Every time a field service draws to a close, I find myself asking the same question: Is it always this hard?

And maybe it has. Or maybe it just feels harder each time, because with every passing year and every passing story, the threads of this life grow tighter around my heart. The faces stay longer in my memory. The joys become more vivid. And the losses—well, they seem to dig a little deeper.

This most recent field service has been particularly heavy. Not because the work was any less meaningful, far from it. But because we lived through a season marked by sharp contrasts: deep grief and deep joy, heartbreak and healing, endings and beginnings. And we’re left standing somewhere in the middle, unsure whether to cry or celebrate, or perhaps both.

A Season of Sorrow

It’s hard to put words to the kind of pain we’ve witnessed recently. The mpox outbreak in Freetown brought not just logistical disruptions but an emotional toll that reverberated through every hallway and cabin. Fear, isolation, and concern for friends and patients shaped our days and tested our resilience.

And then there were the deaths at Connaught. Some of the patients were ones we knew, cared for, and hoped for. Others were less familiar, yet still part of the tapestry we are trying to mend here. Loss in this context always feels layered. It’s not just the loss of life—it’s the loss of potential, of future stories that will never be told, of the reminder that not every outcome is in our hands.

But the sharpest cut came with the passing of one of our own. A crew member. A part of our family. There’s no manual for this kind of grief. There is no training that prepares you for this kind of grief. In a community like ours, where we live and work side by side every day, absence echoes in unexpected places. In the dining room. In the silence. In the stories we can no longer share.

And in the midst of all this, the goodbyes kept coming. One after another. Crew members finishing their commitments, stepping down the gangway, walking away from this intense, shared chapter. It’s strange how routine these goodbyes become, and yet how deeply they still affect us. Each farewell chips away at the community we’ve built, and while we send people off with blessing and pride, there’s also a profound emptiness left behind.

And Yet, So Much Joy

And still—still—there has been so much to celebrate. And not just the kind of surface-level celebration that papers over the hard things, but deep, meaningful moments that have reminded us why we do what we do.

We completed another full field service. That alone is cause for celebration. That means hundreds of patients received life-changing surgeries. That means stories of healing, families restored, and futures transformed. We saw patients walk again, smile again, see again. Some met their own reflection for the very first time. These are the moments that anchor us, the testimonies we cling to when the cost of this work feels high.

We celebrated a graduation onboard, a high school senior who completed their education while living on a ship, moving from country to country, watching their parents serve. Their resilience speaks volumes about the kind of life Mercy Ships fosters, not just for patients, but for families, for the next generation.

We saw relationships deepen and cultures intertwine. We held stakeholder meetings with local leaders that reminded us we are not in this work alone. Partnerships were strengthened, vision was shared, and seeds were planted for long-term impact beyond our physical presence.

In a way, this season has been a study in contradiction. We’ve wept and we’ve laughed. We’ve mourned and we’ve danced. We’ve sat in silence and shouted in joy. We’ve carried stretchers and birthday cakes, tears and confetti. And somehow, all of it belongs.

The In-between Place

I’ve come to realize that this is the nature of life onboard, and perhaps the nature of life in general: it’s lived in the in-between.

We are in between what has ended and what is yet to begin. In between sorrow and celebration. In between weariness and hope. In between feeling the weight of what has been lost and the promise of what is still to come.

And it’s not always comfortable.

In fact, right now, its so far from comfortable!

The in-between is where questions linger without easy answers. Where emotions surface that don’t fit neatly into boxes. Where we realize that joy and pain are not opposites. They live side by side. They sharpen one another. And they stretch us in ways that no other experience can.

Watching the ship leave this time felt different. There was a part of me that desperately wanted to be on it—to feel the physical break, the chance to disconnect, to exhale. I longed for the sea breeze and the space that comes with sailing away. But I also felt a strange kind of relief. Like something settled. Like I could finally breathe.

Because although my work continues while the ship is away, there is room now. Room to reflect. Room to feel. Room to rest. I hope to lean into this space over the next two months—not just to catch up on tasks or get ahead on logistics, but to truly rest and process. To grieve what was lost. To celebrate what was gained. To let the dust of the past ten months settle so I can see clearly again.

What This Life Asks of Us

This life with Mercy Ships asks a lot. It asks for our energy, our flexibility, our creativity. But even more than that, it asks for our hearts. It asks us to show up fully, to celebrate deeply, to grieve honestly. It invites us to be changed by the people we serve and the people we serve with.

That kind of living is costly. But it’s also rich. It’s alive.

I know that when the ship returns, we’ll start again. New crew will arrive. New patients will come. New stories will unfold. I want to be ready. Not just with a checklist or a calendar, but with a heart that has rested. I want to welcome the ship back with open arms and new energy. I want to enter the next season not just with a full to-do list, but with a full heart.

This space can be disorienting, but I also think it can be transformative. Where grief can finally be heard. Where joy gets its roots. It’s where we begin to make sense of all that’s happened.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s where we’re most awake to the sacredness of it all.

So here’s to the in-between. To not rushing past it. To letting it do its quiet work in us.

And here’s to what comes next—with open hands, open hearts, and a deep breath.