tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18796884569363943422024-03-13T08:33:52.557-07:00Christy LeeAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.comBlogger99125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-75293496696595524452014-12-15T13:26:00.000-08:002014-12-15T13:26:03.590-08:00Life in a box of chocolates<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A little story about how practically and impractically God
provides for me. This is from the last few minutes of my life. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I’ve been helping to care for my Grandma in the hospital
since she just had a big surgery. That
isn’t really what the story is about, its just background. Well, my Grandma is
a simple lady – easy to please, difficult to anger, a pleasure to care for. She
doesn’t require much. But over the past many years, we’ve come to a little “tradition”
of me getting her Godiva chocolate for special occasions. The tradition goes
that I buy some at a discount store (I don’t tell her that part, because part
of the fun is that it seems like expensive, fancy chocolate), and then she
takes it from my hand saying things like “you’re trying to make me as big as a
cow” and acting like I shouldn’t have gotten it. And then she keeps it on the
counter at her house and rations it out one piece every day or two, until its
gone. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Well, I’ve been planning to go get her those chocolates each
day that she’s been in the hospital. And each day I’ve been too tired, or too
busy. So, when I come back to the hospital, it’s been empty-handed with regard
to my planned gift. Plus, though I’ve determined to do it because it is
something special, I’ve thought many times about how I shouldn’t really buy
things that aren’t necessary. I’m not completely broke, but it’s the principle
that if there’s no income, there shouldn’t be any purchases apart from
necessity. But a few minutes ago I just
thought to myself that I needed to be sure to take care of getting it done
today, especially cause Grandma’s appetite is starting to come back.</div>
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So, I just stopped by the house to find a package addressed
to me. No joke, “Godiva Chocolate” is printed on the outside, and inside is a
box of chocolates with a gold bow tied around. I smiled as I picked it up,
seeing my name on the front. Immediately, I told Him thank you for His
provision. I mean, I could tell you a thousand times when “coincidence”
provided exactly what I needed. Time, and paper, would limit me if I started to
name the ridiculous things - ranging from the right color socks to thousands of
dollars- that have appeared at exactly the right time. I’m no fool, that’s no
coincidence. By no means do I mean that God is some genie who grants my foolish
wishes when I rub the side of my Bible in just the right way. Nope, He isn’t
like that. And His gifts aren’t like that either. They are usually more like
this. Unexpected, undeserved, and just
right. Now sometimes He seems like He
hasn’t heard, or hasn’t seen, or once in a while, like He doesn’t even care.
But I’ve learned to trust that He always does, regardless of whether it is
really clear to me. But sometimes, He really does do this kind of practical
provision. And I love it cause maybe it is something tangible that someone else
could actually see and understand. </div>
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And then I’m reminded of the impractical. One story always
leads to another it seems. Like even Christmas. That was a totally impractical,
destined to fail kind of plan. I wouldn’t have wrapped up God in flesh. And I
sure can’t understand why the hope of the world was stuck in a little podunk
town with average parents. Nor do I really grasp the life He lived and how His
righteousness gets to cover my unrighteousness.
And then there’s the cross, and blood, and death, and resurrection –
none of those sound reasonable regarding options for saving the world. Sounds
kind of impractical for a God who just spoke and the world came into being. Why
such an elaborate plan? Why didn’t He just speak again? But as I read the story
I am reminded of how lavish this impractical love was. That Somebody chose to give
their son to save me. I can’t understand that. I’d like to think that I’d give
my life for lots of different people. But not my kids (the theoretical ones,
how much less willing if they were actually real ones<span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span> ). And not for a kind of
wobbly plan. Or messed up, selfish people.</div>
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I think about the crazy extremes of His love. Wishing I
could see Him smile as I opened up that box on the porch, understanding His
care and provision through chocolate that will bring joy only for a moment. And
then a minute later considering the kind of love that bought my life, at a much
greater cost than it was even worth. </div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-24167855522461745662014-11-16T12:35:00.001-08:002014-11-16T12:35:06.952-08:00Small things and great things<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The cell phone sings out its tone, indicating a message has been
left. Fingers quickly go to pushing the numbers and letters on the screen,
communication activated. Minutes pass and no one realizes that all around the
dinner table the scene from each seat is the same. A small screen held between
two hands, a slight glow of blue light reflecting up to each face. After a
little more lingering with occasional pauses to slip the fork again into the
mouth, deeply engaged in private conversation, dinner is finished and the
people turn their separate ways and return to their respective individual lives.
Though, in fact, they never left their own insulated worlds to engage with
anyone else, not even to break bread and give thanks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Christmas shopping done with no lines, only a few clicks, and a
charge through some unseen, yet not imagined network. No reason to brave the
cold, plan with friends. I mean, the only friends one really needs can be found
on Facebook. There one can live a life imagined. Whoever they desire to be can
be the presentation they give. Wild and free, perpetually beautiful in 1000 “duckface”
selfies, happy family, happy pets, mom of pets, mom of six, healthy, sexy, with
someone who is sexy. In fact, why would one even need flesh and bone friends.
Fewer “off screen” friends just limit the amount of shopping that must be done.
And, anyways, they distract from the games on the computer. So little time. So
many computer games. Interacting with society just limits the ability to fully connect
with your Mac or PC. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">And it is all so quick. So many things done with just a click.
What did we ever do before we had devices like this. Cords. We did corded
telephones. Cords were so binding. And before that it was the dark ages, and I
wasn’t alive, so I don’t know what those poor souls did. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">What is really amazing is how we get so much done, but still don’t
have enough time. So many friends, but few real friends. So efficient, and yet
still not completing life as we had hoped. How does that work? We don’t even
have to wait for a pause for a breath between words like we did in the old days,
we just read the rapid fire texts to keep up with friends. But there is
something lost when you laugh alone at a friend’s post online, and can’t laugh
together. There is something that feeds a friendship about a good snort,
breathing warm life into the both of you. And you miss them when you close the
door to part ways. All that is lost when all your friends are online, make
believe friends. You never really miss them. They sometimes catch your
thoughts, but rarely really steal your heart. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">And then there are the families, texting one from upstairs to the
one a level down. The kids see the list of things to do, but they don’t feel
the love of the parent. There is communication, but it is unintentional –
squished in between sports games, trips to the refrigerator, and a quick rush
of gifts on Christmas morning. Not enough time or energy for discipline, at
least not the consistent kind. But kids are resilient, they’ll probably grow up
fine, right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">And the worst is that we think that because all of the rest of
life is a fast food, right now mentality in which the only relationships which
are often maintained are superficial, we believe that God will find that
acceptable too. So, we say a quick prayer here and there, mostly in a genie
like manner when we need a parking place, or when our team is down a few
points. And then expect that such, combined with fulfilling the obligation of
church (when we have time enough to fit it in) entitles us to good graces with
the Father. We make God small, because we have only a few crevices left in life
in which to fit Him into. And then we know Him shallowly, call on him
superficially during times of need, and expect Him then to be a God who makes
all our dreams come true. We have confused the short lived pleasures of visiting
Disney, with the everlasting delight of living relationally connected with the
Father. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But He has a bigger, more costly, more fulfilling agenda than we
usually like to acknowledge. And He invites the weary, broken, tired, and
scarred into it. He offers rest, but not a 10 minute cat nap. Rather a soul at
rest in both hurricane force winds and sunny, pleasant days. He welcomes into
relationship. But there is nothing superficial in this offer. It is a bit
unfair, I will admit, for He enters the relationship with complete knowledge of
our deepest parts and we begin with only glimpses of His character. Most
interestingly, as we grow closer, we only see more and more how big He is, and
though we know Him better and better, He only feels bigger and bigger, and we always
smaller. Though we try to hide our
faults and failures, He knows them all. He is not interested in mere
trivialities found in acquaintance-ship. He is always a strange mix of bruising
and healing, ease and tension, work and rest, play and seriousness, comfort and
a sandpaper rub. But never is He coldness, never careless, never unloving. And
with Him, we are always part ourselves - plain, ordinary, sometimes dirty and
much less than we would wish - and part
the best of who we could ever hope to be. In fact, He wants the best for us,
and the best from us. He is strange that way, always wanting to better us,
sharpen us, strengthen us. Indeed, one of His dear qualities is that He is not
one to leave well enough alone. No, if He welcomes us, it will change us.
Delightful, yet painful is His love. But I suppose all real love is. His
relationship will test and try, as He has done from the very beginning. Not a
kind of twisting such as a desire to break into pieces, but more of a process
of refining, like obtaining pure metal by putting it through the terrible heat
of fire. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I want to be better. To be known. To be accepted. To be made
right. And yet, all this takes time, and process. It is not something rapid.
But it is something that, in its finality, shapes well. It is enduring. The
problem, though, is that He only offers it as a long walk, through all of life.
Not only when we are aware of our need, but at all times. No, it doesn’t really
work to order Him around as if in the drive thru on the way to work. In fact,
He never has seemed the sort to take orders at all. But He has said that He
hears the humble, and that if a man draws near, seeking beyond all else to know
Him, then indeed he is welcome into relationship. He offers that man may engage
Him in conversation. And yet, it isn’t the kind of conversation that we often
desire. Answers are not immediate, nor always are they clear. Sometimes he
answers with a story, or parable. And often we only see that He answered as we
look back behind us. It seems once in a while that He wasn’t paying attention
at all while we were talking to Him – but of course I guess He could say that
sometimes it doesn’t appear that we were paying any attention to Him while He was
talking to us either. And in truth, the latter has been indeed true many a time,
though the aforementioned never once has been. And besides the guidance that we’ve
specifically asked for, He has given us page after page of lessons, counsel,
warnings, promises, direction, and command. But, turning page after page to see
what His thoughts are takes…time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">So, too many of us don’t want what He offers, at least not on His
terms. But, alas, the only way that relationship comes is on the eternally
assigned conditions, set up by Him. It
isn’t a quick fix. No, that it isn’t. Not duct tape on the pipe. It is a <i>real</i> fix. In the long haul, it requires
effort, and diligence, and persistence. But really all of relationship with Him
is founded on faith. Believing the unseen. It can be so hard to believe what is
not seen, so many desire no part of that. Unless they are out in the cold snow,
heavily bundled in coat, hat, and gloves. Then, it is all too desirous to see
the exhaled air lifted from their nose and mouth in a funny little white puff.
Something unseen, yet quite obviously going in and out with every deep breath.
But now away from silly things and back to the matter at hand. Faith. It is too
much for so many. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">And then there is time. It takes too much time to really seek Him.
Many a night I would rather fall asleep under the covers than truly take the
time to talk with Him seriously. And after a few weeks of relatively little
deep conversation, I have wondered, “why does it feel a bit distant here
recently?” And then I remember, that I pushed Him away a little as I put the
phone on the bedside table (to be sure I was available if any important text
came through) and pulled the covers up. At first He didn’t mind much cause He
knew that I was oh so tired. But honestly many of those nights I was just too
lazy. Too lazy to talk, too lazy to listen. He saw that I seemed to want some
space, so He gave it to me. That is how we are, not willing to invest time.
Pulled away by small connections, small warmth and small hopes of just a little
rest. When He is offering us better connections, better warmth, and complete
rest. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">There are many things in life are so useful, and can be so
distracting. In their own realms, it is difficult enough to maintain boundaries
to keep the important things important. Family, and friends, and loves should
be pursued, for they are worth it. How much more is our relationship with God
worth? Whatever it is that holds us back from full devotion and pursuit are
just small things through the view of an eternal lens. How greatly He has loved
us. Endless writing couldn’t contain even the love shown in the life of Christ.
And then, far less, yet still infinite are His provision, care, and love shown a
thousand times over each day that we live. He is worthy of continually being
our first affection, first desire, and first priority. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-14345648443273626922014-07-24T18:23:00.002-07:002014-07-24T18:23:18.556-07:00Return<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I could barely control my excitement as I sat on the plane.
Realization of longings to be near those I love, to feel the fulfillment that
they bring – it was so close. The thousands of miles I traveled over the days
comprising the journey was made shorter and more delightful by the anticipation
of joys to come. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">My family awaited me at the airport. The familiar burden of the
clinging weight of my nieces and nephews hanging off of me almost immediately
returned me to a feeling of normalcy. I felt my heart beating with an old,
deeply soothing rhythm of pleasure and wondered at the sudden return of its
song. Perhaps its pulse had missed beats here and there since I had been gone,
and I hadn’t really noticed until the sudden restoration. Whatever it was, it
was good, and right, and pleasant. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Conversations were again simple. “Will you be here until Christmas?”
“Can you hold me?” “Did you see any lizards?” “How big were the lizards?” The
important things were just small things. And I was glad for the feather-light
weight of them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">They have, however, begun to have a significant interest in
finding me a husband. Even in the airport my oldest niece was picking out men,
suggesting which ones looked like nice ones. She has apparently determinedly
been searching on my behalf. There have been some issues though, as she doesn’t
consider age or marital status in her assessment. My nephew is the only one
with significant insight and clarity on the issue. He says that he hopes that I
only meet grumpy, old men, since that way I can just live with their family
forever (or at least until he’s 20, he says). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The pleasures have been deep. Deep enough to swim in. And they
have been shallow. Shallow enough to miss if not attuned. I’ve sat around the
dinner table, passing bowls of home cooked food to the hands of those who share
branches in my family tree. I’ve picked handfuls of blueberries off of the
bushes out back of the house, remembering when we planted those little sprigs
that now are high above me. I’ve tasted the freedom that comes from being able
to get in the car and drive (something that I have greatly missed), to feel the
wind blowing in the windows as I sing Motown off-key at the top of my lungs. I’ve
had four children’s bodies strewn all over my bed, clinging to my words as I
read them the stories of <i>Narnia</i>. I’ve
seen glimmers in the eyes of old friends. I’ve given long awaited, strong hugs,
filled with gratitude and love, to those who have prayed with me and for me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">What comes next, I do not know. But I am thankful for this season
now of simplicity and restoration. Of seeing small things as great things. And
enjoying Him through winding foothills of life in Travelers Rest. Like a
promise, it resonates with me. Rest for the weary traveler. Rest in Him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-86307583935545735162014-06-15T05:12:00.000-07:002014-06-15T05:12:35.185-07:00The Barrenness of Seventeen<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">This all started over a month ago. She was pregnant at seventeen.
Scared and unprepared, she looked for a way out. Traditional medicines were
taken for a month trying to provoke an abortion. Finally, she had gone to
another facility and gotten a D&C procedure to scrape out the little life.
And for reasons unknown to me, a second D&C was done the next day.
Unfortunately the results of those procedures included complications all too
common in the developing world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">All of that happened before she came to me. She moaned and then
gasped as I touched her abdomen. It wasn’t just tender along the uterus, it was
tender everywhere. I knew that the prior procedure had likely caused a hole in
the uterus. And I knew that there was likely infection taking hold inside. I
counseled her that there was a true possibility that I could even have to take
out her uterus, leaving her barren. But she was in such pain, she just nodded.
I counseled the family as well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">During the operation I sent word out to the father and mother that
indeed, the majority of the uterus was rotten. It had to be removed. They
understood. “Clamp”, “tie”, “suture”, “cut”, again and again until the
malodorous, dead organ was out. I closed her up and continued antibiotics. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The next day I sat on the edge of the bed and counseled her again.
She nodded, eyes glazed over, barely listening. I told her that we would talk
more specifically when she came to see me in the clinic. I counseled the family
again. Each day she made progress, and finally I sent her home with follow up a
few days later. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">She was doing amazingly well on her return. Too well. There was no
somber spirit, no sense of sadness. I needed to counsel her again. She was
either in denial, or she hadn’t listened at all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">This time she started to weep. Her head bowed low. Her tears ran
down her cheeks. Everything changed in that instant. She finally understood.
She hadn’t before, and though her family had known, they didn’t tell her. The
fact that she otherwise would have died was no consolation. Her life changed in
those fleeting moments as she sat in that straight backed wooden chair. The
carefree youthfulness of her seventeen years became shackled by the adult
understanding of a barren life. She realized then that huge parts of her
adulthood and womanhood, had been taken away. Her moans were heard in the
adjacent rooms as she heaved, rocking forward and back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Finally her breathing slowed toward normal and her tears dropped to
only one by one rather than the prior river’s flow. I told her that her pain
was real, and there was loss, but that her value had not changed. A
conversation too often repeated with patients struggling with infertility of
all types, women stuck in a culture that says they no longer have any value. It
didn’t make it all okay. It didn’t make her leave with a smile. It didn’t take
the pain away. She was overwhelmed by the thoughts of what her life would and
would not be. New fears and insecurities were already taking hold. The depths
of her tear-filled eyes laid her soul bare before me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Mistakes made, consequences realized, naivety lost – all of it too
real. Bitter truths. “Valuable, God says that you have worth and value, and
none of that has changed”, it was the one truth that had the ability to
resonate deep in the darkness of her soul. It is the one truth that can carry
her now and through a lifetime. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-77340272347875202152014-06-15T04:54:00.001-07:002014-06-15T04:54:23.897-07:00A little Bible study for a Sunday post<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Amos. One may ask, why in the world read in the obscure book of Amos??? But I
love to read the old words, see the way God has worked from times past. No one
can pin Him down as to what He will do next, or presume that because once He
acted in such a way, He always must. For He is God, infinitely greater in
imagination, wisdom, and knowledge. But sometimes I like to see the things He does
over and over, the themes that always seem to return. Through those age old texts,
He still guides and instructs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Amos was just a normal shepherd. He had no social standing, or
religious authority. He was just a simple guy, doing a simple job, living a
simple life. Until God gave him words to say, elevating normal flesh to the
mouth of God. His prophecies were hard for the nations surrounding Israel, they
had been evil, and judgment was coming. And come it eventually would. But more
interesting, and pertinent to the church today, seem to be his words toward
Israel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Specifically he addressed neglect of the poor, direct abuse of the
poor, and the pursuit of injustice. The Israel that he addressed was then a
wealthy, place, full of people reclining at ease. Satisfied in their religious
practice, they sought God only partially, and with an impure heart. He was not
their everything, but had become small to them. Amos reminded them of His
greatness “He who made the Pleiades and Orion and changes deep darkness into
morning, who also darkens day into night, who calls for the waters of the sea
and pours them out on the surface of the earth, the Lord is His name…” The
simpleness and greatness of morning and evening, the steady stars, the seasonal
rains – all made and changed by Him. But they had forgotten. Their lips spoke
of Him, but life showed that their hearts were far from Him. “You impose heavy
rent on the poor and exact a tribute of grain from them…For I know that your
transgressions are many and your sins are great, you who distress the righteous
and accept bribes and turn aside the poor in the gate…” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Their perceived themselves as dressed in robes, but really they
were dressed in rags. They self-righteously envisioned how good they would look
when they would one day stand before the Lord, as if He should be so glad to
have the honor of meeting them. But harsh words awaited them. “Alas, you who
are longing for the day of the Lord, for what purpose will the day of the Lord
be to you? It will be darkness and not light; as when a man flees from a lion
and a bear meets him, or goes home, leans his hand against the wall and a snake
bites him. Will not the day of the Lord be darkness instead of light, even
gloom with no brightness in it?” He goes on to say that he has come to despise
and reject their sacrifices and offerings, for their hearts are wicked when
they offer such things to Him. Instead, He desires that “justice roll down like
waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream”. Real faith wasn’t going
to live turning a blind eye. He didn’t want vain words, or monotonous service,
He wanted hearts devoted, lives changed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The people were like mahogany veneer, overlying pressed board. External
service looked good, but beneath was cheap, self-centered religion. I wonder
how much of religion today fits that same analogy. Filling the visible roles
necessary to find acceptance within the church, and yet really being all about
our own wants, desires, and pleasures. We cast away thoughts of the poor, walk
a shady line of righteousness that appears acceptable, and turn a blind eye to
injustice. Faith is spoken of, but lives never show the change that real faith
inevitably brings. We say that we care about what God cares about, but our
lives are quite revealing otherwise. What a sad delusion to say to ourselves,
“Oh, we long for the day of the Lord…” only to realize that justice on that day
will surprisingly be unfavorable to many.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The book of Amos goes on to tell that even though justice would
come and would be painful, God was eventually going to purify and draw people
closer to Him. Restoration and redemption would be accomplished, and would be
amazing. It is a common theme through the scriptures. The world is messed up,
it will feel the repercussions of the paths chosen, but there is yet a plan for
something better to come. God will not stop pursuing His children, even through
the brokenness they have created.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Another theme found here, and recurring through so many other
parts of scripture, is how God over and over again directly correlates the
honest and transparency of our relationship with Him to the way that we care
for those in need among us. If our eyes are blind to the orphans, widows, poor,
suffering, etc, it could be that we are really blind to the desires of God.
Just as later when asked, what are the greatest commandments, Christ would
answer “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and
with all your mind. This is the great and foremost commandment. The second is
like it, you shall love your neighbor as yourself. On these two commandments
depend the whole Law and the Prophets.” This even includes the prophet Amos, speaking
so long before Christ about the truths of loving those around us. For Gods
people, to be made right with God would mean also to be made right with others.
To just turn away from the needs of people around us is an indicator that our
hearts have probably not been truly inclined toward God.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">It is incredible to me to know more of the story. How often the
themes repeat, the same story and lessons at different times in history. Things
veiled and seen only dimly by the prophets of old, now made much clearer by
Christ. Redemption has been completed. And yet the gracious character of God is
still made known again and again, even as His people fail time after time. As
the church, may we have eyes to look on the accounts of old and have a clearer
view of the God we serve. I hope that we can learn the hard lessons through the
lives of others, have our eyes opened through their stories. Too sad it is to
waste the years, only to look back and realize that our affections were wrongly
placed, our energies thrown into foolish pursuits, our lives poured out for
things that don’t matter. May our hearts be always inclined toward Him. And as
we serve Him, may others see the greatness of His love and compassion, even in
the midst of a broken world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-76161627973528184822014-06-03T06:39:00.000-07:002014-06-03T06:39:10.256-07:00Fighting for health, and knowing God's hand in the midst of it all<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I knew that something wasn’t right when I heard her story. She had
been taking malaria treatment at home, and the sickness should have been
better. The treatment she had gotten was almost always effective. But still,
she was sick. We put her in the hospital and put her on IV medicines to make
sure that she received all that she needed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But she got worse. She started vomiting, and contractions started.
Labs were drawn as she was prepared for a repeat C-section. Her twins were
delivered safely. But her labs came back, showing that something was terribly
wrong. But what it was didn’t seem to fit in any typical specific diagnosis.
She was destroying her own blood cells, and her kidneys and liver weren’t
working well. This type of pregnancy-induced disease can always be dangerous,
but her type was worse than normal because it was much different and more
complicated. I drew more labs to rule out rare disorders, hoping to find a
medical diagnosis that she could fully fit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The day after surgery, she started having trouble breathing.
People like her are at risk for this. Suddenly they go from feeling relatively
okay to drowning from the water filling their lungs – we call it “flash
pulmonary edema”. I had already restricted her IV fluids to less than what is
normal to avoid something like this. But she was so sick, and even minimal
fluid went straight to her lungs and tipped her over into respiratory distress.
If the fluid got any worse, she wouldn’t be able to breathe. No breathing, no
living. I knew what to do, and I quickly and urgently gave orders. Sweat pooled
in the notch at the bottom of her neck. She leaned forward, muscles straining
for every breath. There was only one way to help, I had to get the fluid out.
The only way for that to happen was to make her urinate. Her kidneys were going
to have to make urine, make a lot of it, and make it quickly. But they were
damaged already by her disease process. I wasn’t sure if they would be able to
do what I was going to ask them for. I pushed medicines into the IV line,
knowing that the next several minutes would tell me if her kidneys were still
functioning enough to get the fluid out. I watched her urine bag. The kidneys
rose to the occasion and began filling the bag with clear, beautiful urine. I
delighted to see it coming. An hour later, there were only a few beads of sweat
on her brow. A victory won, but the war ravaging her body was far from over. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">There were fevers starting too. This seemed like a separate
problem. Fevers should mean infection, but it seemed there was no infection to
be found. I knew that they weren’t from her recent malaria after a day or two
of continued treatment. But blood tests, urine tests, x-rays, ultrasounds –
nothing was showing where the infection was coming from. Antibiotics were
started. Fevers continued. Finally, the only thing left was to assume that she
had an infected blood clot within her pelvis somewhere. I couldn’t see it on
ultrasound, but I knew it must be there. It is sort of a last-ditch diagnosis,
when everything else has been considered. So, I started her on blood thinners
as treatment to break up the clot. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I waited, and doctored, and prayed, and hoped. By this point she
had required five units of blood (since her body was killing off her own blood
cells, we had to replace them with transfusions). The blood would drip in, but
by the next day, the blood level would have fallen again. Finally, the blood
level remained steady overnight. Her other labs also began to move in the right
direction, indicating that the multiple organ systems which previously were
struggling were heading toward normal functioning again. And lastly, the fevers
finally stopped. We turned the corner. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">She held her babies in her arms today as I signed her discharge
paperwork. I realized that every day that I had come to sit on the edge of her
bed I had come to like her more. I had become more invested. I had been the one
in charge, working to save her life. I had been the one trying every morning to
figure out how to manage her to restore health. But I wasn’t the one who could
actually make her better. Sometimes women just like her don’t turn the corner.
No matter what we do - not with the best care, not in America, and certainly
not in Africa. I don’t know why one and not another. I only know to ask for
wisdom and guidance as I practice medicine, and know that He is able to be
trusted with the outcomes. So as she left and I said “Thank the Lord for two
healthy babies and a healthy mom”, I didn’t say it lightly. He holds it all together, and I see that is His hand doing so. Mine are too small, too human. I am grateful for the work that they have been given to do, but alone they are not enough. Indeed, thank the Lord for two healthy babies and a healthy mom. He has again provided. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-2244464023288951782014-05-18T00:55:00.000-07:002014-05-18T00:55:40.348-07:00Normal Patient, Extraordinary Moments<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">It was the most normal of surgeries for me. An abdominal
hysterectomy. Big fibroids distorting the uterus and causing heavy bleeding.
Her story was all too common, not at all thrilling. She had lost significant
amounts of blood from the menstrual flow, and her blood level was one third or
one fourth the amount of normal. Each time she stood up, the dizziness came
because she had lost too much to really sustain herself anymore. She had
already received one bag of blood replacement, and two more were on the way.
So, I gave her the options of medicines versus surgery, and she desired a
hysterectomy to remove the offending uterus and permanently stop the bothersome
flow of blood. The bleeding was too much to send her away, so I put her on the
schedule for the next morning. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The case went well, no complications, no excitement. And just as I
was closing up, I heard her crying, almost weeping. I leaned over the curtain
that separates the body from the face, usually keeping the humanity veiled away
from the surgical field. I asked, “Is she okay?”, wondering if she was feeling
pain from the surgery. The response was rewarding. She was weeping for joy. She
had just asked the anesthetist if the bleeding would ever return (which I did
cover in my counseling, but she must have not completely understood). When he
told her that she would never again have this problem, the tears began to flow.
She heaved her chest as she gasped air in between sobs. And then she began to
sing praises to the Lord. A sweet, sweet moment breaking through the ordinary
clamps, knots, scissors, scalpel of routine surgery. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Just a half hour before, while I had my hands buried in her
abdomen assessing the size and mobility of the distorted uterus, I had thought
about how blessed I am to be able to operate. Blessed that people would trust me
inside their bodies. Blessed that I’ve had training to provide good surgical
skills. Blessed that God cares for my patients long after my hands have
finished their work. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">My contentment in my calling, and her delight in newly found
relief from the heavy burden she bore mixed together in that operating room –
swirling around in worship to the God who gives good gifts, and allows us to do
the same. I’m grateful to be able to pour energy and life into another. And I’m
grateful that He is the One who she praised and glorified. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-47719099884701660862014-04-20T08:33:00.000-07:002014-04-20T08:33:13.867-07:00Afraid of the Weeping<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Been in the room too many times when the cancer is diagnosed, when
the baby is lost, when the marriage is over. Tears and snot running down faces
too beautiful to be puffy from hopeless weeping. Daughters and sons, husbands,
friends – the awkward moments leave silence and space between relationships. Who
knows what to say? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Most often everyone steps back. The pain is uneasy, tense. Our
comfort is at risk. This is a time for the pastor to step in. The family to
step in. The doctor to step in. The counselor to step in. Someone else. Not us.
We aren’t trained or prepared. They write whole books on how to deal with this
stuff. We feel foolish. Can’t fix it, and that is what we want to be able to
do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I remember times of pain, some near, others long ago and forgotten by others.Sitting in a purple plaid chair in the hospital lobby, alone, tears streaming down my
face. That day as he died, I knew what loss felt like. Another time, fear and pain consumed me. I was just a child, lying in the hospital bed
alone. The medications given into my arm were supposed to make me better, but
also had side effects of making me hallucinate, the terror was so real. Such
confusion in the midst of hurting so badly. And then again, when their marriage
broke down, so lonely, such despair. Whose was I? Not theirs, so hers? Or his? In heartbreak. In despair. A thousand times I have had reason to cry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">David cries out to God in the midst of his distress – “Reproach
has broken my heart and I am so sick. And I looked for sympathy, but there was
none, and for comforters, but I found none.” So sad to cry out, and hear no one answer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Who hasn’t bled, who hasn’t cried, who hasn’t lost. Each member of
the body of Christ has been through circumstances that have pain us, shaped us,
sometimes scarred us. Each has some compassion to share, a shoulder to lend. But
we don’t want to share or lend. When the uncomfortable times of grief, or pain,
or confusion come we want to draw away. But maybe God has been training us just
for that moment, to step in. To try, knowing we may fail. To offer silence, or words.
Provision, or even only presence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The Word says “Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those
who weep”, and later regarding the body of Christ, “And if one member suffers,
all the members suffer with it; if one member is honored, all the members
rejoice with it”. We were meant for this. It is part of our life <i>together</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Christ left the example for us. He didn’t just find Himself in the
midst of the needy, He went out to be among them. He stepped into the world of
dust and filth. He saw the Samaritan woman at the well, thirsty and tired. But
he met her not exalted as He deserved, but dirty, thirsty, and tired Himself. He
multiplied bread for the multitudes, knowing hunger Himself. He took Judas’s
foul kiss, feeling the knife in His back, stabbed by betrayal. He watched His
mother weep, as her heart was broken. He cried out to the Father for relief on
that dreadful day, feeling His abandonment for the first time. He looked in
Peter’s eyes as the rooster crowed, knowing that his best friend had been too
ashamed to claim Him. He bled. He cried. He lost. And because of this He
understands our trials and our pain. He also understands our weaknesses,
sympathizes with us, and provides mercy and grace for our times of need. We are
to be His, imaging Him into the broken places and broken lives, not just the
easy, comfortable situations. May we have boldness and compassion to walk
toward those in pain rather than walk away. He has trained us through our own
trials, for times such as these. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-87758878606010064062014-04-13T11:25:00.000-07:002014-04-13T11:32:12.894-07:00The Search For Aisha Kelly<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The story began long before I arrived. A young couple looked at
their premature newborn, 28 weeks of gestational age (way too early). The
village elders, several old Fulani men, came and told the doctor, Dr Kelly,
that they were just going to take the baby home. They had no hope for it.
Against all cultural norms, she stood against them. She told them that no, they
weren’t going to take the baby girl out of the hospital. She would not relent.
Cultures collided – Muslim Fulanis and the Christian medical doctor were at odds.
The doctor won, believing that there was hope for the small, frail life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The child was eventually discharged from the hospital, healthy and
normal. And she bore the name Aisha Kelly, the latter obviously in honor of the
pediatrician who cared for her. Relationships were not only restored, but
flourished. The whole village came to know of the tiny baby, and the
strong-willed doctor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Now, a year later, Dr Kelly was going to the village to see the
child. This seems like a simple concept, but the practicalities were more
involved. It is best to travel with a second person, especially as a single
woman in the developing world. So, she needed somebody to accompany her. I
didn’t know the language, or the location, but I was somebody. So, the plan was
made, and off we went. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">We walked half an hour to the edge of the nearest town. Two motos
(mopeds) were arranged as she bargained on the price. The ideal moto driver is
a bit older and a bit fatter, as this generally indicates a lower testosterone
level and safer ride. The last key is to pick one with a helmet on, since at
least he appears to have some concern for safety. Mine had no helmet, was
young, and skinny. But, such it was, so I just prayed as I put on the helmet I
had brought and jumped on. As light raindrops fell, we were off. Further and
further from town, down dusty dirt roads, out into the bush we went. Dust
particles covered us, even grinding between my teeth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The cell phone for the family we were visiting wasn’t working, nor
had we actual directions to where they lived, and lastly, the family name
couldn’t be recalled. We only knew the name of the nearest village. But we were
determined. The family is from a aforementioned tribe called the Fulani, cow
herders who previously were completely nomadic. The group that we were going to
see has two camps, hours apart. We were hoping that they would be at the one
near the village that we were heading toward. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">We arrived at the village market. Most of the villagers didn’t
speak French, so we wandered around until we found a man who did. Then the
three of us wandered around more, initially in what appeared to be an aimless
fashion. Within an hour, though, we had found an elder from the Fulani tribe,
who spoke neither French, nor the predominant local language. He was one of the
men who had come to the hospital, demanding the child a year ago. Immediately
upon seeing Dr Kelly, he smiled and laughed as he rushed to greet her. She had
won his respect over the intervening time. There were four languages that were
being translated amidst all the people in order to figure out where to go to
find the husband, wife, and little girl. Finally, after much ado and the
formation of an entourage of translators mixed with moto drivers, we were again
off. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">A few miles down the road, and off the path, to where the path
narrowed. I could tell we were getting close. There were several women bearing
large loads atop their heads, with fewer clothes, more skin, and dense brightly
colored beads. The decorations seemed to grow heavier and heavier with each
subsequent woman, signs of beauty and prosperity, shiny glimmers covering
necks, chests, ears, wrists, and ankles. Their appearance showed that they were
obviously Fulani. Finally, the motos stopped, though there was no trail, or
obvious camp. We began walking through the bush until we saw the small domed
houses, covered in plastic tarping. These structures even have the appearance
of the nomadic, temporal lifestyle, easily picked up and carried off to
whatever place is next necessary for the grazing of the cattle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Finally, we had found them. The grandmother came out, with little
Aisha Kelly wrapped on her back. Another family’s child also peered out at us,
obviously stricken with some condition limiting his mobility, nearly crippling
him. Then came the young father and mother. I watched the mutual delight of Dr
Kelly and the family. The little girl locked my eyes, at first scared of the
white skin, but intrigued as well. Again translation ensued through many
people, the long task of communication. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">It turned out that the wife was pregnant again, which allowed for
encouraging her to come to the clinic for care. Any woman who has had a prior
preterm baby is at risk for having a similar outcome, and needs to be watched
carefully and given some special medicines to try to prevent a repeat of the
prior early delivery. So, Dr Kelly pushed me forward, indicating that I was the
mom-baby doctor, and she needed to see me. I was glad that I was there, as she
would be much more likely to actually come for and accept care within an
established relationship. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">We enjoyed the time, took some photos, and eventually said
goodbye, mounting the motos again and heading back out the path to eat more
dust. Furthering relationships here almost always requires a bit of adventure,
stepping out into the unknown, risking something. But I suppose that life worth
living requires those things. Life lived today. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Displaying photo.JPG" src="https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui=2&ik=db268249a0&view=fimg&th=1455c4ddd0cf80d1&attid=0.1&disp=inline&safe=1&attbid=ANGjdJ9l-pInk5pblBXk5licQ0R3HhXGtV-nEar5pquj9I_IiGnpzBylIKIlz7BcBFh_SNbPpEjvPE-xDHL_w4UDYLTartdWMlN3TNFUo5VQZyiX7Uo5QWZ4iDoktu8&ats=1397413086280&rm=1455c4ddd0cf80d1&zw&sz=w912-h530" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A typical fulani house</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Displaying photo.JPG" src="https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui=2&ik=db268249a0&view=fimg&th=1455c4c62b75366a&attid=0.1&disp=inline&safe=1&attbid=ANGjdJ9M19RrWon--kEofv_H8NR_laidvF-MshTYvb-vgZkr70Rle-5oUGkKxIwSQGiJq3wa5dzirQcSaSl1CWIKDGh4dhPHFxGroIfgtm8xIYB6QHUr_x19NjJitTc&ats=1397413086294&rm=1455c4c62b75366a&zw&sz=w912-h530" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They are taught not to smile in pictures, it isn't that they were scared to death of Kelly</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Displaying photo.JPG" src="https://mail.google.com/mail/?ui=2&ik=db268249a0&view=fimg&th=1455c4b4687277e3&attid=0.1&disp=inline&safe=1&attbid=ANGjdJ8u8W1_PigW13XozWKvvgbC2GbsMzyjJkAx6lSthSFchks3B4l5NM_DeLddIziD0hFS5X7_y6XgjAduiMAY5hktSyJxMsfnrnk3QwUZ4b8dMZm4DsjRKyY-W4o&ats=1397412996254&rm=1455c4b4687277e3&zw&sz=w912-h530" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom and little Kelly</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-92015031372297723162014-04-12T09:08:00.000-07:002014-04-12T09:08:03.739-07:00Worth Running For<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I finished with the lady in clinic. Her problem list included high
blood pressure, thyroid disease, obesity, and medication exposures that can
cause damage to a developing baby. Ugghh. High risk pregnancies are difficult
to manage even in the developed world with fancy tests and monitoring. Here,
“high risk” just brings a sigh and a sense of helplessness. Too weighty for
limited resource settings. I headed off to the house to grab some lunch, glad
to have closed her chart for the moment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I was about 2/3 finished with my bowl of macaroni noodles when I
heard the noise. Like a circus clown horn, with a high pitched honk-honk. I had
heard rumors of such a horn, and was sad that I hadn’t ever heard it here. So,
I jumped up from the table, leaving my fork in my lunch bowl, and ran for it.
The only problem was that the hospital compound is on a circle. As I approached
the road it hit me that if I went the wrong way, I may miss it all together.
So, I just started yelling “Fan Milk? Fan Milk? Fan Milk?” There was no reply,
sadly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I saw one of the missionaries heading across the grass. “Mr
Teusink! Have you seen the Fan Milk man?” To my delight, he directed me in the
way. A few moments later, I rounded the corner of a house, and found him. There
he was, looking glorious, the ice cream man. He rides his bicycle around
tooting the little horn on the handlebar, selling ice cream in little sachets.
I put in my order. “Five?”, he questioned. My reply “I’m hungry” as I smiled
and rubbed my belly for emphasis. I smiled as I walked away, carrying my bag of
goodies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Finishing my bowl of room temperature noodles, I grasped one of
the cold plastic bags, tore the corner off with my teeth, and squished all the
ice cream up through the little hole. Delightful. A new, and wonderful addition
to my life. The ice cream man might become one of the more important men in my
life. He definitely brought joy to my day. In those few moments, I went from
sigh of helplessness in the face of medical problems, to sigh of satisfaction and
happiness. Ice cream makes my heart beat fast in delight. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Phone rings, it’s a retained placenta. So, I’m off. But I’ve been
refreshed, ready for the next thing. Thank God for life’s small pleasures amidst normal needs and tasks of life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-10377861621071308902014-04-06T04:54:00.003-07:002014-04-06T04:54:46.251-07:00Looking in the rear view<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">It’s a Toyota hatchback. Always a hatchback it seems. Me and seven
others. Seven “healthy” others (aka obese). Children don’t count, so more can
fit if kids are piled inside. Thick hips and thighs crush together, one sits
forward and three sit back. Armpit at my head, one arm thrown behind the next passenger
too. No one needs to know anatomy to realize that there is a nerve on the
outside of the calf. Pressed firmly against the door, or the neighbor’s leg,
every time the one leg is numb when we finally arrive. Today is no exception to
the norms. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The driver hangs out the window to allow one more passenger (or
obtain one more fare). He swerves around potholes and people, beeps his horn.
Oftentimes, though not today, he is obviously inebriated, as the odor of
alcohol wafts toward us through the wind blowing through the open window. We
pass police check, one after the next. He gives them a coin so they turn their
eyes from the long list of obvious illegalities. And then we pass on through. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">He drops us at the taxi area, where we scatter, each into another
hatchback or mini-bus. It is the same routine. Finally, I get dropped at the
bus station. My ticket says “VIP, 8:30am”. But VIP may be misleading. It means
you have an assigned seat, and the bus should leave on time. “On time” is
sometime before 9am, and it is much better than the non-VIP bus, which only
leaves after every single crevice and crack is filled with human cargo. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I’m in seat 3. Seat 2 has a skinny guy, but yet he leans halfway
over into my seat. My thigh, my shoulder, they each touch his. I lean deeply
into the window. “Thank You God for the window”. Seat 2 only shifts more,
making himself more comfortable. I am the only passenger who recognizes the
idea of personal space. So, I silence any complaint, knowing that the culture
here currently rules over my own preferences. I’ve come to find that the inner
thigh is really the only place that one can call their own on public transport.
Every other place is public. Buttocks are shifted, one person on the next,
babies are halfway on your lap, pushing against your breasts. Feet are
entangled. Yep, the only part that I get to keep is my inner thigh. But thank
God I get at least one part. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The bus moves slowly, up the winding hills. In spite of the
uncomfortable seating, the driver is safe and cautious, partially because the
bus’s steady, slow limit of acceleration. I listen to music, singing out the
window, finding opportunity to worship with the engine muffling the sound of my
words. Deep, thick black smoke blows on us from the unmaintained semi-truck,
painfully pulling its load in front of us. The bellows out of the engine rush
into the window, and I cease my song for a moment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">After a while, we come to a stop. Suddenly swarms of hands shove
bananas, plantains, roasted corn, coke bottles (filled with something that is
not any official coke product), bush meat creatures – resembling armadillos,
furry rats with long tails, and sometimes a small deer or monkey. The sellers
envelop the bus, each passenger buys the desired items, and the bus begins to
move. As the tires roll dangerously close, the sellers are forced to retreat
from the hope of a day’s wages. I smell the curled, dried fish that some passenger
bought, and it pushes me further out the window. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But no matter. I smile, grateful for the chance to ride. The smoke
and fish, the drawn out slow pull up the hills, the uncomfortable skin on skin –
they are all noticed but not concerning. My eyes are set ahead, looking forward
to the hope of coming things. Glad to see the rearview mirror looking at the
past, things truly behind. Last time I took this one-way trip with a paid
hospital car, I received a bill for $450. That was on the day that I arrived.
Today, I return for a $10 charge. Lessons learned along the way (many important ones - one just practical
one was how to save about $450). Eyes now wide open to realities, some of which
were much more romantic while hidden. And yet, also opened to the graciousness
and provision of God seen both personally and through my patients. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I praised Him through the difficult days on those beautiful, hard
mountains with the hospital nestled between them. I praise Him now on this windy
road, uncomfortable, but hopeful. And I am learning to praise Him at all times,
though perfection of that may be beyond sight, far off in the distant haze. I
am reminded of the constancy of God in the midst of varying circumstances, of
time and place. He calls for heart worship through them all. And the worthiness
of the One who calls is constant and unchanging. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-45778361938242738312014-04-01T11:07:00.000-07:002014-04-01T11:07:24.486-07:00Goodbyes and Hellos<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I knew that it was time to walk away. The moment I turned my mind
toward leaving, it was as if a big cement block was removed from my shoulders.
I physically felt some sort of strange freedom. <br />
<br />
But I do hate goodbyes. I had several good friends, and knew it would be hard.
But I wouldn’t cry. I knew it. My missionary friends from the next city down
were sad, just as I was to be leaving them. But we always knew it wouldn’t be
for the long term. They had seen my through some hard times, heavy laden, and
dark. And we had enjoyed many times of fellowship together. As we drove down
the road for the last time, my friend noted the mood simply with “this sucks”.
When he stopped and stepped out to get gas, I was left only with Kindle, one fittingly named for the fire and warmth she provides. She has been a bright spot of laughter and joy that I had the privilege of walking
these roads with. We often found ourselves reveling in giddy drunkenness,
brought merely from the intoxicating humors of life. She only said, “I don’t do
goodbyes well, you already know I’ll miss you. Lets keep it at that”. I
replied, “You already know how much you mean to me”. That was it. Short, sweet,
the way I like it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But then came Anna. I knew she could bring me to tears in a
moment. She worked in my house 2 half days per week. Plucking chickens and
grinding flour, and other such things that I wouldn’t ever get time to do
without her. But it wasn’t like she really worked for me. When we were
together, we just fooled around, laughed, cooked, ate. Life was brighter on her
days. Literally, she always opened the curtains. But more than that, she left
my heart more alive. She was the only Cameroonian who really knew me inside.
She didn’t require cultural sensitivity, or a fake smile, or a special
greeting. I’d smack her on the butt as I left for the hospital, retreating
quickly before she had the chance to swat me back. She was the closest thing I
had to family during that time and in that place. “Bye ma”, I’d laugh as I
fled. She would smile, “bye daughter”. I stopped to pray for her just before I
put my bags on my shoulder. She just stood there. And I knew that this would be
the one time for me, the first time in many, many hard months, that the tears
would flow. She grabbed me and just held on. Her sobs heaved into my chest as
she said, “I’ll never see you again”. I felt the weight of her soul leaning
into me. I could only hold her, and tell her the best of truths. I would see
her again, if only on the other side. And it would be wonderful. I spoke of the
thing that I knew for sure, and whispered instruction “Love the Lord with all
of your heart, mind, soul, and strength – in this He will be pleased”. I told
her that I loved her. She finally let go and lifted her head from my chest. I
put my bags on, and she watched as I walked away to the road. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">My current season is full of comings and goings. “Hello” and
“goodbye”. I am thankful for those who have passed through life, stayed a
while, had a seat. We’ve shared joys and pain. Let’s not forget those who have
made our paths brighter, those who have provided shelter in the storms. And
let’s not forget to do the same for others who walk along through our lives. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-81240495025988665482014-04-01T11:01:00.000-07:002014-04-01T11:01:25.345-07:00Moving Along<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
After a year and a half, I knew for sure that the hospital where I had initially been assigned was not a place that I would call home. Trustworthy people who had walked these paths before I came advised me some time ago to consider another place. I lingered, wanting to make sure that I had done my part and tried to honor my commitment. It has become clear that I have fulfilled my obligations to the best of my ability, and am able to move on to something else.<br />
<br />
As my two year term is drawing nearer and nearer to a close, I've decided that it is time to volunteer at another location to see what differences may be found in another mission hospital setting. The organization that I work for (Samaritan's Purse) has been constantly supportive and gracious, and has agreed that I am able to explore other options for the last months of my service.<br />
<br />
So, bags are packed and I'm heading off on another journey. I am going to a hospital in Togo, West Africa (a few centimeters up on the globe, but pretty far away in reality). There I will be on a team with some other doctors who are trained in obstetrics. I'm excited to see differences within practice patterns and medical care between hospitals. I'm also looking forward to working within the community of believers there (of whom I already know a few people).<br />
<br />
I'm refreshed and encouraged as I step into a new place and new phase. I'm looking ahead to see what God has in store. And I am thankful that it is He who holds my hand and leads through it all. Thanks for your prayers as I transition. I'll try to keep the stories coming. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-30010673441773445882014-03-21T04:59:00.000-07:002014-03-21T04:59:20.658-07:00A Good Laugh<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I found myself laughing a big, deep, belly laugh all by myself while
lying in bed. I’d gotten a phone call and had been rolling in laughter until
tears were squeezed out from my eyes. This story is not for the easily
disgusted, it is indeed far too much information to put out there on a blog.
But since folks sometimes accuse my blog of being a downer, I figured I’d share
the twisted humor that delighted my soul. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Two background ideas were running in parallel. The first is that
times are often very difficult at the hospital where I have worked for the past
1.5 years. Stress can be unimaginably high. In the midst of such, I have a few
friends who live a little ways away who make it a point to care for my soul.
There’s always a top bunk available, a fridge with food in it, and a house full
of fellowship. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The second running storyline is that I have had terrible
gastrointestinal upset for over two months. It must be some Africa-induced
misery. I’ve taken all the antibiotics, antiparasitics, probiotics, etc that
have been recommended in multiple courses, yet to no avail. Still I am rushing
out of the OR for the nearest toilet all too regularly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Earlier today I called to ask my friends what days they would be
leaving to go out of town (as I know they are travelling soon). I was in a
rush, so I got off the phone after just a couple of questions, finished what I
was doing, and headed back to care for my patients. I never thought of it
again. But they did. For hours they wondered if I was alright, if the day had
been something awful, if I needed their support. That is just the kind of
genuine, caring people that they are. Finally, hours later as I lay in bed, I
got the call. “Do you need anything? The door is always open. We are here for
you and can come get you if there is something wrong. You can come out of town
with us if you need a break.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I responded that today was actually a surprisingly good day, with
excellent patient care and multiple episodes of encouragement. The person on
the other end of the phone line was a friend of rare quality, who immediately
brings a sense of comfort and familiarity beyond what most could in years of
knowing them. So, I just bluntly told
her the real reason that I had called earlier. In the midst of one of my GI
moments, I realized that I <i>really</i>
needed to do something about all of this terrible diarrhea. The situation had
gone on too long, and suddenly I realized my desperation. Enough was enough.
This was ridiculous. I needed labs, and blood tests, and evaluations only
available in the big city which was many hours away. Since I knew that they
were travelling to an area where there was a major lab, I was considering
getting them to take down a stool sample in a coffee can and a vial of blood for
me so I could get a real diagnosis. It had
initially seemed like a brilliant idea. It didn’t seem awkward until I said it
out loud.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The contrast of her concern for my well-being (now completely
alleviated) and my true intentions was too much. I got totally tickled. We both
began laughter too great to continue the conversation. It was the rolling type
of laughter that could make one pee their pants, the type with risk of losing control, the type I usually only dare engage in with my sister. Well, during the
intervening time since I had come up with this great idea and made that initial
phone call, my doctor from home had recommended another regimen of antibiotics,
so I had decided to hold off on the stool sample. Through my choking laughter I
told her that she was relieved of the wierdness of poop transport duty. I was
laughing too hard, we had to hang up the phone. And so then I just laid there
in bed with alternating giggles, then full on obnoxious loud laughing bursts.
Tears rolled, cheeks tired, abdominal muscles became sore. It was wonderful. I
was reminded of how good God is to give moments of delight. As well as how good
He is to give friends and fellowship of such caliber that could encourage and
protect my heart, as well as be considered close enough for intimate requests
of a much more embarrassing nature. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-37182684219344556392014-03-18T10:11:00.002-07:002014-03-18T10:11:37.324-07:00The Broken<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Woman after woman comes into the exam room bringing her
designated plastic sheet, folded neatly. She unfolds it, presses out the
creases, and places it on the table. Then she follows the nurse’s instruction
to sit atop the shiny plastic. The history takes a few minutes, telling her
pattern of uncontrolled leaking. Sometimes stool, sometimes urine, sometimes
both. Then the story takes fleshly, human form as we examine. By this point,
often she is sitting in a pool of urine, it shifts and splatters on the plastic beneath her with every
movement. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The line outside the door is filled with similar stories. One
normal occurrence – getting pregnant and giving birth – and everything changed.
Left life shattered, leaking, foul. Drip. Drip. Drip. Always cleaning but never
able to be clean. Most have been left by husbands, rejected from society. The
odor wafts strongly in and out with each patient. They knew that there was a
problem, but never had the money to get it fixed. But thankfully, now they have
heard of this opportunity for free treatment, and they have made the trip. Some
from near, some from far. All ages – young, embarrassed teenagers with recent births sitting
beside old, wrinkled women who have borne their shame for decades. Each with
desperation, and each with hope. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Days later that hope is mixed with fear as she walks to the
operating room door. Her longing for continence, for normalcy stirs within to
overcome the anxiety as she lifts herself onto the operative bed. Spinal is
placed for anesthesia, legs flexed back into the gynecology stirrups. And the
repair is begun. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">My surgery skills are enough for the easier ones. On those, I
operate while an experienced fistula surgeon assists. But many are beyond
me. Those are scarred, fibrotic fistulae, in difficult to reach places, with
much higher risk for failure after the procedure. On these patients I assist
while an extensively experienced surgeon operates. I watch their hands perform
from the creativity of their imagination, combined with years of training and
experience. For a moment, I occasionally am jealous, wishing that I had the
same level of skill. But after a second passes I return to the reality that
life doesn’t work that way. We all start novice, and time brings us expertise
as our hair grays. I focus again to learn from the experts, watching their
thoughts work themselves out with the throw of each stitch. Some time later,
she rolls on the stretcher back to the fistula ward, with hopes of being a new
woman, a restored woman. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The next morning we pass by to see each woman. “Dry” is translated
by the nurse, though often the patient’s smile needs no translation. Sometimes
there is disappointment, but most often cautious joy. Sometimes overwhelming,
unrestrained joy. It is amazing to see the soul stirring in a woman whose body
has been restored to what it was meant to be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">A picture of renewal. We all need renewal, restoration. We all
need Something beyond us to make us who we were meant to be. For most of us, we
hide behind our own strengths, masking our weaknesses, insecurities, and
failures. We feign wholeness, pushing brokenness out of sight into the recesses
of our minds and flesh. Sometimes we even buy into the idea that we are okay.
We are good. We have forced self-discipline, we’ve grasped success, we’ve made
something of ourselves. But all it takes is one phone call, one doctor’s visit,
one screech of metal on metal, and our fragility is exposed fully, laid bare
and open. A deep cut from the normal occurrences of life, and we are left
hemorrhaging, empty. Suddenly our awareness of our lack of sufficiency becomes
acute. Sometimes that is what it takes to break our façade. To realize that our
deepest needs are beyond our ability to supply. We all need restoration deeply
in our souls. And thankfully, God offers us that. Through Christ, He has made a
way to be renewed, made right. What we could not be with all our effort, He has
made us – sufficient and whole. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">These women, with brokenness unable to be hidden from the harsh
eyes of the world, are finding healing. They have called out for help, and help
has come. We delight to see their once known, then lost, now restored body with
all its function. Theirs is easy to see. How I long for the rest of us to have
eyes opened to know our brokenness, to realize our desperation, to call out for the One who offers help. The
tears of the saints for generation after generation have been for restoration
of the brokenness around us. A restoration better than intact flesh or
function, rather one of the individual man to the God who made him. I praise
Him for being a God who restores. And I am thankful that He allows us to be instruments of restoration in His hand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-62230380977610385482014-03-18T10:08:00.000-07:002014-03-18T10:08:29.829-07:00Another Airplane<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Since the first time I heard of it, obstetric fistula had peaked my interest and stirred my heart. The condition occurs after a long, difficult labor which causes damage to the urinary system or bowels. Women then leak urine or stool from the damage incurred during labor and delivery. It is crippling for a woman and affects every area of her life. I've tried time and time again to get involved in more training during my time in Africa. And at last it worked out for me to go to a fistula camp.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I got on the plane and was off to Uganda. I arrived at the Catholic hospital which was the site for the fistula work. It's nice to work with a bunch of nuns, mostly because names aren't an issue - you can just call everyone "Sister" and it works. For someone like me, who is terribly bad with remembering names and faces (basically just can't remember people), it was a great perk. I was definitely the trainee among the physicians there. Other well established fistula surgeons had come from Great Britain and other parts of Africa to take part.<br />
<br />
<div>
Word had been spread for weeks over the radio, and women had responded from hours and hours away to come for help. It was a good time for me professionally as I was able to learn techniques and get feedback from other doctors. I have been working alone for a good while now, and I really miss having other people within my field to bounce ideas off or or to get advice from. It was also refreshing to be in a different environment than usual and to see how other hospitals work.<br />
<br />
On the way back out of the country I got to stay over for a bit in the big city. I have become much more easily entertained over the time I've spent in Africa, and was delighted to get to just go to the grocery store and look through all the merchandise. So many options. I love to gaze down all the bright, shiny aisles. Next, I had the luxury of going to a swimming pool where I swam until my fingers and toes were all shriveled up and water was stuck way down deep in my ears. And lastly, one of the greatest and most treasured opportunities was getting to spend some time with other Christians who I met along the way. What a delight to meet people who love the Lord and are willing to follow after Him wherever He leads. They are dotted across nations, tribes, and tongues spanning the globe. All with one great affection and purpose, Christ and His glorification.<br />
<br />
Thanks to those of you who have given financially, you've made it possible for me to take this trip and begin learning more techniques that can help the women who I serve. And thanks of course to each who prays for me in my work here. I couldn't make it without you. </div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-74953251119725066722014-03-02T06:26:00.000-08:002014-03-02T06:26:39.247-08:00House Call<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I walked the rocky path up that steep hill. My lungs restrained
me, as my feet tried to hurry. I wondered if this was wise. I had my emergency
supplies tucked in the bag on my shoulder, along with my lunch (hate skipping
meals). It was something I hadn’t done before, so I was a little nervous, and a
little excited. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">She had said she desired to deliver at home. She knew the risks,
and she knew what she wanted. I reluctantly told her that if I wasn’t in
another operation or busy in clinic that I would come and deliver her there.
So, I finished up two hysterectomies just before the phone rang. The
contractions were getting stronger. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I arrived up the big hill, short of breath, and was grateful to
find that she was already well into labor. I balanced in my mind the ease and
carefree doula approach and the well drilled medical training. If everything
went well it was going to be awesome. If things didn’t, it had potential to be
awful. I listened for the baby’s heart beat from time to time. Again, a bit
awkwardly, I told her that if she wanted anything specific, to just let me
know. I would be checking in on her and the baby, and if she wanted me to help
any other way, or if anything changed, she would need to tell me. Thankfully,
she was content to labor quietly, no drama, no overly specific plan. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I waited. Ate my lunch. Listened to the heart beat. Waited some
more. Prayed for mom and baby. Waited. Listened. Small talk. Waited. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">After a couple of hours, the forces inside culminated into the
deep urge to push. She was completely in control. I guided the head out, then
the body. The baby’s lungs filled with air and she strong cries began. She was
beautiful (besides slippery and a bit bloody, of course - the norm for all
newborns). I breathed a sigh of relief, all had gone well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I was glad it hadn’t been a long labor. Patience isn’t my strong
point. All of obstetrics, of course, has a lot of waiting involved, but the
constancy of midwifery-type one on one care is different. I have always
appreciated and respected it. A doctor is often more pointedly intentional about
the times and interactions with patients. We always are there when the patient
needs us, we enter in and bring a trustworthy set of values and skills. But a
midwife is there regardless of distinct need, she is a provider, but more
relational as a companion and friend. I felt like a strange mix of both,
sitting in another person’s home, my tools spread out on the sterile towel
beside the bed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I can say I like both parts. In training, I used to enjoy slower
nights on labor and delivery that would allow for more patient interaction than
the usual rapid pace rushing from one room to another. Partnering with a
patient in labor takes a soothing, calm spirit, only a bit of thrill after a
long while of support. There’s something special about the delivery room
provider’s relationship as they walk the patient through the pain. I’ve always
liked near the end, when their eyes are searching, scared, wild – and then they
meet with your eyes, settle there, and find a place to trust and focus. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But then there are the times when everything doesn’t go quite
right. And then I’m glad that I’m a doctor in a hospital. All of the sudden,
there is the rush of an emergent delivery. The call needing immediate help. The
bed rolls quickly, the IV runs, the instruments fly into place. In a few
minutes, it is all over. The emergency has been managed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">As enjoyable as a normal birth is, there is something trained up
inside me that must prepare for those emergencies. I am not able to enjoy the
tranquil, doula experience like many. My right hand is now meant to hold a
blade, to cut in case of emergency. My mind is remembering where I have set the
medications to treat hemorrhage – just in case. Lists of risk factors for
numerous emergent possibilities run through my thoughts. I am enjoying the awe of new life, but not
lost in it. Making their moments special means that I protect them by preparing,
even while they don’t know it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But after the blood, and cries – when life is established and the
baby’s lips are firmly latched onto mother’s breast. Then. Then, whether
complicated or uncomplicated, I can embrace fully the amazement of what has
happened. I can see that what God has made is indeed wonderful. I can protect
life, but I can’t give it. What a wonder. I sure am glad that He lets me be
part of it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-55347198904151858912014-02-14T11:30:00.003-08:002014-02-14T11:30:52.344-08:00One for V Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I recently was spending time with some teenage girls.
I glanced over to see one of them gently turning the pages in her magazine. I
laughed a bit as I asked “Is there anything you aren’t telling me?” The
magazine was a bridal catalog, filled with fancy gowns and ideal poses. She
answered, “No, I just love to look at these, they are my favorite”. Dreams were
being formed, shaped, trimmed, tucked with each turn of the page. She hadn’t
ever even had a boyfriend, but the hope continued to grow for the fulfillment
of plans for that special white-satin draped moment. Hours and days
cumulatively spent pondering the specifics of some far off occasion. The
delight in the thrill of love and excitement of marriage were captivating. “The
one” as yet unknown, but known somehow to be completing and satisfying in the
walk through life. She naively dreams of perfect beauty and love, a perfect
life, a perfect day. How much she wants to give her life away. Can’t wait for
it. Longs to say “yes”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And yet there is a divide when God asks for a life. We
shy away, a bit put off that He would think this a valid option. I mean, maybe
its okay to ask if You can stop in from time to time for a visit, but all of
it? The audacity and impudence of God for asking for our everything. Often He
is greeted in an unwelcome manner, as if through the locked screen door.
Suspiciously we may ask what He wants, but we are taken aback when He wants too
much. Funny how we would question His motives, wonder if He’s worth it. But
when some half-way handsome fellow with a smile walks in and sweeps our feet
out from under us, we would gladly promise everything. On the one hand
completely trustworthy, patient, loving, all knowing, all powerful – we find
Him too scary. But on the other hand, the one marred by frequent failures,
irrationality, fickleness, along with a few decent attributes hidden amongst
all the defects – we find him delightful. Why can’t we see that God’s love
infinitely greater, more secure, more sheltering?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I think of the young girl who sits
dreaming, the future full of wishes. Somewhat worthy dreams, somewhat false
reality. And I wonder, is what you dream of worth giving a life away for? Is it
going to satisfy? Or will imaginations hit the rock hard ground of the earth we
trod and the fleshly-ness of it disappoint? Maybe someone tall, dark, and
handsome is coming. I do hope that sweet girl finds great love that makes her days
brighter, her smile bigger. But I know for sure, Someone is going to ask for
her life, all of it. But He is better than the perfect man she day-dreams about
as she flips the pages of the magazine. And if she dares to say “yes”, He is
going to be infinitely more amazing than what she has dreamt. He can take a
woman and breathe life into her. She will only have thought that she lived,
dreamed, was, before He came. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">May she, and many others, boldly
welcome the One who does complete. May each find dreams bigger and fuller than
imagination ever lent before. When He asks, let us not draw back and shy away,
but instead respond with “Here’s all I’ve got, all that I am”. </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-22117925642477038092014-01-22T08:48:00.000-08:002014-01-22T08:48:15.823-08:00Dim Hope<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">She had been only on the earliest brink of the changes to
womanhood. She had never even seen her menstrual flow, but the boy in the
village wanted to have sex, so she agreed. He pushed his frame onto her
childlike bony frame. That is what had started all the pains. Months later, at
twelve years old she lay pushing in the darkness for days. Finally, after the
seemingly endless labor, the family made it down the lengthy footpaths out of
the bush to a distant health clinic. A clinician with minimal training cut open
her belly and released the dead baby from the tiny pelvis which had become its
prison. Her family’s dread turned to a bit of hope that maybe the girl would
live. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">And live she did. But life became much more complicated. Just
after the surgery, urine and stool both leaked though the incision on her
abdomen. Foul odor and discolored drainage from the urine-feces mix stained
clothes day after day. She was sent back to her village, where it continued for
a full year. Then, finally the wound on her belly healed, the dirty leaking
through the incision stopped. Her bowel movements returned to normal. But the
urine did not. Now, she began urinating constantly through the vagina. Whatever
injury to the urinary tract that had been, managed to find a different method
of exit. Still, it was better than the prior, at least the stool had stopped.
Years went on, time continued. For seven years she stayed in the village,
smelling of urine, and dripping all around. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Finally, she came to the hospital. I wish I could say that all got
better, and she left with a smile. But that isn’t the way it went. Some initial
blood work showed that she had HIV. Further tests and examination revealed that
it wasn’t a new, mild case, but full-out AIDS. Her health was terrible. In a
few moments, her world had once again worsened tremendously. She thought her world
had fallen apart long ago, but now even the intact threads seemed to be
shredding. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I got some initial tests for the urine problem. It was still her
heaviest burden - the plague that she felt the most, and the trail of urine
that others could see and judge. The HIV at least was not known as soon as she
entered a room. She hoped for a cure for the chronic leak. I examined inside
her pelvis, noting that its full development had been stunted by the pregnancy,
now many years ago. My finger felt bones like that of a normal ten year old
girl. She could barely endure the pain of the exam. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">We sat down to talk, not of immediate satisfaction, but a lengthy
process. First, she needed months on medications to fight the newly diagnosed
virus that was ravaging her body. The chance of healing would be low if we
decided to operate before her overall health was improved. However, even
getting the medications was not an easy task to manage, since the closest place
to obtain the necessary medications is a two day walk from her village. But
determined, she agreed to make the journey monthly for the drugs. Then, we
needed more imaging studies of the urinary tract to make sure we knew exactly
where the defect was that was causing the urine loss. These costs were beyond
her means, but thankfully the missionary who had brought her to the hospital
agreed to help cover the hospital’s costs. Lastly, she had to understand that
the repair would be difficult, and depending on what we found when all of the
information was put together, I may need to wait for a specialist to come with
more expertise than I have. She understood. Resolution to her condition wasn’t
a magic tablet that could affect a quick fix, but it was a glimmer of hope. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;">But a glimmer is important when the rest of the
world is caving in so awfully dark. In the midst of pain, filth, rejection,
scars, odors, drips, disease, despair – a glimmer starts to grow. And maybe one
day it will burst into flame with some beautiful light. Life has been too hard.
At least now there is a little, tiny ray of light peaking through that days may
get better, and wrongs may be right. Maybe one day she will shine like “a city
on a hill”, or a “lamp on a lamp stand”, giving light even for others to see. But
for now it is only the smallest little speck, the tiniest little ray buried
inside her. I hope that her soul will begin to find rest and comfort as we
begin to care for her body. I hope that her burdens are a bit lighter, as she
begins to know that others do care and want to help. For now, it is our job to
bring our lights to her, to bring hope into her darkness. It has been too hard
for too long. </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-29193530398353157802014-01-22T08:45:00.001-08:002014-01-22T08:45:45.710-08:00Disheartened<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Like the dust filling the air this dry season, troubles and
difficulties hover in this place. Almost
every breath breathes them in, breathes them out. You think that maybe the dust has settled, but then a passerby or a rolling tire comes and poofs it back up to fill the air. Even when you haven’t
noticed it as much, its still there. You go to blow your nose and there’s half
dust, half snot. Just like even the decent days are filled with struggle mixed
in, constant dirt in what otherwise could be a nice scene.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Effort has been significant, difference made has been minimal. I will
qualify “minimal” by saying that for individuals served by the physician-
patient relationship, lives have been changed, spirits lifted, maybe even
hearts opened. But in the systemic plagues that define medicine in the
developing world, little to no change. Pages could be written about culture, or
departmental issues, or education, or mission hospitals, or accountability, or
sustainability, but the words would only describe, they couldn’t in themselves
actually bring resolution. I have spoken them over and over, and am weary of
speaking to issues beyond my strength to change. I have fought hard, a good
fight with worthy goals, but winning is not possible. My encouragement is that
disappointment now is often looked back on with gratitude for what we have
learned in the process. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">For now, there are hard, jagged days that I wonder multiple times “how
much longer?” Where I check the calendar on the phone attached to my hip to see
if the time is drawing near. The constancy of the struggle turns my gaze away
from the here and now to something that may someday be. To faces that I love,
people that I miss, the gentle blanket of familiarity. For those moments the
wonder is gone for distant places and things, and returns to the place where my
roots hold fast. The romance in my imagination returns to home. Beauty, and
warmth, and acceptance, snuggled alongside those I love most, tucked in between
mountains and streams, familiar places, delightful people. And when I think of
it, I remember that there is an even better home waiting, an eternal home. One
filled with ultimate purpose and pleasure and love. A home where He is. A home
that I am one day meant for. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Home. There is no comfort in that word, no heart connection for millions
who roam the earth. I do not speak of here in Cameroon specifically, not for
the moment. But in nations not too far to the north or east or west or south, and
then further countries spotted all over the globe, they are there wandering,
wallowing in despair. Daily struggles for survival and basic necessities are
considered normal for many. Hopelessness sets in, trying to overtake any other
emotion. Children dying untimely deaths, men and women with no semblance of
honor left, disease, war, and decay ruining what could be a beautiful world.
Yet there are those with a glimpse of hope, not for here and now, but for
somewhere and forever. They stop in the midst of the struggle to imagine what
it will be like “in a little while”. They long for a better world. The
desperate spirit inside calls out to the God above, yearning to be freed from
all the horrors that have come to make up life. Longing for the time to come. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">And yet, amazement will always be ignited within me when I recall
the reality of the God who hears. I can’t understand even the worst days that
come and go in my own life. How much less the much worse horrors in the most
desperate of places. I can’t give you the right answer for why bad things
exist, sometimes even thrive. But God does hear and is at work from the broken-hearted
wealthy, residing in penthouses, to the hungry refugee within the barbed-wire
encircled camp. And the rest of those who read this, who are somewhere in
between. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I lie down sometimes in my bed at the end of a disheartening day,
and in the darkness remember that on the wall just above my head is written “I
will both lie down and sleep in peace, for You, O Lord, make me to dwell in
safety”. I am reminded of His presence. Even when the night comes on thick in
its darkness I can take cover, give a little grin and think “in a little
while”. Better things are yet to come. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-41195291819150171992014-01-05T04:40:00.002-08:002014-01-05T04:40:51.593-08:00Born Broken<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">“Some people are born with these kinds of problems…”, that is how the
explanation started. I had the luxury of reviewing the patient’s booklet the
day before, and realized that her problem was genetic. However, it is the sort
of problem that doesn’t display itself until puberty. All the other girls had
started to wear bras, grown mature patterns of hair, filled out their curves.
But she didn’t. In the states, the parents would have brought her in at 13 or
14, realizing that something was wrong. But not here. Here, she presents in her
mid-twenties with the chest of a child, no hair under her arms (or anywhere
else that may signal maturity), never having seen a cyclic pattern declaring
womanhood, dark eyes filled with insecurity and disgrace. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">It is a rare problem, where the initial genetic material is wrong.
People presenting like this can either have female or male genetic makeup, but
they look, and have always thought, that they were a girl. We don’t have the
tools to properly work up the genetics. Recommendations are out the window for
proper care. I told her of the possibility of surgery, to reduce the risk of a
rare type cancer that can sometimes come with this disorder. She didn’t want
that. I counseled her on her options for making her develop breasts. Her head
shook quickly, confirming her desires. She longed for woman-breasts instead of
the little child chest she had worn all her life. This was the most outward,
obvious sign that she was not like the other girls. She wanted some hope that
she could fit in, and this was the way that had filled her dreams. She didn’t
even try to hide her excitement, when she realized that the option was
available. I told her that it is a process, not a quick fix. Hope of normalcy
sustained the possibility, even if it were going to take a long while.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Next was the hardest part. It is a subject that none of us would
want to broach. The uncomfortable nature even made me squirm. I began gently by
telling her that she had great worth as a person. That God made her and thought
she was valuable. But then came the sad reality. That is God’s way, but not the
way of the visible world around her. Her culture gives no value to a woman who
cannot bear children. Over and over I see women set aside by their husbands because
they are infertile. Three husbands later, they are often still coming in
looking for something that may help, some magic chance to have a baby. This girl didn’t stand a chance. I told her
that because the probability for a husband was low, she should really try to
stay in school and get a good education so that she could learn to support
herself. She had thought of this already, and told me that she was working hard
to finish her education. The cultural truths were hard and mean and ugly. She
might be good enough to be used or enjoyed by a man, but she would likely never
be able to depend on any commitment from one. She would never be accepted as a
wife, and would certainly never be accepted by any in-laws. But in the midst of
such bitter reality, the eternal truth was sweet, that she was valuable as a
human being, and strongly loved by the God who made her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Sometimes we see that life is just not kind. It is sharp and
harsh. Our struggles are each different. Some can be seen from the outside, like
this patients. Others lie hidden from the watchful eyes, deep in the broken
parts within. But they all still bring pain. Being a Christian doesn’t make
life a constant spring bouquet of fragrant pleasures. It doesn’t make every
sadness better, every wrong right, at least not for now. But no matter what the
road brings, or how defective we feel as we walk down it, there is a deep,
abiding pleasure when we stop for a moment and remember that even in our
brokenness and incompleteness, we are highly valued and deeply loved. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-46063138499687873602013-12-15T05:51:00.001-08:002013-12-15T05:51:29.829-08:00A funny, likely distorted sense of humor<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<u>Hats. </u>People wear some funny ones, mostly passed down from a holiday. But they aren't wearing them for a holiday, they are actually wearing them for a hat. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SGzNu_oxtUA/UoD8h7ZelWI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/mq8uqzz8TLU/s1600/photo+(18).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SGzNu_oxtUA/UoD8h7ZelWI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/mq8uqzz8TLU/s320/photo+(18).JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanks America for the costume!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9cx5GAKZCGw/UoD8gi9nahI/AAAAAAAAAQw/8Iw6U9Ptn64/s1600/photo+(19).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9cx5GAKZCGw/UoD8gi9nahI/AAAAAAAAAQw/8Iw6U9Ptn64/s320/photo+(19).JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't even know what caption to write. Go get em tiger.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j9Gre1rxKJQ/UoD8xL2DwYI/AAAAAAAAARo/aiiFQLgYF-Q/s320/photo+(24).JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="239" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Well, I thought this lady had on a hat, then I realized that it wasn't. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nrC36cgN6q8/UoD8qArTnMI/AAAAAAAAARQ/wJb6vjPU_qc/s1600/photo+(22).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nrC36cgN6q8/UoD8qArTnMI/AAAAAAAAARQ/wJb6vjPU_qc/s320/photo+(22).JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby Santa. Thanks again America!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j9Gre1rxKJQ/UoD8xL2DwYI/AAAAAAAAARo/aiiFQLgYF-Q/s1600/photo+(24).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q_KH2lGZ7uo/UoD8vyLNXwI/AAAAAAAAARg/PG_G2oVonkM/s1600/photo+(25).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-q_KH2lGZ7uo/UoD8vyLNXwI/AAAAAAAAARg/PG_G2oVonkM/s320/photo+(25).JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The old, distinguished man hats aren't like ours.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JgHYnTtcUn4/UoD9AQSQ0rI/AAAAAAAAASA/cJYuvVxS9XM/s1600/photo+(26).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JgHYnTtcUn4/UoD9AQSQ0rI/AAAAAAAAASA/cJYuvVxS9XM/s320/photo+(26).JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Santa Motorcycle Taxi. No extra charge. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Okay, enough with the hats. Though they never cease to make me laugh. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<u>Next is hospital scenes.</u></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2MD7QsQLiHs/UoD8hmXKQ8I/AAAAAAAAAQ4/qBnkvGCy2n0/s1600/photo+(20).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2MD7QsQLiHs/UoD8hmXKQ8I/AAAAAAAAAQ4/qBnkvGCy2n0/s320/photo+(20).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sometimes you just need a good soft place to rest. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VsOzkDNq3qo/UoD8rGzXOhI/AAAAAAAAARY/AYKwwHVa_KU/s1600/photo+(23).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VsOzkDNq3qo/UoD8rGzXOhI/AAAAAAAAARY/AYKwwHVa_KU/s320/photo+(23).JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The taxi just at the hospital gate. Poor fellow in the trunk, as if it hasn't been a hard enough day. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JGpHyrn7nok/UoD84mOWUPI/AAAAAAAAARw/jCzEyDORcKg/s1600/photo+(27).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JGpHyrn7nok/UoD84mOWUPI/AAAAAAAAARw/jCzEyDORcKg/s320/photo+(27).JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So, maybe you can't see this, but even though balancing a huge mass of junk on the head and in the hand, she still has the skill to use her cell. And you thought you had talent. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FdrHgmhjQP8/UoD88GcTZnI/AAAAAAAAAR4/dZ06YYoA-qc/s1600/photo+(31).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FdrHgmhjQP8/UoD88GcTZnI/AAAAAAAAAR4/dZ06YYoA-qc/s320/photo+(31).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Never saw this in the sterilizing room in the US.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LTyHf2-mx6Q/UoD8pU6k_GI/AAAAAAAAARM/qLE0kKF2tRE/s1600/photo+%252821%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LTyHf2-mx6Q/UoD8pU6k_GI/AAAAAAAAARM/qLE0kKF2tRE/s320/photo+%252821%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wheres Waldo? I mean, where in the world is my scrub tech?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TXOQiwXK5M8/Uq2u65oeTBI/AAAAAAAAATM/ri2rlk1QNf8/s1600/photo+%252836%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TXOQiwXK5M8/Uq2u65oeTBI/AAAAAAAAATM/ri2rlk1QNf8/s320/photo+%252836%2529.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
This isn't funny to me. It's a darn plague of flying insects - everywhere around the hospital.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Kpn-vxeNqac/Uq2u9ycd4GI/AAAAAAAAATU/stIOeiqwTxU/s1600/photo+%252837%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Kpn-vxeNqac/Uq2u9ycd4GI/AAAAAAAAATU/stIOeiqwTxU/s320/photo+%252837%2529.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And this is the kind of plague they like. Grasshoppers everywhere. They catch and eat. This is the storekeeper at the hospital showing me her bag of the ones she caught in the store. Including the ones that just came off of the toilet paper rolls that I bought. I told her she could have them. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<u>And then for road scenes.</u></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
These are a combo, the two are always found together. They know that nobody is going to pay attention to a silly "caution, sharp turn" or "low shoulder", so instead, they quantify how many people have died at this particular location. (Ici 10 morts=here 10 dead). I'll admit that this is dark humor, but I think these signs are funny cause they would never be culturally appropriate in the US. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jTQv6bm-7ac/UoETF42y6uI/AAAAAAAAASQ/q_o6GUB3ocA/s1600/photo+(29).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jTQv6bm-7ac/UoETF42y6uI/AAAAAAAAASQ/q_o6GUB3ocA/s320/photo+(29).JPG" width="214" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZYTwpB4egEg/UoETGadY3hI/AAAAAAAAASU/gZOOLbFuVZo/s1600/photo+(30).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZYTwpB4egEg/UoETGadY3hI/AAAAAAAAASU/gZOOLbFuVZo/s320/photo+(30).JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OA1VIrpe51k/Uq2u3rqItZI/AAAAAAAAATA/6wE3Sp_3EeQ/s1600/photo+(35).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OA1VIrpe51k/Uq2u3rqItZI/AAAAAAAAATA/6wE3Sp_3EeQ/s320/photo+(35).JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
Sometimes you just know someone is a nice, warm person. Other times, they probably aren't. Bumper stickers state "Beware of BAD friends" and "SHUT UP, are you God?" x 2. Makes me want to beware of him.<br />
<br />
<u>And around the village</u><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nudrTVIq55c/Uq2vDpX-H3I/AAAAAAAAATc/J7JKffqD0fM/s1600/photo+%252838%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nudrTVIq55c/Uq2vDpX-H3I/AAAAAAAAATc/J7JKffqD0fM/s320/photo+%252838%2529.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
"Mbingo - Upper Old Peoples Club"<br />You are looking at the old peoples gardening spot just behind the sign, inside the "fence". I have no idea if there is actually a clubhouse.<br />
<br />
<u>And around town about an hour away</u><br />
<u><br /></u>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BwkEzaLb0Mg/Uq2uua854zI/AAAAAAAAAS8/dP9pTydTYUI/s1600/photo+%252834%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BwkEzaLb0Mg/Uq2uua854zI/AAAAAAAAAS8/dP9pTydTYUI/s320/photo+%252834%2529.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
This gang of 4 or 5 police women are streetside high heel shoe shopping on their shift. Machine gun in tow on shoulder. I can't take authority seriously when they are buying stilletos. Really???</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-39508820511362857742013-12-09T11:16:00.004-08:002013-12-09T11:16:44.348-08:00Health Care<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; tab-stops: 380.15pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Every 9 or 10 days I run out. Hand
sanitizer is supposed to be provided by the hospital, so I go to get some more.
For decades we have had evidence that clean hands by health providers saves
lives, but most of the nurses and staff never clean their hands between
patients. I must say this is probably partially due to the painful waste of
time that acquisition of necessary cleaners can be. I stick my head in the
pharmacy window, explaining that I need some more. “It is finished”, is the
response. At first, I assume the obvious truth that such a statement means that
there isn’t anymore. But during those extra few delayed moments, she adds a
statement indicating that maybe there is more, but it isn’t in the pharmacy. So
I ask, “where would it be?” The answer is “in the store”. The store is only 2
small cement buildings away, maybe 50 steps needed to get there. I can clearly
see it from the window which I am looking in and from which she is looking out.
However, in spite of the fact that multiple employees have come for a refill,
no one has found it important to go see if there’s any in that building. So, I
turn and head for it. There are three doors, I step in the only open one. “Is
there any hand cleaner? The pharmacy says they are out.” “You’ll have to check
next door”, is the response. I move toward the next door, but it is closed. I
return to the other man stating that the door is closed, asking if I should go
ahead in. He never looks toward me or acknowledges me, though he is aware that
I am there and speaking to him. So, I leave and go back to the second door,
push it open. I look over each of the shelves, seeing many items, but no hand
cleaner. I return to the man, asking more loudly and in such a way to encourage
a response, “do you know where it would be, I am not seeing it”. He finally
looks at me and eases up from his seated position. He walks to the second door.
Less than a second of glance inside the door brings a response, “I am sure, it
must be finished”. I respond, “are you sure, or are you guessing?” He again
says the same statement “I am sure, it must be finished”, never looking within the room again, zero
effort to try to find the item that I am seeking. I again respond, “Are you
sure, or are you guessing?” Finally he realizes that I am not leaving until
some effort is made to actually assess if the hand gel is there or not. He
yells, in an obviously bothered tone, to a man walking on the sidewalk, “Is the
hand gel finished?” The reply is that there is plenty. Within a few seconds,
the new face is walking over carrying a whole box full of the gel. I take a
whole large bottle, hoping to avoid this same scenario for at least a month. My
tongue gently, yet untamed for the moment again speaks as I turn to the first
man, “So, are you sure, or just guessing?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; tab-stops: 380.15pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; tab-stops: 380.15pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">It’s a foolish example intentionally.
There are other examples within every area which are not so foolish and have
direct patient effects. Stat labs still unresulted after 12 hours, no staff has
checked on them but they are “not back”. Necessary medications were not given,
arguments blame nursing staff, no pharmacy, no nursing staff again. None of it
is charted, so who could know? Medical records “have not been found”, but it
turns out they were never looked for. The patient was admitted, but no one
looked at her all night, so they never noticed the complication or notified a
doctor. No area that affects medical care is exempt. It is sort of depressing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; tab-stops: 380.15pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; tab-stops: 380.15pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But I was riding down the road the other
day and saw something interesting. The previously battered road was being
repaved. Now, the typical way for road repair is to have some dusty man in torn
pants, and an oversized, dirty shirt filling in the hole with dirt or gravel.
As the drivers pass by the area where he has obviously been working and
sweating during that day, they may give him a coin as his pay. But, this
particular road repair was a world apart from that. It was the developed world
apart. A French company had been hired to repair a large section of road. The
employees working were all Cameroonian. The sight was not anything like a
normal process in Africa though. Traffic was stopped in an orderly manner,
giving me a good time to watch. Dumptruck after dumptruck of gravel came and
went in an orderly fashion. As they dumped the rocks, immediately they were
leveled out by the workers on the ground. No one was standing around, there
were no extra people. On the other side of the road, an orderly system for
grading the land was occurring. The whole process was like watching the inside
of a watch – all of the parts were working together to make the clock tick. I
had never seen anything so systematic and successful in my travels in West
Africa. I wondered, how did they make this work so well? The existing systems
did not support such effort, response, or effect. But what had been brought in
as the standard within this company was working. The workers wanted work. If
they didn’t want to do it within the standard put forth, there were hundreds
more standing behind them who would be glad to. Hmm. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; tab-stops: 380.15pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; tab-stops: 380.15pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">It made me wonder. Health care is
certainly different. It requires more training and skill than basic manual
labor. Developing a good system could not just be “dropped in”. However, how
can one make a system that actually is effective within this setting. Is there
a way to change the present system? Each missionary doctor comes with that
expectation, that some part of the system will be improved as we pour our lives
into it. But every one of us would say that the change we have made is much
less than we had hoped. I am not foolish enough to believe that there is a
place on earth where all frustrations cease and all problems are solved. But I
must continue to believe that there is a better way, a more supportive system,
for such change. I long to learn more about such a method. I want to see, is
there a way to pour out a life where more is left when we finish than just our
sweat which has dried invisibly into the ground we have toiled? I believe that
whatever work we do should be done well, and that in doing so is a part of how
God is glorified through His people. That we should implement systems that are
sustainable within our communities and areas of influence. And that the people
we serve with should be trained and empowered to carry on after we are gone.
But all of that takes a better system than I have seen. Practically I don’t
know how to do it. Yet, there is something inside me, determined and stubborn,
that refuses to settle for less. I don’t want to see my patients unnecessarily at
risk for generation after generation. I want to see life-change, and
system-change, and method-change. Ultimately I want the health care that I
provide to glorify God both in the present, and long after I’m gone. And that
requires some plan for better care of patients and communities. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; tab-stops: 380.15pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; tab-stops: 380.15pt;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">On the other side of the world, in the
land that I would proudly call my home, there is a whole different battle for
health care. One of which, as a doctor, I admit that I still do not understand
well. It is also true, that I do not have some magic answer that would
straighten out the whole, messy system. My world is much simpler, the baseline
needs are much greater, and the resources to meet those needs are much less. Of
all of the problems that the US has, the developing world has piles more. And
there are fewer people committed to solving them. One isn’t more important than
the other – I want my family cared for well there, just as I want someone
else’s family cared for well here. We all certainly need wisdom in these times.
Better systems are needed all over the world. How do we keep the patient a
priority, while building an effective system to serve them? It turns out I am
not the only one who doesn’t know. A whole army of healthcare thinkers can’t
figure it out. There is no easy, obvious answer. May God grant us wisdom as we attempt to care for the people
around us. We certainly need it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-8665649578474917562013-12-05T12:20:00.002-08:002013-12-05T12:20:49.431-08:00The small physician degraded, the Great Physician at work<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I was called after liters of blood were already on the floor.
Besides a dead baby being delivered and now lying in the baby warmer, now
another complication with massive blood loss. I went through all the
possibilities of how to treat her, and none slowed the bleeding. The only
option left was to go to the operating room. It was a quick surgery without
complications. Unfortunately, her uterus had to be removed in order to save her
life. I thought that we were out of the woods. I was a little bit proud of
myself, that now these complications don’t really get me too excited, not like
when I first came out to work here. I’ve had an awful lot of “opportunities”
and experiences of big cases for this one to get me flushed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I went home for lunch. I hate to miss a meal. Just as I finished
my soup the call came. Her incision was bleeding heavily. A moment later the
phone rang again, now she was bleeding profusely from the vagina too. I knew it
wasn’t a surgical issue, all the areas had been repaired well and were not
having any bleeding issues only a short time before. I also was aware that such
bleeding is much worse than something that can be stopped by surgery. See,
sometimes when someone bleeds excessively, they run out of the particles in
their blood that actually make the blood clot (yes, DIC for you medical folks).
I knew that this was the case with her. Some blood had already been given, but
she needed something more. She needed fresh blood to get her the substances
that would make the bleeding stop. Really fresh blood. I asked the type, and of
course mine would do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">So, off I went to the lab. I sat upright and squeezed my arm,
watching the life-blood drain out of my arm. Finally the bag was filled. I knew
that if I didn’t take it directly to her that delivery would be much slower.
And I knew that every minute counted, she really needed it immediately. I thought I
could do it. I grabbed the blood and walked toward the ward. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The surgery ward lies uphill from the other walkways. In order to
get up to it, there’s a sidewalk with a grade. Usually it’s no big deal. But
there are times, like when you are emergently pushing a patient, that you
realize it definitely has an incline. When you’re pushing that stretcher, you
can feel the back of the thighs and butt really having to work to get up the
hill. Well, that day, there was no stretcher, and no pushing. But by the time I
reached the top I knew that something bad was about to happen. That incline got
me. I hadn’t had anything to drink all day. And my body screamed at me that it
wasn’t going to take dehydration, followed by the blood loss in the lab,
followed by a brisk walk. It was over. Things started spinning and flashing. I
saw one of the anesthesia students who is a friend walking by. I reached out a
hand with the blood and said “take it to the ward”. Then I sat down, put my
head between my knees, and tried to recover. At this point my autonomic nervous
system decided to continue the craziness – was it passing out that was coming?
No, vomiting…wait, diarrhea… one wave of possibilities followed the next. Even
in my current status of degradation and confusion, I could imagine things
getting worse and more de-humanizing. I hoped it would just be vomiting. One of
the staff saw me and came by to see if I was okay. I could only say, “Get
Doctor Keith”. He is the anesthesiologist, and a friend of mine, who I knew was
there because he was also watching my bleeding patient. I never lifted my head,
just said, “take me home”. He came and shuffled me into a wheelchair. I looked
like I was dead. Normally I am one of the palest ones at the hospital (ha ha,
like my joke?), but today was especially pale. As well, I was doubled over with
my head between my knees, slumped in the wheelchair. Anytime I lifted my head
things would start spinning again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Being a doctor-patient with all the hospital watching was
embarrassing. On and on we went, over speed bumps and gravel. I could hear
people talking, but couldn’t see anyone with my head tucked down. Even without
vision, I could feel them all watching me. Keith kept saying “She’s fine, I’ve
just gotta get her home”. Finally I saw the grass passing beneath the
wheelchair, and I knew that we were almost there. I heard Anna’s voice from
inside the house. (She is one of my best friends here and works at my house one
day a week, helping to prepare stuff to cook cause everything is really from
scratch – like grind your own corn kind of scratch). I could tell she was a bit
scared. I told her I was okay as I wobbled to the bedroom. Within four minutes,
I could hear voices in my house. My initial thought was, “Why are their voices
in my house? Intruders, and I am not even able to fend them off!” Then heads
peaked around my bedroom door frame, and I saw that it was the clinic and
maternity staff. They had let themselves in so they could catch any action.
When they realized it was just me laying in the bed, unable to get up, they
lost interest, said they hoped I felt better, and went back to the hospital. Forty-five
minutes later after a good bit of water and a coke, I was pretty much back to
normal. I headed to the hospital to check on the patient. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">She stopped bleeding when my blood got into her. I’d like to say
it was cause my blood was exceptional, however, it was really just God’s grace.
She was even starting to make a little urine, which is a great sign that
someone is having enough blood in their vascular system. I was cautiously
delighted, at least she didn’t look like she was walking straight for death’s
door anymore. She had turned the first corner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I got the call at dinner that her condition was again deteriorating.
The hope from earlier quickly began to dissipate. Now she was vomiting blood,
and her belly was distending out. When I saw her, I knew that her condition was
not just deterioration, she was standing at death’s door again. And this time
there wasn’t really anything more I could do. All over the world, her condition
would have a high mortality rate. Anywhere in the world, the doctors would have
done the same thing and would be hoping that somehow she would turn around. But
hope was dwindling. I talked with the family, letting them know that there was
nothing that I could do to intervene. I told them that we would watch her, but
that likely she would not make it. They understood. I left her there to die. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I thought of her each time I awakened in the night. Finally in the
five o’clock hour I woke and reached for the phone. I wanted to see what time
she had died. I asked about her, and they said that she had not died - she was
still alive! I hung up the phone, praised the Lord, and jumped out of bed to do
a little dance. It was no attractive, choreographed dance, but a soul thrilled,
wild expression of delight. I was like a little kid jumping around. It was so
exciting to hear, so beyond medical expectation, I couldn’t help it. The doctor
turned into a four year old jumping and spinning around, giggling laughter and
praise. Death was grabbing hold of her by big handfuls, in such a way that no
medical intervention could help, and yet now ALIVE!!! I got it under control a
bit, dressed and went to see her. From a beyond-treatment, miracle-hoping
condition, to talking to me and asking if she could eat. I was so thrilled but
cautious – I laughed and like an overbearing mother, then cautioned her - “no
eating, no drinking, no moving, no nothing, just lie there and breathe”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">And she did. She kept breathing, and kept doing better and better
and better. Day after day she improved. I did eventually even allow her to move
and perform all other bodily functions. And then this afternoon I wrote on her
chart, “D/C home”. I stepped over to the bed to tell her goodbye. Tapping her
leg, I gently woke her up. I gave her the general instructions to call if there
was fever or pus or worsening pain. And then I gave her a little glimpse from
within my eyes. I told her that she had gotten so sick that I knew that there
was nothing that I could do. Walking away from her was the first time that I
just left a person in their bed to die. She had been beyond our medical
capabilities. We gave her all we had, yet it was not enough. But God had been
gracious, and had amazingly restored her health and life. She was the closest
thing I’ve seen here to a medical miracle. Like God was just showing off His
Great Physician skills. They were indeed great, beyond my capabilities and my
mental grasp of possibilities. I am so thankful to watch Him move. I revel to
know that He is indeed the one who controls all things, and that sometimes,
beyond reason or expectation, He just chooses to save. Bless His name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1879688456936394342.post-73301128099125964122013-11-19T07:59:00.002-08:002013-11-19T07:59:52.231-08:00Two Girls, Two Days<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">It was different than any experience that I’d ever had in sports.
I mean, it’s been a little while since I’ve broken out a volleyball, but I
don’t remember all of that being part of the game. This game had kicking and hitting the ball,
whichever was necessary to get it over the net. And within the players, it
included hitting, kicking, wrestling, and biting. Thankfully, since it was my
first time, they left me out of that part. The deaf kids were glad to have me
there. We played and played. My arms were sore, but my heart was happy. Dinner
time eventually came and the headmaster sent all the kids inside but one. She
was a sweet-faced girl. Initially I had noticed that she was a bit less
confident and a bit more shy. It seemed she wasn’t sure of her ability to hit
the ball, and was a little embarrassed to try. She was the oldest girl out
there. In fact, they told me that she was a graduate of the deaf school who had
now integrated into mainstream school with a sign language translator. (As a
side note, it is nice to be able to talk about someone right in front of them,
and not be worried about if they can hear you.) I heard the headmaster brag on
her, saying that she had found her courage to come out and play, as she was
often too shy. Though she wanted to, she sometimes held back. After all the
other kids had been sent away to dinner, it was only one teacher, the
headmaster, and the two of us girls. I watched her confidence grow each time
she successfully hit the ball into the air. She wasn’t scared anymore, she was
accepted and having fun. At one point, the girl’s phone dropped to the ground
as she ran. The headmaster picked it up and said, “Everyone’s got a phone now”,
half-jokingly adding “even the deaf”. I said back to him that with texting the
whole world is wide open to communicate,
whether or not you can hear. He added, that if they were taught to read
and write, a whole other realm could be entered. “Empowerment!”- he reveled for
a moment in the victory that he got to be a part of as the leader of the deaf
school. I agreed, that it was a big victory, for each child a much wider world
of possibilities. I didn’t think any more about it. Just kept hitting the ball
back and forth til the darkness began to overtake us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The next day I had three surgeries. The third was a girl just over
20 years of age. She was deaf and mute, and couldn’t read or write. She made some
hand motions, but she didn’t know sign language, so no one understood. When she
got excited and was really trying to make something known, she would make some
vague noises. All the history came from her caregiver. The exam was not showing
any real issues, but there had been a cyst on ultrasound. Based on the
caregiver’s persistent claim of the patient’s pain, she had been set up for
surgery. She came into the OR, obviously a bit nervous. I stayed by her side
the whole time as we prepared for the surgery, intentionally giving her a face
and hand that she could trust. The time came for the spinal to occur. I sort of
got across through hand motions that someone was about to prick her in the
back. My hands rested on her shoulder and leg, calming her, soothing her. She
made it through, but tears were streaming down her face. The anesthesia had
some issues, so we needed to test and see if she was numb. It became like
torture for her. She was already scared. She couldn’t understand why we were
pinching her. Her eyes became wild, scared, untrusting. Breathing increased.
Sweat poured off of her skin. The medicine that was supposed to make her numb
wasn’t working. Finally the anesthesia team agreed to put her to sleep, this
was too much for her. She couldn’t understand or enter our world. My heart broke
for her. The final tears dropped down her cheeks as the sleeping medicines took
effect. This magic drug took away the need to trust, the need to understand, the
need to communicate. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I thought of how different the two stories were. Both were born to
the same kind of life. But the worlds have become very different. One had
entered a world where she had gained confidence in herself little by little.
She had integrated into a normal school, she had been willing to take one step
in front of the other to slowly make her way in toward the volleyball net (even
though a white stranger was on the other side of it). The other had no way to
enter the world around her. Her value was no less, but the possibilities were
drastically inferior. All the world was filled with unknown risk; fear and
misunderstanding lurked everywhere. What set them apart now wasn’t some amazing
healing or great medical advance. It was the persistent, day to day struggle
that had occurred in a classroom, and in a deaf community. Someone had a vision
to care and to make a difference in the lives of deaf children. Each girl
represents what could have been. Different choices, different opportunities.
Now very different lives. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">May we, as God’s people learn to reach into the dark worlds, the
quiet worlds, the shameful worlds. Those hauntedly isolated places where people
dwell. For me, I need to learn to speak love and truth into lives which cannot
hear. If only a hand could come along to lift someone out of a lonely place and draw them near. That
is what has been done for us. He brought us out of the pit of sinking, miry
clay. He brought us out of the sins and failures and weaknesses that were
smothering our life, and He pulled us up and drew us close. He showed us a life
of kindness, mercy, and grace. And it has made all the difference. May we look
for opportunity to do the same. May we not pass by those who need us. Those who
need Him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07187702208200926815noreply@blogger.com0