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).

Life and Death

How long had we been waiting? I glanced at my watch. Nine PM. Nine hours. Anticipation was palpable, and my feet were getting numb as I sat tense upon a stool. I felt guilty for feeling uncomfortable as I glanced at Renai, a young mother who had been laboring for a day prior to seeking help at the clinic.

The building was empty except for the laboring mother, two Sudanese women, three nurses, and Benjamin, our Mabaan health worker. A hot day had melted into a muggy evening; moist heat caused the little gnats to stick to skin. Lizards and spiders dodged about on the concrete walls and enjoyed an endless menagerie of insects; bugs drawn inside by mesmerizing light.

My attention returned to the bed beside me as Renai silently endured another contraction. Baby was still not progressing and the mother was tiring. In an effort to encourage their young friend, the Sudanese ladies joked about their delivery experiences... which were plentiful, with twenty-one children between them!

A nurse phoned Dr Rob to give an update, I started an IV to provide hydration and energy for the laborer, and Renai drifted to a much-needed sleep.

The following morning, an Oxytocin drip was initiated to help increase the strength of Renai's contractions. Baby's position seemed to be fine, the heart rate was good, so we waited for the new little somebody to make an arrival.

Four hours later, we held a healthy and sturdy 9.3lb baby boy. The baby's father beamed with pride as he held his first son. And after receiving her child, Renai's stoic features softened into a beautiful smile of discovery.

Meanwhile, the other five stations at the clinic buzzed with activity as people were unaware of the new life that began just behind the blue curtain.

* * *

After a full and rewarding day at the clinic, I prepared for my weekly afternoon Bible club with the local children. Praying that Jesus would provide the wisdom and energy needed, I set out for the Nutrition Village. Along the way, groups of children skipped around me and shouted, "Ban Keegin!" Which literally means "Village of Children", although the actual name of where we meet is the "Ban Keeyin", or "Village of Hope". Besides the weekly kids' club and an occasional Sunday School class, there are no activities for Mabaan children.

The Nutrition Village is a recovery compound run by a missionary and helps children and families obtain the food, medicine and education needed for healing. One of the workers there, Isaiah, helps translate for me. The children recovering at the Village sometimes join the group of local kids for story-time and coloring.

After singing together in Mabaan and kicking around the new soccer ball, the children settled in the shade of a tree to hear the story. We were working through the book of Exodus, and reached the description of the Tabernacle. I prayed, then described Israel's portable dwelling place for God. Having previously told about the golden calf, I explained how God provided a way for the people to see God's presence within their village so they would remember Him; God wants a relationship with His people and He makes Himself accessible. Describing the altar and the golden laver, I explained how God sent Jesus to live a perfect life here on earth. Then Jesus willingly died on the cross to pay the debt for everyone's sin. And, like the laver signified, we can be washed clean if we accept His sacrifice and surrender our sin.

I paused and asked if any of the 'keegin' had any questions. A few boys asked if they could have a "relationship with Jesus too". I was so thrilled!!! So I explained Jesus' love for each of them again and the group prayed together.

Toward the end of the prayer, we were thanking Jesus for His love and forgiveness when one of the children suddenly started hitting the others. Philemon seemed uncontrollable in his abusive actions, so I had Isaac bring him away from the group to talk. Philemon had been increasingly agitated, mischievous, and abusive to others over the past few weeks. When I asked him why he hurt others, he didn't know. I considered his family as we talked. Philemon's grandfather was a godly man, but his grandmother and father follow tribal beliefs. Combined with conflicts of faith, the family dealt with the effects of Sudan's political upheaval. Like all the other families in Doro, they escaped during heavy warfare of the past decade, survived as refugees, and relocated home four years ago. God gave me compassion to glimpse the struggles, the lonliness, the confusion that six-yr-old Philemon must have to endure through his family life.

I gave Philemon a hug and told him how Jesus loves him and wants to have a friendship with him. We talked about how special each person that God created is, and how it hurts Jesus when we sin and hurt others. I asked him if he wanted to have a friendship with Jesus as well, and I'll never forget the nod "yes" and his calm demeanor as we prayed. A new life was born! As Paul observes in Romans 8, "if you live according to the flesh you will die; but if by the Spirit you put to death the deeds of the body, you will live," (vs. 13).

That night at the compound, I was pretty elated about the new baby and my little brothers who trusted Jesus. I was sharing the exciting news with other missionaries when we heard Grace urgently summon Joanna to the Nutrition Village. We later learned that a little boy, severely malnourished and suffering the late stages of a complicated illness, was struggling to hold onto life. The mother had taken him to the witch doctor previously and nothing helped. We prayed that the child would be healed and that God would receive the glory; that the child's mother would see God's healing power and would trust Him. How this mother survived emotionally is a wonder; she was a day's walk from home in a foreign area, two of her children had died previously, she had another sick child at home and her tiny boy was dying. We gave medicines and prayed.

I awoke during the night to the sounds of wailing women and I knew. Sometimes God doesn't answer prayer in the manner that I expect is "right". But I can have confidence that He loves His creation, His people.

Reading further in Romans 8, I was encouraged by this observation on life, death, and suffering; "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. For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of Him who subjected it in hope; because the creation itself also will be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God. For we know that the whole creation groans and labors with birth pangs together until now. Not only that, but we also who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, eagerly waiting for the adoption, the redemption of our body," (vss. 18-23).

Life is found in dying to this mortal self, that one may gain what is Eternal.

This Moment

Palm trees cast lengthening shadows across the airstrip, yet heat still radiated from the red gravel path. With no breeze to cool the evening, I felt like I was jogging through a sauna. Murram crunched beneath my feet as I ran the length, then returned again, back and forth. Routine. My mind was not on the jog, but on dinner in the charcoal oven, on the evening duties. The airstrip was a treadmill of red dust that stretched to the distant trees. Bored and sweaty, I flipped through my music player and found "Don't Miss Now" by Downhere. My feet beat out a rhythmic "crunch, crunch" as they carried me another length of the airstrip; my conscious mind became lost in the lyrics...

The life you chose -
There's never a list for it
Of cons and pros
You find what you love, and you commit

And you're looking so far down
The road so well
That you could forget your crown
Isn't just somewhere else

You get bumped and bruised and worse
For choosing the road less traveled
You know the reward is rich
If you persist through the darkest battles

Open your eyes,
Your prize is right before you, somehow
Whatever you do, just don't miss now

All that you're working for
Could blind you to the treasures all around you
So don't miss these moments, please
The joy before the crown you seek

The song faded and the next cycled into my earpiece, but my mind was still processing. I suddenly felt more alive, more conscious of the presence of God as I enjoyed the peaceful jog and the magenta sunset that played upon the canvas of clouds. Every second brought about a new brush-stroke, a spectacular hue, as the equatorial sun sought the horizon. I could not have anticipated the beauty of the evening when I set out on my sweaty venture, but I was pleased to have received such a gift. I thought that likewise, I cannot see what the God's plan is, but I can be assured that it is better than what I could expect. Indeed, He has a way of taking my breath away; the past few weeks have been especially meaningful...

There are approximately thirty leprosy patients that come to the hospital for follow up, and in order to treat them, we had to have the ok from the govt to get the meds. Just this week, the doctors who specialize in leprosy treatment came to establish our program. God provided the leprosy medications that we've been needing for two years! Its thrilling to see the dear people get the treatment that they've been waiting for!

I was on call this past weekend, and a 7-year-old boy was carried by donkey-cart to the clinic. He had suffered for a month with a severe ear infection that resulted in meningitis. A pus pocket bulged from the side of his face, and his swollen meninges rendered him temporarily lame. He showed quick improvement on antibiotics, but I remained concerned about the lump on his head. Thankfully, the leprosy docs were on hand this week and performed a small surgery to drain pus from an abscess on his head. If the boy or the docs had come at a different time, Simon wouldn't have healed properly because I couldn't have done facial surgery to drain pus. God also provided a full-time Sudanese pastor (named Bolus, or Paul), and he has been a wonderful asset in counseling patients and sharing the gospel with the crowds that wait for treatment.

I most enjoy developing relationships with the families of inpatients as they reside at the clinic. This month, we've had a tiny infant boy named after our physician, "Dr Rob". The baby became infected at birth, most likely when the umbilical cord was cut with dirty scissors. After several weeks of treating the infant with antibiotics and IVs, the mom and grandmother still trust God's perfect outcome. They sit day after day in the back of the clinic, waiting in the heat, waiting for life or death for their adorable boy. Week after week, day in and day out, I check his temperature, redress the wound that ever seeks to claim the tiny abdomen.

Saphina watched me as I assessed her only child, her first baby. Knowing my ministrations are meager, I smile, pray with her, and offer a simple Mabaan phrase of encouragement. I have confidence that God can work a miracle and reverse the infection if He chooses. Sometimes the difficult journey can become a blessing because of friendships that are forged along the way. Saphina and I were sitting together at the clinic chewing gum and laughing over my Mabaan pronunciations, when she paused and thanked me for the care that the nurses were providing. Then she said that she wanted to name her next child "Julia". I suddenly realized the significance of a smile.

Julia, a local Mabaan teenager, has been close to my heart since I arrived in Doro. A few weeks ago, I had a GI bug and was feeling lousy in the middle of a scorching Saturday. I remember debating whether I should drag my drenched self from bed to answer the knock at the tukul door. I'm so glad that Phil 2:20-21 and Romans 12:1-2 came to mind and God gave me the strength I needed. Julia came for a surprise visit and presented me with a gift... a wide beaded bracelet that is usually worn by Mabaan women for celebrations. I was very touched by her gesture, especially when she gave me a hug (uncharacteristic), and said "I love you" in English.

Life is lived in routine. However, each grain of sand makes a difference in an hour-glass, each training session affects the outcome in a race, and every mundane moment that I live to worship Jesus, I live for eternity.

I'm on my last lap down the airstrip, and after these reflections, I am grinning. I'm suddenly aware of a presence at my side; some Mabaan ladies are running with me. This is life.