Strength for Today

I woke up slowly this morning; my mind was ticking off the things that I would need to do on my day off from the clinic. There was a jog and shower, cleaning and laundry, cooking for my Mabaan guests and preparing for the Bible club with the kids. My plans changed when I heard that one of the nurses, who has been quite ill for a while, needed to recuperate today. Adjusting my schedule, Philippians 4:13 came to mind; "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."

At the clinic, I was glad to follow-up with the eight-year-old girl recovering from cerebral malaria. She was brought to Doro yesterday; her convulsing body burned with fever. The girl's family had carried her from Thomaji, an isolated village on the far side of a swollen river. After administering Diazepam (to stop seizure), I placed a quick IV, got a positive result on the malaria test, gave Artemether (anti-malarial) injection IM, and Paracetamol (to bring down fever). A CHW checked her blood sugar levels while I titrated her IV fluids. Then we discussed what was happening with the family and reminded them that healing is from Jesus.

Yesterday, I saw gradual improvement in the little girl. The convulsions stopped, her fever declined, and last night she woke up. I'm always delighted to see the reversal of the distressing symptoms of cerebral malaria. Although its great to have the medications necessary for treating the condition, I daily witness how God gives wisdom and provides just what is necessary.

First thing at the clinic this morning, I took the girl's vital signs, took out the IV, and encouraged her to eat and drink. Sitting up, she smiled at me. After a busy day of assisting the CHWs, managing the follow-up patients and keeping an eye on the improving girl, I was ready for my 2pm lunch. I ate some rice and soy that is part of the compound lunch club. Then I made an apple-cake recipe for my anticipated guests, started dinner and went for a run on the airstrip.

It was ninety-six degrees (in the shade) and I was sweaty but inspired after finishing a couple of miles. I thought to myself, "you're strong," as I started back on the trail toward base. At that moment, the random shuffle on my ear-piece started playing a song that I didn't even know I had: "We Are Not As Strong As We Think We Are" by Rich Mullins. I appreciated the irony.

As I cooked chicken-cheese-potato topping for herb biscuits, I thought more about, as Paul states in 2 Corinthians 12:9, how God's strength is made perfect in weakness. The first letter to the Corinthians in chapter 1, verse 27, states: "God chose the weak things of the world, that he might put to shame the things that are strong; and God chose the lowly things of the world, and the things that are despised, and the things that are not, that he might bring to nothing the things that are: that no flesh should boast before God."

How can I rely on Christ's strength? Anything I try to do of myself, no matter how mundane, is contrived and its work. But true joy is daily found dying to myself. I appreciate Hudson Taylor's observation about where true strength is found: "It is the consciousness of the threefold joy of the Lord, His joy in ransoming us, His joy in dwelling within us as our Saviour and Power for fruitbearing and His joy in possessing us, as His Bride and His delight; it is the consciousness of this joy which is our real strength. Our joy in Him may be a fluctuating thing: His joy in us knows no change," [from his autobiography].

Back at the clinic tonight on-call, I checked to ensure the inpatients were tucked inside their "nomcia" (mosquito net), and was glad to see the continued improvement of the child who suffered from malaria. The little girl from Thomaji grinned at me and pointed up toward the ceiling. I turned to see what she was smiling about; to observe the inspiration for her peaceful expression. There was nothing there. Her family indicated that she had been confused; not a surprise considering she had suffered from twelve hours of seizures before reaching the clinic. Benjamin, the CHW on-call and I prayed with the family for continued healing of her mind. Before leaving, I observed the little girl again. The parasite infection had made her so tired that she could barely sit up. Body weak or not, she smiled at me shyly, eyes alight.

Independence Day

Humid air glowed as the sun slanted toward the West; it was the Fourth of July and I was making my way home from a call to the Doro clinic. I sped on the quad across the bumpy terrain and balanced my weight on my heels. The sensation was much like riding a cantering horse and I was back in Oregon, remembering an Independence Day seven years earlier. Aback one of Camp Morrow's mares, I rode in the high country east of Mt Hood. I loved the sensation of sheer freedom with the powerful creature beneath me as we flew across untamed land.

Navigating the four-wheeler through a bog brought my mind back to the present. I contrasted my liberties, experiences, and joy of life with those of the young lady that I had just seen at the clinic.

She was only seventeen but in her few years, she had already suffered more than I would ever know. The beautiful Mabaan girl had been married for two years. She was the third wife to a husband whose infidelity brought the pain of disease. The young woman was suffering from an infection that affected her fertility. While she was counseled and prayed with, I studied her blank expression and tried to understand the bleak outlook this girl must be experiencing.

She grew up, I'm sure, with hopes of being cherished as all young girls do. But maybe the years of war and displacement taught her that dreams are frivolity. Like most other Mabaan women, she was not educated to read or write. After her marriage, she hoped to have the children that would give her life meaning and value. But the passing years provided no consolation; her role remained limited to cooking and harvesting. She, the youngest wife in a loveless marriage.

Could hope be found in such a life? A life without the promise of education, adventure, or love? I realized I was attributing my individualist dreams as something she might desire. My dreams that were formed in a Nation that seeks the moral ideal of liberty and justice. Thomas Jefferson, the primary author of the Declaration of Independence, observed, "Can the liberties of a nation be sure when we remove their only firm basis, a conviction in the minds of the people, that these liberties are a gift from God?" The founding fathers of the United States knew that Liberty (grouped with "Life" and "Happiness" in the Preamble), is found in Someone Greater than oneself.

Back at base that Sunday evening, we had a devotional from Isaiah 61. This passage from verses 1-3 describes the purpose of Jesus' ministry on earth; "The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me, because the LORD has anointed me to bring good news to the afflicted; He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to captives and freedom to prisoners; [...] to comfort all who mourn, to grant those who mourn in Zion, giving them a garland instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, the mantle of praise instead of a spirit of fainting so they will be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the LORD, that He may be glorified." True freedom is only found in a relationship with Jesus Christ; He is the only source of purpose for life.

"Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty." 2 Corinthians 3:17.

Chalk

We were learning how to dig proper pit latrines that day. Sandy, the nurse director, was standing at the chalkboard and attempting to draw a diagram for the community health worker students. The ragged piece of chalk screeched against the wall, but left no mark. Sandy broke off the dirty tip, the chalk was reapplied to the board, and the lesson continued successfully.

* * * * *

I had a rough day this past week; nothing went according to 'my' plan. When the large number of patients at the clinic began to dwindle, there were more patients arriving to be seen, a surgery to assist with, cleaning to be done. Just when I was preparing to get my 2pm lunch, I received some bad news.

A few days ago, Tita came to the clinic with a nasty axe wound. There had been a small artery severed, and I applied pressure to stop the bleeding. The bleeding stopped, I cleansed the wound and sutured her lateral right leg with 11 stitches. Unfortunately, Tita had to walk home, but the wound was clean and dry when she left the clinic.

So when her son reported to me that Tita was at home with a "very swollen" leg, I was frightened that the artery had torn and bled into the tissues. I felt very guilty that I may have caused someone damage and stressed about practicing beyond my level of expertise.

After clinic, Dr Rob and I biked through a group of villages in Doro and tried to find Tita's home. The day was oppressively hot, but black clouds and a heavy wind suddenly swept down on us as we rode. Lightning repeatedly snaked from the ominous sky to waving trees; I pedaled faster along the rutted dirt path. Farther into the village, we stopped and I inquired in basic Mabaan where Tita lived. Apparently I didn't get the message across because a small boy led us to the tukul of another Tita. By this time, the clouds were spilling over; Dr Rob and I had no choice but to hustle to the clinic and wait out the storm. When we arrived at the building, we found people who had traveled all day were waiting to be seen.

The storm left deep mud puddles; my flip-flops got stuck as I pushed my bike and sloshed back to base. I felt miserable. I had been so proud of how I had sutured Tita's leg. But I had failed. Failed finding the patient that was reportedly suffering from a possible hematoma. Failed to consult Dr Rob prior to sewing up the wound. The weather complemented my mood.

Back at my tukul, I had some quiet time with Jesus. I realized that my anxiety was purposeless. The verses from 1 Peter 5: 5-7 worked to humble and encourage me; "God resists the proud, but gives grace to the humble. Therefore humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you in due time, casting all your care upon Him, for He cares for you." I prayed for Tita; only God knew what state of health she was in. I surrendered her to the Great Physician and prayed for her healing.

Early the next morning, I was pleasantly surprised when Tita greeted me at the clinic. I was thrilled that she was well enough to walk from home; I ushered her inside and inspected the leg. To my joy, the incision was healing perfectly! I cleansed and bandaged the wound and praised God for her health. We agreed that God is good and healing is from His hands.

I heard an interesting analogy from a Sudanese man that day at lunch; that believers are chalk in the Master's hand. We surrender ourselves to Him, and He uses us to draw out His plan. We are imperfect and crumbly, and when we are finished, He uses another piece to continue His work. The chalk has no glory in itself; its purpose is to contribute to the big picture. The chalk cannot see how it is being used by the Teacher or how its life will be spent. The Teacher sees the whole blackboard at once, but the chalk is spent on a 2D plane.

Isaiah uses a similar metaphor for Jesus' sovereignty; "We are the clay, and You our potter; and all we are the work of Your hand," (Is. 64:8). Therefore, "we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellence of the power may be of God and not of us," (2 Cor. 4:7). I'm encouraged that Christ is the Author and, by His grace, we are the imperfect tools He uses.

Consider it Joy

Another flicker of lightning illuminated the interior of the woven-stick hut. Flashes were so constant, I felt like a strobe light had been set atop the kitchen tukul. I ignited a charcoal fire in a jiko (pot) and gathered supplies to make chicken-pot-pie. Although only 4:30 pm, the sky was as dark as night, and rain dumped like Victoria Falls over Mabaan County. In between eerie flashes, I worked by the light of the flame's glowing coals.

Grace, a Mabaan lady who works on the compound, was caught in the downpour. She finished hanging clothes up (to dry later), then dashed into the kitchen. Grace was completely drenched, and being accustomed to 30/40-degree C weather, she was shivering from the cold rain. We laughed and chatted for a bit, but I saw that she was uncomfortably cold. Hearing the deluge fade to a gentle patter, I spontaneously dashed toward my tukul to bring some dry clothes for Grace.

Brick paths are set upon the bare dirt all around the compound; they serve as elevated walkways through the mire when downpours occur. In my hurry, I did not heed loose bricks, and found my leap across a waterway severely curtailed. My first toe on my left foot got caught and twisted; I found myself hugging the mud and, judging from the pain, I thought that my toenail had come off. After rinsing off the blood and mud, I found the offending appendage to be punctured, bruised, swollen and immobile. I had never felt such pain (but then I haven't experienced much), and I found it almost humorous that I should dislocate my toe in Doro where there is no ice. I had ample time that weekend to sit and contemplate suffering and how it can be beneficial; the violet toe, elevated on my exercise ball, stared back at me like a bloodshot eye.

My toe seemed so insignificant when compared with the physical suffering of the Mabaan people living around me in this Upper Nile State. Fifteen-year old Angelina was in labor for three days with her first child before setting out with her family to seek medical assistance. They journeyed for two days, only to have hospitals turn them away because of weekend hours. Angelina was in her fifth day of labor when she arrived at the Doro clinic. Dr Rob was present to aid her with the complicated delivery of a little boy... a child who survived only minutes after the traumatic birth. Too exhausted even to mourn the loss of their first baby, the teenage couple seemed relieved to have survived the ordeal. Angelina faces a long road to recovery as her body fights infection and repairs itself. She is being cared for at the clinic, and I wonder what she is feeling when she hears the robust cries of newborns.

Emotional pain stabs far deeper than physical injury and can leave lasting scars that threaten to dehisce. David, in Psalm 31, mourns; "My eye wastes away with grief, yes, my soul and my body!" (vs 9). Dr Rob and his brothers took a four-wheeling trip through the bush to a distant village last weekend. The trip was arduous; one of the quads had a malfunctioning air-filter, and the dusty journey required the piece to be disassembled and cleaned every dozen kilometers. However, their journey was worth the pain. They were preparing one of our Community Health Workers to establish his own clinic there for the people. At church that Sunday, the people of Kortumback told their story with tears of anguish. During the past three months, the rains had turned the surrounding land into an impassible swamp. Without access to medical care, fifty-six of their children had died due to preventable diseases. Spontaneously during the service, one of the people asked how they could have a relationship with Jesus and prayed with the pastor.

The Southern Sudanese people have been touched by the pain of warfare, loss of family, disease, displacement from home. They carry deep pain and each can share a story worthy of a transcribed biography. In the past few days, however, I witnessed a young man suffer for Truth. Abraham was protecting what belonged to the new mission clinic when he stopped some local people from stealing building supplies. He wasn't employed by the clinic; didn't have any other motive to protect hospital property. When those who were thieving discovered his name, they sought him out and attacked Abraham with bwongs. Abraham came to the clinic with two severe lacerations on his head, and another puncture on his neck. He simply said that he had been in a fight. I judged him as one of the many alcoholics that presents at the clinic with various ailments. It wasn't until the second time he came for a dressing change that someone told me his story. Abraham sat quietly as his stitches were examined without thought of retribution or reward. He just did what was morally right.

People who are persecuted for their faith in Jesus Christ experience the most meaningful type of suffering. We are mortal beings; physical suffering will always have an end. Emotional turmoil will terminate in heaven as well; "And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away," (Revelation 21:4). But the effects of identifying with Jesus in His death and resurrection will live forever. Jesus is our Great High Priest who constantly lives to make intercession for us. When Jesus spoke with Saul on the road to Damascus, He said "Why are you persecuting Me?" (Acts 9:4) in the present tense. Saul was persecuting the Christians, and Jesus said that he was hurting Him. What a comfort that we can partake in the sufferings of Jesus, and that He identifies with us.

Greater still is the benefit of persecution; "For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us. For the earnest expectation of the creation eagerly waits for the revealing of the sons of God," (Romans 8:18-19). May I learn, like Paul, to "count all things as rubbish, that I may gain Christ and be found in Him, not having my own righteousness, which is from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ, the righteousness which is from God by faith; that I may know Him and the power of His resurrection, and the fellowship of His sufferings, being conformed to His death," (Philippians 3: 8-10).

In light of the suffering that surrounded me in Mabaan, my toe was of little consequence. Although it pained me, it was not spiritual or emotional suffering. And, despite dislocation, it went back to being a benign appendage very soon. Discomforts remind me to echo Paul's writing once again in 2 Corinthians 5:4; "For we who are in this tent groan, being burdened, not because we want to be unclothed, but further clothed, that mortality may be swallowed up by life."

Into the Darkness

A gentle breeze stirred the dust as I walked briskly toward the equipment shed; the beam of my headlamp caught particles as they flowed with wind's tide. I looked up and the stream of light disappeared into an ocean of stars. Although it was a cloudless night, the moon was not present to illuminate the inky world of night. My lamp revealed the four-wheeler, my object, and I hopped on and flipped the machine into first gear. I could see little of the world outside of the Quad's high beams; milky-way above, dusty path edged by palm plants and high grass here below.

I was on-call at the Doro clinic last night, so I four-wheeled the short distance in order to check on the infant in-patient. Deborah was only one week old; Rhoda, her mother, had given birth unaided in a grass hut. The baby had an infection, so she was receiving antibiotics and the family slept overnight at the clinic.

The clinic itself was an old cement structure, dimpled by machine-gun fire. It was one of the two buildings that survived a bombing in the 1990's; the former hospital-turned-barracks was converted once again into a clinic in 2008. When I arrived at the building, the light was still on although Rhoda and her infant were snuggled under a mosquito net. I checked the infant's vitals and administered injections and prayed for continued recovery. It had only been two days since the baby had been in respiratory distress, so I was excited to see her quick recovery.

As I rode back to base through the warm breeze, I felt such a peace and joy. How wonderful to have fellowship with the God of Light. I thought of Jesus' words in John 8; "I am the light of the world. He who follows Me shall not walk in darkness, but have the light of life," (vs. 12).

Just then, the four-wheeler's headlights caught a long black creature as it zig-zagged across the path. Having seen plenty of snakes here in Sudan, I guessed it to be a Night Adder. I ran it over and didn't look back. The snakes and wild dogs are the reasons I Quad if leaving the compound after dark.

Back at base, I switched off the engine and the sounds of the bush again met my ears. The night was loud with the sort of "white noise" that blends into a pleasant background symphony. The crickets were the strings, birds as woodwinds, frogs and pigs strummed bass, and wild dogs added their occasional brassy staccato. One sound that I wasn't expecting was the voice of the guard from the Nutrition Village calling for help. I heard that a child was struggling and someone had been stung by a scorpion; I grabbed the "zapper" and joined Grace for another trip into the night.

After turning off the four-wheeler's engine at the Village, I could hear wailing. My headlamp showed the wire gate, the path, the tents. As I approached, I called out that we had the cure for the sting. Crying was coming from the mother of a baby with breathing problems due to mucous. I ran to get bulb suction, the airway was cleared, and the baby immediately improved. Grace and I prayed with the mother and baby, and the air cleared of anxiety.

Meanwhile, the child's grandmother sat stoically in the dust. She had been stung on the ankle by a scorpion, and she indicated that the burning pain of the poison shot all the way up her leg. I placed four D batteries in the "zapper", placed a wire on the site of the sting, another wire on the opposite side of the leg, and allowed a small current of electricity to touch the wound. Within three minutes, the woman smiled broadly. The poison had retreated to the site of the bite. Amazing how the energy released in tiny sparks can "draw" poison back to its origin.

Later that night, the lights were off in our tukul, and Joanna and I spoke with each other across the room in the darkness. We heard the incessant drone of malaria-carrying insects outside of our tightly-tucked mosquito nets, and felt amazingly protected by the thin mesh. And as we prayed, we were conscious of the spiritual comfort and confidence that is found in the Name of Jesus Christ. Infinitely greater than mere physical protection, Jesus is our shield, our fortress, our light in the pervasive "darkness of this age" (Eph 6:12).