Week Eight — The Long Goodbye

This final week arrived quietly, yet carried a weight I could feel before I could name it. It was a week of mixed feelings — joy and sorrow braided together, hope and heaviness sharing the same breath. Every moment felt like a countdown, every conversation like a farewell in disguise.

I spent hours writing résumés, trying to open doors for my day crew before mine closed. I wanted to leave them with more than memories — I wanted to leave them with opportunity. At the same time, I confronted them gently, lovingly, about what it means to follow Jesus after accepting Him. Not just a prayer, not just a moment, but a life that must look different. A life that bears fruit. A life that honors the One who saved them.

I searched for help, looked for the right person to take over, someone who could continue the discipleship, someone who would not let the fire die out. Leaving them without guidance felt like leaving a flame unattended. I wanted the spark to grow into something eternal.

And in the middle of all this, I had to face something I never expected: closing the chapter of being known as “the only king on this vessel.”

On my very first day, a patient looked at me with eyes that seemed to see beyond the surface and whispered, “You are the true king… you are King David.” The name stayed. It echoed in the hallways, followed me through the wards, and settled into my heart like a calling. But it wasn’t about pride. It was about responsibility. It ignited something in me — a kingship not of power, but of service. A reminder of the only King of Kings who washed feet, who carried a cross, who came not to be served but to serve. If I was “King David” to them, then I wanted to serve them the way King Jesus served the world.

Others called me “the evangelist.” Some called me “friend.” Some called me “sir.” And a few — with a mischievous grin — called me “boss.” Every time I answered, “Only a dog has a boss, and you are not one,” they exploded in laughter so loud it filled my heart with joy. Those moments were medicine. Those moments were home.

And then came the final sunrise. One last time watching the Atlantic glow gold, one last time feeling the wind carry the prayers of this nation, one last time letting the ocean remind me that God’s mercy is deeper than any water I have ever sailed. The final sunset came too — slow, gentle, holy. The kind of sunset that doesn’t just end a day, but closes a chapter.

But perhaps the greatest lesson of all was seeing how God opened doors I never imagined. Out of these weeks of service, He gave me opportunities to serve, to share Him, and now — a chance to soon write an article for Lukas Journal in Australia. What I learned here is simple yet profound: when you step out in obedience, God multiplies your voice. He takes your small offering and carries it farther than you could ever dream.

And so I ended my journey the way it began: with a poem, with gratitude, with a heart full of Sierra Leone.

Sierra Leone, Eight Weeks of Grace

I slowed my steps on Freetown’s shore,

Where time is measured in faces, not clocks,

And every heartbeat carries a story

Of brokenness, of courage, of hope reborn.

Week by week the land spoke louder:

Pain that lingers, yet refuses to die,

Hands that mend with eternal hope,

Eyes that burn with faith’s bright fire.

Goodbyes carved valleys in my chest,

Homesickness whispered across the sea,

Yet day crew laughter, orphanage songs,

Lifted me beyond the weight of longing.

In broken places, hearts still blaze,

Forgiveness rises from Bunce Island’s stones,

History bends toward grace at the gate,

And Sierra Leone sings: “Disability is not inability.”

Eight weeks, a lifetime of lessons,

Carried now in memory’s tide —

A nation teaching me to see, To listen, to love, to believe.

And now the eighth week dawns — the week of letting go.

I leave, but I do not leave you.

Your stories breathe in me,

Your courage steadies me,

Your grace walks beside me.

On April’s twenty-fifth, joy converged:

Orange banners for a king across the sea,

Freedom’s anthem for Sierra Leone,

And my own farewell folded into both.

Three celebrations, one heartbeat —

Independence, festivity, and transition.

A holy trinity of goodbye,

A reminder that endings can be radiant,

And departures can sing with hope.

Sierra Leone, I carry you home.