Coming home

This is something I wrote on my way home from Congo. Thought I'd post it...

You'd think after being overseas for almost three years, I'd be excited to come home. Nay, ecstatic, even. But I'm not. don't get me wrong, I want to get to see my family, reconnect with friends, enjoy hot showers and high speed internet. But I've also created a new home in Congo, with new friends and family. If I could have both in one place, I'd have the best of both worlds. Unfortunately I only get one or the other. No matter where I am, people on one continent or another are crying. 
I've often thought to myself: would I be able to do this if I were married? If I had children? Would I be able to live overseas, knowing my kids might not really know their grandparents or cousins? It's already hard enough thinking that my nieces and nephews might not ever know me very well. I think the overall answer is "yes". If that's what God called me to do, I'd do it. It might be hard, it might not be the life I originally planned or thought I'd have, but I'd be doing God's will, and that would make it worth it. 
I don't want to you to think I'm overly pious or something. I'm not. I still struggle with the same stuff you do. I want to do things myself. Selfish me wants to believe I know better than God. I sometimes feel dry-unable to really pray, unable to enjoy praise and worship, because I sometimes feel empty inside, from pouring myself out so much (usually in physical work, at the hospital). What I continually strive to balance is serving but not burning out; serving but taking the time to rest; serving but not getting over-extended and frustrated. I don't think anyone has perfected it, but I do think there are some that do it better than others. I'm still learning.

Rich Man, Poor Man

I am a poor missionary. I rely on others for providing for my financial well-being. I do not own a car, I do not own a house. I do not have a television, nintendo, or any other form of video games. If I want pizza, I make it from scratch. There is no carry out or home delivery. My idea of “fast food” is when the chicken lady has grilled chicken ready in the evenings in the market, and I get it “with mayo and onion, don’t chop it, and hold the hot peppers”.  Having Coke and Pepsi is a special occasion. Butter, cheese, and real milk are specialty items. Every time I take a shower, I only have cold water. I wash my dishes in cold water because I don’t want to waste the time or energy to heat water (and they do get clean, by the way). The only time I wash my dishes in hot water is on a hot sunny day at noon, when the water in the pipe leading to the kitchen is hot. I make my own granola, yogurt, and bread. Chips and pretzels are a special treat. I have electricity when it’s sunny and I haven’t used up all the battery power in the 12V truck battery to charge other things during the day. 

I am a rich missionary. I live in a house made of bricks. All my windows have screens and glass panes. I have screen doors. I sleep in a bed with a real mattress, not just a piece of foam. I have running water in my house, that is clean enough to drink. I have a solar panel and battery in my house, and have functioning light fixtures in each room. I have a refrigerator that works and can afford to purchase kerosene to keep it running. I can purchase Coke, Fanta, and occasionally chips and cookies in town. I can afford to buy cheese and butter occasionally to have it brought up by a visitor. I own a bike, have a drivers license, and have a truck available for my use. I have a high school diploma, a college education, and a professional career. I own a computer, two telephones, and an Ipad, not to mention having two external hard drives. And I know how to use them. I can afford to have someone wash my clothes each week, and clean my house twice a week. 

Sometimes it's hard when people see your white skin and think "oh, she must have a lot of money", when I am constantly thinking of how I'll pay next month's loan payments along with insurance payments, how I'll have living money when I get back home, etc. By African standards, I'm filthy rich. But by American standards, I'm quite poor. I'm torn between two worlds. I don't have money to help everyone here who needs it. Nor is it necessarily my responsibility to financially help everyone. Sometimes it's what's needed, and sometimes not. But at times when I am worried about how to pay next month's bills, it's good to remember all my blessings. I do not worry about where my next meal will come from, or that my clothes are all dirty and my kids might not have a dry place to sleep. But it doesn't stop me being concerned for others who have those worries. My goal here is to help others be able to help themselves. Sometimes their biggest problem isn't material poverty, though that is what is easiest to see. Sometimes it is relational poverty, poverty of community, or spiritual poverty that causes more problems. For example, there is a woman here whose children have been treated several times for malnutrition. She is poor, but her children should have enough to eat. She has a tendency to use her money to buy clothes for herself than food for her children. So, giving her money is not what will help her best. Helping her to become responsible to care for her children is better. But sometimes, knowing when to help and how to help can be quite difficult. It takes a bit of prayer, wisdom, and sometimes patience. 

So, next time you're worried about money, about what you will eat, and what you will wear, count your blessings. You do not need to worry about such things, for our Father provides for the birds of the air, and he will certainly provide for you, who are much more valuable than the birds. 

Who needs WebMD?

Some of you know I fell ill la few weeks ago. I felt relatively fine on Thursday, but early Friday morning I awoke with a fever of 101.4F. Not being one to usually get fevers, my mind immediately started making a differential diagnosis (a process we as doctors do to list possible diagnoses, and then make further questions or exams to narrow down the diagnosis). Cold? Flu? Malaria? I noticed I was shaking a bit-kind of like all my muscles were spasming at the same time (more clonic than tonic). Hmmm...maybe malaria. I raised my head from my pillow. Ough! And a major headache. Chalk another point up for malaria. I made it out to the couch and my housemate got me some water. I called in to the hospital to let them know I wouldn’t be coming in to work. After some blessed sleep, the fever started up again, this time up to 103.5F. While I knew I had a fever, I had chills and rigors, and so covered up with socks, my winter fleece, and two blankets-all tucked in like a burrito in the 80-85F house. Finally the fever broke. A rapid test for malaria was negative, and I had faithfully been taking my malaria prophylaxis, but I decided to take the treatment anyway. Having not grown up with recurrent bouts of malaria, the effects of the disease can be more severe, including severe anemia and other complications. It is not a disease I wanted to mess around with. After maxing out at 104F, the fevers finally started to come down, and by Sunday I was feeling better. Two different elders from the church had prayed over me during the weekend. One has a tendency to start to shout as he prays, so if the parasites hadn’t died from the CoArtem, then I am sure there were more killed by fright from the force of his voice. ;-)

However, Monday I still felt very tired, and still had a fever to 100.4F. I did some lab tests, which showed I had a moderate anemia, but no malaria was seen in my peripheral blood. I managed to do a few administrative things, and then returned home to rest. Much to my chagrin I had promised a neighbor I would make her a cake for her 15^th birthday, which had to be done that afternoon. So I pulled together my “mom-force” (that strength that mothers use to take care of their young even when they have no strength whatsoever) and made her a cake, with some assistance from my housemate and neighbor. 

Tuesday I tried to do some work at the hospital, but I was still feeling to nauseated to do much. Fortunately Mano, a visiting physician, was able to cover for me, and continued to do so the rest of the week. Since I still had the fever Monday, I started injections of artemether. The rest of the week I felt so nauseated and tired, all I wanted to do to was sleep, to escape the nausea. But with all that extra time, it gives you plenty of time to start thinking of other differential diagnoses. No need to consult WebMD, it’s all in my head. Fortunately my friends and colleagues were able to a)help calm my worries, and b) support my slightly hypochondriacal thoughts. But really, I don’t think I have felt so poorly 

Finally, Saturday, I had a breakthrough-I felt well for the first time in weeks! I had energy, I was singing-it was great!! It was a little short-lived, as Sunday and Monday I was again tired, and a little nauseated, but much less than I had before. 

The entire experience was a big challenge for me. Most of you who know me know I like to be independent and do things myself. Having to ask for help, to not feel up to making your food, much less eating it, and having to ask even to get something as simple as water was a big challenge. Especially as the person helping me most was my new housemate, Kate, who had only been here for about 3 weeks. I’m glad God provided me with a housemate, and one who is trained as a CNA, to help me during that time. It was also humbling to not be able to help out at the hospital. I had to give up control, and trust that things would be okay without me there (which is a proud thought, I admit, and thus why I needed the lesson). God provided someone to care for me, someone to provide care at the hospital, and a wonderful hospital staff who I know were praying for me and wishing me well. 

(This is where I’d put a Bible verse, but my mind is blank in coming up with a fitting one. How about you post one in response?)