I came back from Haiti sure that I would return. But as the months went by, a trip seemed less imminent. And then, our Presbytery began to plan a trip back, and I realized I didn't feel called to go. Why not? Didn't I want to see those beautiful faces I'd met when I was there? Was I afraid I couldn't recreate that special time? It haunted me, but the feeling never wavered. I simply was not called to go.
One night, in fact, I lay awake for several hours pondering this dilemma. Why, why, why was I not going back to Haiti? The next morning, my sister-cousin Betsy called me. "I'm going to Mozambique," she said, "and I want you to go with me." Well, ok. I'm going to Mozambique.
Tomorrow I go to the Vanderbilt Travel Clinic, where they have a database detailing what-shots-you-need-to-go-where. One of the shots on my list is Yellow Fever. The inoculation is a live virus, and there is no cure. This is a big deal. But the risk of getting the disease from my shot is far less than the risk of getting the disease on my travels.
This really makes me think. I'm going to a country where you can die from yellow fever (or worse; I'll find out tomorrow!), we will sleep under contraptions designed to keep malaria-laden mosquitos at bay, we will carry buckets of water into the hotel to flush the toilets. And we will visit people for whom these are regular, everyday conditions. I feel honored to live with, worship with, stand with these new friends. Care to join me?
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