She closed her laptop with a sigh. Amber was right about one thing, however: Heather did have a thing for Ian. The more they talked, the better she got to know him, the more she liked him. But she wasn’t going to let him see that. She hadn’t come on this trip to have a romance. She’d come to help people have a higher quality of life. This trip wasn’t about her, but others. Ian understood the concept perfectly. Amber might never get it.
One afternoon, Heather wandered into the refurbished lounge where school was held for the children of the crew and staff. Tables, desks, computers, and student artwork made the room look overstuffed. She found Mrs. Hoover, the teacher, busy scrubbing modeling clay off desks. “Can I help?” Heather asked.
The small, dark-haired woman straightened and flashed a tired smile. “Absolutely. What was I thinking to let them have clay and finger paints on the same day?”
Heather picked up a wet sponge from the bucket on the floor and set to work on a desk. “How many kids are on board?”
“Twenty—and a half, if you count Melissa Vanderhousen, who’s due to give birth this fall.” She chuckled. “But only fourteen come to school. The rest are too young.”
“But you teach all of them? Even though they’re different ages?”
“Yes, it’s a real zoo some days.”
“How do you do it?”
“Independent study for the most part, some group activities. And the older ones help the younger ones.” Mrs. Hoover looked up. “You’re Heather, aren’t you? I’m Barbara. My husband, Bob, is in charge of the construction crew going into Uganda. Our kids and I will stay here on the ship.”
Heather liked Bob Hoover and told Barbara so. “You know, I can’t remember a time I haven’t wanted to do this. How about you? It doesn’t seem easy to uproot a family and stick them on a ship in the middle of the ocean.” The trip was an adventure for Heather, but she knew it must be harder for families.
Barbara paused. “Actually, it was easier than I thought it would be. Four years ago, we lived in Atlanta. Bob was a partner in a large engineering firm. I was a teacher at a junior college. We had a gorgeous house, two cars, plenty of money in the bank. We were respected pillars of our church in the suburbs, and”—she paused—“we weren’t happy. On the surface, we had it all. But in our hearts, frustration.
“The crowning blow came when our oldest, Todd, came home from school one day and announced that he wanted these sneakers that cost a hundred and fifty dollars. I told him no, and he pitched a fit. He was nine years old and ranting about sneakers that cost enough to feed a small country. That very night, Bob and I sat down and reevaluated our priorities.”
Barbara dipped her sponge into the bucket and squeezed it out. “As timing would have it, that weekend missionaries came to our church and talked about their service aboard a Mercy Ship in the Caribbean. My husband and I looked at each other, and we knew what we wanted to do. We sold off most of our worldly possessions, and within nine months we were aboard this ship. It’s been almost a year now.”
She straightened. “We’re the winners, you know. I’ve seen my kids become better for it. Without television every night, they read, they play with kids from many other countries, they’ve learned foreign languages. In short, they have an appreciation for life they never would have had back in Atlanta.
“As for Bob and me, we don’t miss the rat race one bit. Some of our friends back home think we’re crazy, but who cares? I’ve shopped in ports of call from Europe to Africa. Bob’s helped build housing for some of the poorest countries in the world. We’ve traveled to the most interesting places. We love it. And you know what the Bible says.” She didn’t wait for Heather to answer. “It says that we must be doers of the Word, not only hearers.” She looked down at the smeared mess on the desk. “And I can assure you, dear, I’m a real doer today.”
Heather thought about her parents, about their medical practice and their lifestyle. They still had social consciences and continued to perform plastic surgery for battered women and abused children. She was proud of them for that. “You know,” she said to Barbara, “I have some free time on Thursday afternoons. Why don’t I come help you?”
“That’s kind of you, and much appreciated. You’re on.” Barbara stacked some books. “I know this lifestyle isn’t for everybody. And before making such changes a person must always count the cost.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because we’re doing this, there are things our family won’t ever do. We’ve wondered how it will affect our kids when they become adults. Will they follow in our footsteps, or will they reject this kind of life?”
Heather shook her head. “I never went anywhere like this when I was growing up, but my parents talked all the time about their service in the Peace Corps. It seemed so much more interesting to me than what my friends were doing—worrying about who liked who, and stuff like that. My sister, she’s different. I don’t think she’d ever do anything like this. Not enough creature comforts.”
Heather caught herself and reddened. “Not that Amber isn’t terrific. She’d do anything for a friend. But this sort of thing, taking care of people she doesn’t know, well, it’s just not her.”
Barbara gave Heather a sharp look, then said, “We’re not humanitarians, Heather. I’ve met many—United Nations workers, government relief workers. I know that the world has many good people who really care about serving their fellow man. But that’s not why we do it. We do it because we want to see the Gospel spread all over the world.”
She sounded like Ian. On a mission for a higher goal than simply healing people’s bodies. Heather wondered again where she fit into the scheme of things.
“I’m sorry,” Barbara said with a smile. “Here I am preaching to you and all you want to do is help me clean desks. I didn’t mean to get carried away.”
“No problem,” Heather said lightly. But there was a problem. She knew she didn’t feel the same kind of fire that the Hoovers and Ian felt. She was motivated, but not in the same way, not by the same force. Perhaps in Uganda she’d find such a fire. But for now, she was just going along to help—because children were dying and she was young and strong and committed to changing things for them. If God wanted something else from her, then perhaps, somewhere along the way, he’d let her know.
The Anastasis sailed northward toward Kenya, still too far from land to see either the island of Madagascar to the east or Mozambique on the African mainland to the west. The moon made a bright white trail on the calm waters of the Mozambique Channel as Heather relaxed in a deck chair, listening to Miguel singing in his beautiful tenor voice. Beside her, she heard Ian humming along, slightly off-key.
“Ian,” she whispered, “why is there a ring around the moon?”
“Ice crystals,” he answered. “Away up in the atmosphere.”
“But it’s not that cold.”
“Remember, lass, you’re below the equator now. It’s winter.”
“That’s right. I forgot.”
She felt his breath against her neck as he leaned toward her. “Did you see the sky this morning?”
“Sorry, it was dark when I headed for the mess hall.”
“The sky was red.”
“Meaning?”
“There is a saying from the sailors. ‘Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning.’ ”
She turned to better see his face in the moonlight. He looked serious, all traces of teasing gone from his expression. “What are you telling me?”
“I read the bulletin that came over the navigator’s telex. There’s a storm coming. I fear we’re in for quite a blow.”
5
Pain woke Heather in the middle of the night. Tossed hard against the wall beside her bed, she seized hold of the bed rails to keep from being pitched to the floor. The cabin had turned cold and black.
“Ingrid!” she cried. “What’s happening?”
“Storm,” Ingrid said, after which Heather hear
d a thump and a yelp.
“Are you all right?”
“I hit my head.”
Heather was disoriented—for a moment, she felt as if she’d been turned upside down. I—I think I’m going to be sick to my stomach.”
“No! Try to sit up.”
Terrified, Heather struggled upright. She swung her legs over the side of her bed. The floor met her, sending a jarring pain through her ankles and calves. She gasped and tried to remember emergency procedures.
“We should go topside,” Ingrid said. “To the mess hall. It’s worse here down below. My uncle owns a fishing boat and I’ve been in storms before. We’ll have to climb and be quick about it.”
Heather had no idea how they were going to make it. Their room was five levels below the top deck, in the interior of the ship. They’d have to weave their way down the narrow corridors and up many flights of ladder stairs. It was a long trek even when the ship was in perfectly calm waters. Heather swallowed her fear and groped toward Ingrid’s bed. She took Ingrid’s hand. “Come on.”
The two of them started to the door, taking time only to tug on sweaters and sweatpants. The ship heaved and yawed, slamming Heather against the dresser. She cried out, and Ingrid groped for her arm. “Hold on to me.”
In the corridor, emergency lighting glowed an eerie red beam. They merged into a group of their shipmates inching along the metal handrail. The smell of vomit made Heather gag.
A hand reached out to steady her. “Come along, follow us,” Ian said.
Shaking, she eased in front of him, making sure that Ingrid got in front of her. “I’m scared, Ian.”
“It’s a good ship. She’s come through storms before. We’ll make it.”
On the journey topside, they opened the doors and led others out into the serpentine of people, climbing ladders slowly, hanging on whenever the ship made an especially nasty heave or roll. It seemed like forever, but eventually they made it to the inside corridor leading to the giant ballroom that had been converted into the mess hall.
The air was chilling. Power was out, but a few flashlights and battery-powered lanterns broke the darkness inside the room. The wind howled, reminding Heather of a runaway freight train. She looked out the row of windows and cringed. The sea, white and boiling, sent plumes of spray crashing against the plexiglass. She froze, mesmerized. The ship was nine stories high and still the sea washed over the decks! She felt rooted to the floor, too terrified to move.
“Come this way. I’ve a spot for us.” She felt Ian’s arm around her waist.
He guided her and Ingrid around huddled groups of people to a place along an inside wall. Miguel was there, and so was Patrick. They covered the girls with blankets. Heather couldn’t stop shaking. “Will we die?” she asked.
“No,” Ian said, pulling her close to his side. “God will see us through. Have faith.”
She struggled against the urge to vomit. “Wh-What if I get sick?”
“There’s no shame in it. We have buckets; just ask for one.”
She swallowed hard, forcing back her nausea. For certain, she didn’t want to throw up all over Ian. “How long is this going to last?”
“The feeling in your stomach, or the storm?” he asked with gentle humor.
“It feels like I’m dying,” she moaned into the blanket.
“No one’s ever died of seasickness,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, lass.”
Children cried and parents murmured to them in soothing voices from the surrounding dark. From somewhere, Heather heard a father quote from the Twenty-third Psalm. “ ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me. . . .’ ”
Heather gripped Ian’s arm, and he tucked the blanket more tightly around them both, folding her closer, whispering in her ear, “ ‘Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.’ That’s one of my favorite verses. I say it when I’m afraid. And it comforts me.”
She couldn’t imagine Ian ever being afraid of anything. “I’ve never been afraid this way until now. Not even when I was in a hurricane in Florida.”
“Heather, the storm will pass. And the ship will weather it. We will get to Africa.” He tipped her chin upward. “Talk to me. Tell me what inspired you to choose Africa from all the places in the world.”
“I—I used to watch National Geographic specials on TV. I wanted to come for a visit, see all the wild animals. Then a few years ago, I read a book.” Heather’s voice trembled as she struggled to shift her thoughts away from her fear and the sick sensation in her stomach. “It was about Dr. Livingstone and his hunt for the source of the Nile.”
“A Scotsman,” Ian said with genuine pride. “He inspired a whole generation to come.”
She nodded. “He came as a doctor and missionary. He fell in love with Africa and spent his whole life mapping it out. He never gave up, even when people in England ridiculed him. His story made me want to come even more.”
“Many missionaries came to Africa in those days. It was a time of a great religious revival. Did you know that when those missionaries left Britain they packed all their worldly belongings in boxes six feet long, three feet wide, and two feet deep? The size of a coffin. That way, when they died—and most died within six months of coming—they could be shipped home for burial.”
A chill went through her. “No. I didn’t know that.”
“Disease got them, mostly.”
“How about you? How did you end up wanting to help in Africa?”
“My great-grandfather was a physician and a minister. And, like Livingstone, he chose Africa for his life’s work. I read his journals and they made me want to go there too. That’s why I keep a journal. It is not nearly so filled with hardships as his, but maybe one day it will inspire another generation of McCollums to do the same.”
“Will you write about tonight?”
“Yes. And also of the bonny lass who shared it with me.”
Ian could lift her spirits so easily. She cleared her throat. “What happened to your great-grandfather?”
“He served fifteen years in Africa as a doctor. He took a wife, the daughter of a British captain serving in Egypt. They had three children, and when they came of an age to be schooled, he sent his family home.”
“Did he see them again?”
“That he did. He went home in 1916, caught influenza, and died in his wife’s arms.”
“He died of the flu?” She found it hard to believe.
“That flu epidemic killed over a million people. Remember, there were no antibiotics in those days.”
She felt sorry for a family she’d never known, while her heart brimmed with emotion for Ian. He was six years older than she but a hundred years wiser. His heart was full of tenderness and compassion, and already she envied whoever would become his wife. “Did your father ever want to be a doctor?”
“No. But he is a minister. He’s the vicar in a country parish. It’s a small village and it’s where I grew up. In the autumn, the heather stretches across the moor as far as your eye can see. And before the heather colors the moor, the lavender grows. Its scent hangs in the breeze like the breath of angels.”
Her mental picture of rolling hills speckled with wildflowers under blue sky made the fierceness of the storm fade momentarily. “I’d like to see Scotland someday.”
“And I’d like to see America.”
Suddenly the ship dropped like a stone. Adults cried out and children shrieked. Heather stifled a scream and clung more tightly to Ian.
Hastily Miguel picked up his guitar and began playing “Kumbayah.” Shaky voices joined in one by one, singing softly, “ ‘Someone’s crying, Lord, Kumbayah. . . .’ ” And when the song was finished, Miguel played “How Great Thou Art,” and they sang that. Hymn after hymn followed, voice after voice sang words of comfort while the storm raged outside.
&nbs
p; It seemed like an eternity to her before the heaving of the ship lessened, before the waves no longer crashed against the windows and the howling wind died down. Slowly, as the storm grew less intense, exhaustion made Heather’s eyelids droop. In the warmth of Ian’s arms, she drifted in and out of sleep. She dreamed she wore a long, dark dress, high-necked and longsleeved, and a bonnet of midnight blue. She saw Ian leaning against a wall, wearing an old-fashioned suit. He held a medical bag in one hand, a Bible in the other. The wall grew transparent, and she saw Amber sitting by the ship’s pool in a bikini. Heather turned and saw her parents anxiously peering through the windows of the mess hall. Fearful they’d be washed overboard, she cried, “Watch out!” and woke with a start.
The cold gray light of morning filtered through the salt-smeared windows while the ship rolled from side to side like a cradle rocked by some giant’s hand. All around her people were stretched out, covered with clothing and blankets, sleeping. Her first thought was, I’m alive!
The horrible queasiness was gone, and she realized that soon all these people would wake and need to eat. But eating was the last thing she felt like doing! She turned and saw that Ian was no longer beside her. As quietly as possible, she stood, tucking her blanket around the sleeping Ingrid, then threaded her way to the door. On deck, she was hit by a stiff, damp breeze and the briny smell of wild ocean. The world looked gray, heavy with thick fog. The deck was wet and slippery, strewn with seaweed and a few broken planks. Long strings of sea algae dangled from the railings like thick bands of rope. Carefully she edged closer to the rail to look over the side. The sea was listless now, as if tired from being driven by the wind.
“Not too close, lass,” she heard Ian say through the mist. “Couldn’t have you falling in, now. We’d never find you in this soup.”
He emerged from the fog like a ghost.
“I’m not about to fall overboard,” she told him. “I worked too hard last night to keep from dying of fright.”
Angel of Mercy Page 3