at least have someone to dance with.

My Little Doctor

Pharmacology class makes me think of Johnny.

In a way, I'm kind of okay with that. It means I have something to daydream about during the 3 painful hours of lecture every Monday morning.

I think he would love this class. In a few years, I mean. I love the way that kid thinks. I think it's partly because he reminds me of myself as a kid, only he's smarter. He loves the complexities of how things work, how the body functions, how to make something out of nothing. He can look at a pile of trash and see a completed project. He figured out he could run a string taut between two sticks to make a straight line so that his wall wouldn't be crooked.  When I was teaching the kids about the major organs in the body, he was always one step ahead, making connections that they others didn't even grasp at and asking questions that logically led to the next step in whatever process we were discussing.  I had to teach him about some of the accessory organs that the other kids never learned about because it was the only way to answer his questions.  He is both curious and brilliant, and that is a beautiful combination.

I know he's only a kindergartener, but I've got pretty high hopes for this kid. I'm itching all over to get back over there and keep teaching him.  He absorbed an awful lot of information in the 2.5 months that I was there, but I suspect he will not retain much of the science based material.  He simply doesn't use it enough.  I bet he picks it up again quickly, though.  He really loves to learn, and he loves to make other people proud of him. There were many times when he would finish a worksheet or a book and say, "Auntie Meghan, I did it for you!"

Maybe I'm a little biased (yay science yay!), but I think he would make a simply fantastic doctor.  He wouldn't have nearly the bedside manner that Chola would have, and he doesn't have Queenie's natural compassion and protectiveness...

Still, that doesn't mean he hasn't shown those attributes many, many times.  And he has a tenacity and a sense of justice that might just convince him he can make a difference in the world. Lord willing, he will never outgrow that. But I digress...

Look at his face here. He's pushing in on the lung to see it deflate.

Photo credit Zeger Van den Broele

He probably had no idea this one was being taken. He's hard at work building a fortress.

Photo credit Zeger Van den Broele

He asked why I sometimes gave him medicine when he was sick and sometimes did not. This led to a discussion about the difference between bacteria and viruses. He's asking if the spot on his left arm needs antibacterial or if his white blood cells can just eat the germs.

Photo credit Zeger Van den Broele

 He usually plays pretty independently if he is making or building something, but every once in a while he would grudgingly allow one of the little ones to play with him.  He wasn't always exceptionally happy about it, but...

Photo credit Zeger Van den Broele

I gotta say, folks-- I really miss this kid.

I shall...

My freshman year of college, I took an Honors writing class in which we were required to write a personal credo.  I stumbled upon it as I was organizing the hundreds of random files saved in every place imaginable on my computer, and I had to pause for a moment and wonder: Have I held true to this? If I were to write it today, would it say the same thing? More on that to follow later, but for now...

This is what I shall do: forgive those who do not deserve it, love the unlovable, fight for those who cannot fight for themselves, and refuse to over-look  injustice.  I shall be bold in my endeavors, never relenting in the pursuit of truth and the greater good. I shall attempt in every way to truly be the body of Christ, to see people through His eyes, to bless and not curse, and to touch the lepers.  I shall put my heart on the line, knowing full well that it will probably get trampled, for in doing so I invite others to trust their own hearts.  I shall rise above my circumstances, for although they have shaped my path, they will not define my life. I shall find victory in surrender and worth in poverty. I shall dwell in the moment, fearing neither the present nor the future, but embracing this amazing gift called life.  I shall cherish the promise of the sunrise, dancing in my heart for the joy of the morning, for each day is a gift, and I shall never wish one away. I shall lead by serving, throwing every ounce of my being into alleviating the human agony, both physical and spiritual, in order that I might spend my life on something that is worth the price. I shall fervently try to judge no person by his outward appearance, but rather by the overflow of his heart. I shall avoid self-pity and empty excuses.  I shall shoulder the responsibility for my own mistakes.  I shall push myself always, refusing the stagnant dry-rot of complacency.  I shall build my relationships on trust and honesty, my standards on the scriptures, and my life on Jesus Christ. I shall not limit God by boxing him in with my narrow expectations and stunted understanding.  I shall be open to new ideas and acceptant of differing perspectives, yet I shall not compromise my convictions to please the crowd. I shall be financially wise and prudent, yet I shall give freely where the need is true.  I shall never stop learning, and I shall never consider myself better than others. I shall dance is if no one is watching, for even if they are, the dance is not for them. I shall love passionately, trust deeply, and laugh freely.  I shall live adventurously, for life is simply too short to waste on boredom.

Hope Rising

Dry earth dusted red

Evening candlelight ambience and drumbeats at the dawn

A cloudless sapphire sky

And a billion brilliant promises holding up the sky at night

Whispering the peace of “star light, star bright”

Children of the promise

Rescued from a world where death is not the greatest evil

Protected for a time

And understanding little the desperate hope that rides on them

The future of a people torn asunder by the wind

Ashes choke the air

Fiery scars blacken a paradise now lost

Death screams victory

Only the careful ear hears life’s resilient rebirth

Hope rising from the nascent green now pushing through the earth

Heaven’s heart breaks

Apathy paralyzes the equipped

We have the chance to change

But the forgotten burn to ash, for we fail to understand

The water of life to quench the flame is resting in our hands

Her victories small

Time beats senselessly against battlements of tradition

Long battles hard won

For fragile souls both prisoners and casualties of war

Sustained by Grace’s cry that they are life worth fighting for

And so, hope is rising...

Lesson Learned

This week has been an excellent example of when Meg has so very much bouncing around in her head but insufficient ability to mold those thoughts into words. Somehow, all of it came to a culmination today, and I must either write or explode. So if this sounds like it should be about three different blog posts, it probably should. If I were concerned about decorum or literary style, I would separate them-- but I like to live life on the edge.

I started this post during clinical last week but couldn't figure out where to go with it....


As I write this, I'm sitting in the nuclear medicine department at Vanderbildt while my patient undergoes a stress test.  She's an absolutely fascinating pathological case study, though most of her care has been relatively straightforward.  As complicated as the pharmacodynamics may be, nuclear medicine is mostly a lot of waiting... and waiting... and redosing so you can wait some more.  Since she's my only pt today (the joys of being a student), that leaves me with a lot of time to think and remember as the mechanical melody of the hospital-- the shuffling of footsteps, the beeping of monitors, the methodic whir of a CT-- lull me gently into introspective reminiscence.


My thoughts turn to the dozens of patients I've cared for in the last two years. I can still see each of their faces clearly in my mind.  One was a certifiable genius.  He worked on world-renown projects that you would all recognize if I were allowed to tell you about them.  But then he dreamed up a cutting-edge endeavor that went horribly wrong, and several of his coworkers and close friends were killed.  He blamed himself and went crazy with guilt.  By the time research revealed it wasn't his fault at all, it was too late.  He had lost touch with reality completely.  Now he was dying alone in a tiny central TN hospital.  It is his story I remember when I lose a patient.  Sometimes forgiving yourself-- even if the guilt is irrational and misplaced-- is the biggest hurdle.


Another patient I treated was in an incredible amount of pain but was already maxed out on pain meds.  He had a plethora of problems that all antagonized each other.  The medical focus had become so centered on just keeping him alive that some of the simpler comfort measures had slipped through the cracks.  His skin was so dry and itchy that he was literally scratching it off.  I brought some lotion and began spreading it on his back.  He was too weak to even finish a sentence, but my heart knew the words as he spoke them. "Jesus said, 'Whatever you do for the least of these...'" His is the voice I hear when my heart needs perspective.


I penned those three paragraphs almost effortlessly and then spent about an hour gnawing on my pen and trying to decide what to write next. Those stories have great meaning to me, but I feared they would leave the reader (that's you!) with a bit of a "so what?" feeling.  I mean, I've written pretty extensively about my patients before.

Today was another clinical day. I was assigned two patients this morning, and both of them were very medically straightforward and easy to care for. I had a lot of free time, so I bopped from room to room looking for interesting procedures to help with or observe.  As I was helping a wound care specialist change multiple bandages on a poor sweet old woman with several pressure sores, she asked some polite chit-chat-type questions: Where are you from? Where do you go to school? What do you want to do with your life? I gave her a ten second summary (...came from Illinois, currently at Belmont, headed to Africa...).  She sighed with a smile and said, "You know, I would love to do some mission work, but I know my heart would be captured and I would never be able to come back, so I better just stay here."

I was speechless.

Isn't that the point?!

Such innocent words, spoken with friendly honesty.  My heart struggled for a response for a moment before settling on one.  Pity and sadness welled within me, for this woman had, due to reasons I am not privy to, deliberately decided to deprive herself of a joy second only to experiencing Christ himself. In fact, it's an experience that would likely include the aforementioned encounter.  And in such a sideways way, it was almost like her heart knew it, even if the rest of her had absolutely no idea what she was missing.

And I wished that she could have met that second patient of mine, because her heart seemed to be searching for perspective.

A few minutes later, an exceptionally irritable and difficult patient received an order for a blood draw. She was obese with deep veins and labeled as a "hard stick." IV therapy had been called the last time she needed a blood draw, and the nursing consensus on the floor was that they probably would need to be again.  The patient mentioned that they had called a neonatal nurse to stick her during a previous hospitalization (I'm telling you, this lady had freakishly tiny and tricky veins). I decided to give it a go. I got blood on the first stick. As I held the needle and filled the vial, my memories flashed to a tiny little boy I barely had the chance to get to know, a child whose tired little veins just would not accept an IV needle from my inexperienced hand.

Then I remembered my first patient, and decided it might be time to begin forgiving myself.

As the shift neared its close, I slipped into the nurse's lounge to polish off a therapeutic ham sandwich.  One of the other nurses from the floor (whom I admire and respect greatly) struck up a conversation that quickly (through her guidance, not mine) turned towards Zambia.  She had asked me once before what kind of nurse I wanted to be, and now she was wondering if and when I planned to return to Zambia.  She probably didn't expect a month/week/day countdown.  I laughed at her surprise. "Sorry-- I suppose I'm just a little anxious to get back to them."  Her answer might be the most calming and confirming thing I've heard since I set foot on American soil in August. "Well of course you are-- they're your kids. You can't just walk away from your kids."

What I would give for my family and friends to understand that... or even to understand it better myself!

Because I don't know what those kids are to me, really.  Amy and I were talking the other day and she reminded me that I have "23 nieces, or nephews, or pseudokids, or whatever they are..." waiting for me when I return. I don't know who I am to those children, or who exactly they are to me. I mean, I'm Auntie Meghan, but not "Auntie" in quite the same way that some of the hired nannies are-- for many of them, the job is predominantly just that: a job. But I'm not their mom either. I have a niece whom I love dearly and would do anything for. It's sort of similar to that, but still not quite the same.  I hope to be in their lives for a very, very long time (approximately forever, actually...) but I don't know what even tomorrow holds, or if I'll be needed more elsewhere sometime down the road. Kazembe may not be where I end up. So the only way I know how to describe them is just to say that, in some way they're mine. They're a lot of other people's, too. A whole lot of people care very deeply for these kids. But that doesn't make me any less attached. That doesn't make me any less protective, possessive, or in love. In many ways, it actually makes me more so.  Forgive me if that makes absolutely no sense at all.

This life that I have chosen (or that has chosen me)-- nursing and mission-- is a double-edged vocation: I see people at the best times in their lives, and I see them at the worst times in their lives.  I'm expected to be healer and helper, friend and advocate, teacher and prophet, warrior and peacemaker.  I smile when they smile, and sometimes I cry when they cry. Shoot, sometimes I cry when they don't cry.  Sometimes they look to me for answers that I don't have.  Sometimes they demand more of me than what I think I can give.  Sometimes my courage and confidence are stretched to the breaking point and then a little further still. Sometimes they learn from me. Usually, they're the teachers.

If today is any indication, I have a lot left to learn, ladies and gentlemen...

One beautiful and unexpected lesson at a time.

Completely Pointless Ramblings

The semester is officially half over. Part of me is ecstatic-- I loaded way more on my plate than what I should have tried to carry this fall. Work, classes, and the constant and ongoing battle of assimilating into my own culture have proven to be a bit more taxing than I bargained for, so I'm relieved to know that I'm halfway there. At the same time, I'm way behind in several of my classes, and the midterm mark means that time for redemption is short.  I should probably be studying instead of blogging....

Fall break brought with it an opportunity to share a little about my summer with one of the churches that helped me go. It was a complete and total fiasco. The pews of the tiny country sanctuary were "packed" with about two dozen people. After much cajoling, I finally managed to convince my little brother to let me use his 32" flatscreen to show pictures on-- you can just plug a flashdrive into it and flip through the pictures on the screen. But because I'm Meg, I ran off and left Nashville without Pegasus (my computer), which had all of my pictures on it. Luckily, I had uploaded many of them to Walgreens.com and could just download them from there. Of course, the internet connection at my mom's was too sketchy to allow that, so I ended up dashing to a friend's house Sunday morning before church to pull the pictures off line. Just as I was downloading the last picture, something glitched and my entire flashdrive-- pictures, files, school papers, everything-- was completely wiped.

That's how I ended up standing nervously behind the pulpit in a tiny, beautiful country church, clutching a wrinkled scrap of paper with six hastily scrawled bullet points to talk about, and completely winging the entire presentation.  I had intended to use the pictures as my outline to help pace me, but I was going to have to rearrange my thoughts and sort of make it up as I went along. Two minutes later, I had already sped through my bullet points and was shifting anxiously from foot to foot as I desperately tried to think of a way to explain to these people what I saw and experienced there.  My flying thoughts settled on Jessie, and I told her story. Due to a combination of nerves, sleep deprivation, and my own emotional instability, I ended up crying (and so did most of the people in the pews). Then I opened the floor for questions, and by the time we were done, I had run over a solid 20 minutes. Just another morning in the life of Meg.

It was the first time I had shared anything about my summer experience with a group (and in retrospect, I'm glad it was a small and forgiving group). I really enjoyed it. Those kids deserve to have their story told. And I love any excuse to talk about them and brag on them, because they're pretty amazing little munchkins in my book. At the same time, it makes me really uncomfortable when people tell me how proud of me they are, or how brave I must be, or how great it is that I want to spend my life on the mission field.  It's not about me. I don't want it to be about me. It's not supposed to be about me.  And yet I'm stuck in this interesting and contradictory position where I have to ask for money (which I also hate doing... guess I'm gonna have to get over that, huh?) so I can go back to them.  Straighten me out here, cyberfriends-- I'm confusing myself.

In other news, the Cardinals are headed to the World Series. This means that my week will have a tinge of unquenchable giddiness to it no matter what. Also, despite oversleeping and being 45 minutes late to my 8am test, I'm pretty sure I managed to ace it in the 22 minutes I had left to take it. And my afternoon class got cancelled, so I can do something productive this afternoon, like sleep and paint. Probably not at the same time though.

Sorry for consuming two minutes of your life with my pointless and ineloquent ramblings, but to be fair, I warned you in the title...

For those of you keeping up with the count, I'm down to 6 months and 26ish days.  Assuming nursing school doesn't kill me first.

Much love!

My Reason Why

This is a post I’ve wanted to write since the end of May, but I just haven’t been able to find the words. Luckily, God has gifted other people with a greater gift of communication than I possess, so I’ll use their words. Bear with me, folks. This post is an answer to questions from a plethora of people, but it’s also an answer to my own questions—so if it doesn’t make complete sense, let’s blame it on that.

I love flying.  As an “adult,” that attachment is mostly manifested in my infatuation with airports and a burning desire to go skydiving. But even when I was a kid, I loved the idea of flying. I used to watch Peter Pan right before bedtime in an effort to bring dreams where any merry little thought could life me to the skies.

My first connecting flight on the way to Kazembe this summer was from DC to Addis Ababa.  I settled into my window seat and started making origami birds for the kid in front of me. Literally moments before the plane took off, a young South African man sprinted onto the plane and dove into the seat next to me. I was a little startled. He introduced himself, but the name was not one I was familiar with or could pronounce, and I don’t remember it.  He told me a little bit about himself. He had come straight from college graduation to the airport to fly back home to Cape Town and had majored in international development and something else. After a polite amount of chatter, we both settled into our seats. A few minutes into the flight I pulled out my journal to chronicle my adventure thus far.  It’s a red leatherbound notebook with the names of Jesus engraved on the cover.  Almost immediately, the guy next to me pointed to one of the names.

“Who is this?”

I completely froze. What did he mean? What did he want me to say? Was he asking as someone who was curious, or combative, or instigatory, or maybe confused? What base of knowledge did he have—I mean, did I need to start with Genesis? What words could I possibly offer in explanation? 

A billion words and phrases rushed through my mind like an unstoppable waterfall. He is Savior, Lord, Redeemer, Friend, Father, Romancer, Advocate, Judge. He’s the reason I get up every morning, the reason I can offer forgiveness rather than demand what is “mine,” the answer to so many questions, and the source of so many more questions. He makes perfect sense but is beyond comprehension; He is the Alpha and Omega of all great mysteries.

How could I possibly explain who He is to me? What He is to me? The religious catchphrases of Christianity fall woefully short and in many cases only serve to confuse or disenchant the asker. How incredibly heartbreaking that the inadequacy of Christian explanation and the inconsistency of Christian action should be the reflection of Christ that a lost and broken world sees.  As the mighty philosophers of DC Talk once said, "The greatest single cause of atheism in the world today is Christians who acknowledge Jesus with their lips, then walk out the door and deny him by their lifestyle. That is what an unbelieving world simply finds unbelievable."

He is Aslan; He is perfection.  He is Shelter and Refuge, but to follow Him—to truly follow Him, in action instead of lipservice— is not safe at all. It will cost you everything you thought was important.  And the world will look at you like you’re crazy.  But as Jim Elliot wrote, “He is no fool who gives what he can never keep to gain what he can never lose.”

I wanted to pull that kid into my emotions and memories and show him who Jesus is, because words just seemed to be inadequate. Unfortunately, words also seemed to be my only choice.

Scrambling for a verbal cleft to hold onto, I finally offered a brilliant and descriptive answer.

“He…. He… He’s Everything.”

The guy on the plane stared at me patiently, his face impossible to read. No smile or scowl hinted at his intention in asking the question or his perception of my response.  Then, before I had a chance to squeak out a feeble follow-up, he asked another: “Why Africa?”

Now there’s a question that can’t be intelligently answered with words.  I can justify my dedication a bit more now, since I’ve actually been there and loved on those kids, but as of May I was just some crazy American girl with a few screws loose who had dedicated her life and her love to a people she had never met, who had sacrificed relationships and opportunities in a desperate effort to follow the call that had gripped her heart, because she feared that even the slightest distraction would turn her silly flighty gaze away from what she truly believed God had asked of her.  Katie Davis, a young woman from Nashville area Tennessee who dropped everything and went to be a mom to a bunch of Ugandan girls, explains it this way. Emphasis is mine.

"You see, Jesus wrecked my life… My heart had been apprehended by a great love, a love that compelled me to live differently… As I read and learned more and more of what Jesus said, I liked the lifestyle I saw around me less and less. I began to realize that God wanted more from me, and I wanted more of Him… Slowly but surely, I began to realize the truth: I had loved and admired and worshiped Jesus without doing what He said… So I quit my life… But after that year, which I spent in Uganda, returning to “normal” wasn’t possible. I had seen what life was about, and I could not pretend I didn’t know."

Why Africa? Because Jesus said to go into all the world. Because to feed a hungry child is to see the face of Jesus looking back at you. Because I want to spend my life on something that is worth the price. Because my soul thirsts for adventure. Because materialism and consumerism is my Achilles’ heel, and I have never been happier than when I lived in a tiny dusty room with a single suitcase of possessions. Because I highly doubt that I will ever look back on my life and think, “Gee, I just fed too many hungry people and treated too many sick kids and loved far too deeply.” 

But again, how to explain that to some college grad from South Africa that I had just met?

“Because… Jesus said to go.”

And then, he smiled. His eyes were still fixed on the cover of my journal, so I asked him a question in return.

“And who is Jesus to you?”

“He…. well…. He’s Everything.”

Yep. That pretty much covers it.