Alpha.

A couple weeks ago some church plans fell through on a Sunday morning. Instead, two of my friends and I went to the ward church service down in the hospital onboard. Although almost all the patients come from a Muslim background, and though most of them just sit there and don't participate, they have the most curious, interested looks on their faces. As I was sitting there, I was thinking that most of them were trying to figure out WHAT would enable someone to volunteer to do something like Mercy Ships?! I was almost ammused by their expressions, especially the older ones. :) I think it's wonderful that the ship provides church services to point them in the right direction spiritually, and to answer that very question for them.

In the hospital bed in front of me, sat a smiling boy with two massive tumors. One was the size of a football on the side of his neck, and the other on his back was even bigger. I couldn't stop looking at him. I could see he had quite a bit of energy despite the extra load he was carrying. He could barely keep his eyes on the preacher and singers and kept sneakily kicking around a balloon at his feet. Although I didn't talk to him, afterwards I felt moved that I needed to befriend another patient as soon as possible.

When I filled out the befriend a patient form, I requested a Sousou child, the one of three tribal languages I can speak at least a tiny bit. A couple days later I got a note on my door with my patient's name, Alpha Camara. I went down to the ward to meet him, and sure enough, there was the boy I had watched during that ward service just a few days before.

I sat down next to him and immediately grabbed my hand and smiled his huge smile. I asked the translator to explain that I was his friend and will visit him as much as I can. I also met his father, who faithfully traveled far with his son for both the screening and surgery date nine months later. He slept on a mattress under Alpha's hospital bed the whole time Alpha was onboard. He spoke French, so I was able communicate with them both a bit more than expected, which I'm very grateful for.

Alpha is an extremely kind boy, mostly through gestures. One night I went to retrieve all the dirty hospital dishes after a long day of work. Although he didn't know that I was tired, hot, and frustrated, he saw me come into his ward, smiled, and helped me collect the rest and pick up a mess I had made. One afternoon during patient time outside on deck seven, several nurses wanted to get their picture with him (he is pretty popular,) but Alpha would always look behind at me when they would walk him away and gesture for me to come with. I would wink and tell him to go on. After every evening visit he would walk me out of the ward and say goodbye at the stairs.

When I went down last week to visit Alpha, his bed was empty and made up. The nurse told me that he was either at the Hope Center or already on his way home. My heart sunk. It is a bittersweet feeling when patients leave because your time with them is gone, but it also means they are healed and their lives will be completely turned around as they return home. That brings such joy to my heart. Alpha's return to his village will be drastically different from his departure, probably with smiles and looks of disbelief, instead of distain and little faith of his tumors being gone. The Lord is so good! Even though it hurts me that I might not see Alpha again on this earth and that I never got to hug him goodbye, my hope is that he will remember that the Lord Jesus Christ is the one that made it possible for him to be healed. If he doesn't remember me, I hope he at least remembers his Creator who had this all planned out before the beginning of time.



Alpha, me, and my friend Lea, with her patient.