Thoughts on Missions

I've been reading stories about great missionaries lately...David Livingstone, Amy Carmichael, Gladys Aylward, Hudson Taylor, Sabina Wurmbrand, James Calvert, Nate Saint, Jim and Elisabeth Elliot and others. It's made me ponder: why do we have to look back so many years to find such examples of loving service, radical sacrifice, and lives entirely set apart for Christ? If Jesus has called all His followers to walk the path that He tread shouldn't all our lives look like His did? Shouldn't my life display total separation to the will of God, Christ-like love for others, and willingness to follow Him even if it cost me everything? After all, if God was willing to become nothing-to have nothing on this earth-but to give everything, even His life, am I somehow better than He was and only asked to love others when it's comfortable or convenient, or to give when it requires nothing of me?

These questions are uncomfortable, I can attest to that. This kind of love, and unselfishness goes entirely against my human nature. What my human nature wants is it's own comfort, it's own prosperity, it's own way. There is no way for me to muster up such an unselfish love for others regardless of the cost to myself. No way for me to seek the good of others no matter what it requires from me. I can try, in fact I can say that there have been times that I have tried, but every time I will fail.

My human nature and my own desires will always be at war with Christ's nature and His desires. That is why Paul said: "I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me." Until my own nature dies, I will never love others as Jesus did. Until my own nature dies, I will never be willing to give my all, even my own life, for another. Until my own nature dies, I will struggle in vain to replicate Christ's life in my own strength, yet fall far short of my goal over and over again and succeed only at making myself a miserable failure of a replica.

The reason the apostles were victorious, the reason the other Christian heroes of our faith were successful, was that they realized they could never love as Jesus did, or serve as He served, unless the first died as He died. In their lives they exhibited the truth that it was not "[they] that lived, but Christ that live[d] in [them]"

Their own desires, their own plans, their own love, their own self, was dead. It was Jesus that loved others through them, it was Jesus that served the needy through them, it was Jesus that lived His life through them. That was the secret of their lives. That is why they could say things like:

"If Jesus Christ be God and died for me, then no sacrifice can be too great for me to make for Him." – C.T. Studd

"If God would grant us the vision, the word sacrifice would disappear from our lips and thoughts; we would hate the things that seem now so dear to us; our lives would suddenly be too short, we would despise time-robbing distractions and charge the enemy with all our energies in the name of Christ." – Nate Saint, two weeks before he was martyred by the Aucas

"I am ready to burn out for God. I am ready to endure any hardship, if by any means I might save some. The longing of my heart is to make known my glorious Redeemer to those who have never heard." – William Burns

"For I could wish that myself were accursed from Christ for my brethren; my kinsmen according to the flesh." -Paul the apostle

"If I had 1,000 lives, I'd give them all for China" — Hudson Taylor

When James Calvert went out as a missionary to the cannibals of the Fiji Islands, the ship captain tried to turn him back, saying, "You will lose your life and the lives of those with you if you go among such savages." To that, Calvert replied, "We died before we came here."

So the question must now be asked of each of us: have I died so that Christ might live? If the answer to that question is yes, I believe the world would again see men and women go forward in the power and love of God and change the world as these great men and women have done before us. If we are dead already, no sacrifice will be too great, no hardship too difficult, and no person unworthy of our love and service. That is because it is not us doing the sacrificing, enduring the hardships, or loving others unselfishly, it is Christ, demonstrating His life of sacrificial love and unselfish service through our life. It will not be us struggling in vain to imitate Jesus, but Him living his perfect life in and through us. And He is very good at being Himself...

~"I used to ask God to help me. Then I asked if I might help Him. I ended up by asking Him to do His work through me."~
Hudson Taylor

Accidente!

Sunday, February 28, 2010

As the car bumps along the pot-hole infested road I begin to slip into unconsciousness. For yet another day my brain has been stretched and taxed in its attempts at thinking in another language. After spending all morning trying to decipher Spanish instructions and small talk while helping to make hundreds of tamales, followed by an evening spent listening to multiple songs and a sermon in Spanish, then being surrounded by the usual horde of children asking me all manner of questions in Spanish, and finally participating in another Spanish conversation during most of the hour-long ride back to the clinic, my brain was all but overloaded and ready for its nightly reboot.

In my semi-conscious state I feel the turn off the paved road to the even more bumpy gravel road. That means I’ll be in my nice comfortable bed in about 10 minutes…or so I planned.

A few minutes later I feel the car pull to a stop. Assuming that we have arrived home for the night I try to focus my sleep-blurred eyes but as I look around I notice that we are parked on the gravel road not in the usual spot behind the clinic. A window in the car is rolled down and I can hear a stream of anxious voices speaking rapidly in Spanish, my tired mind attempts to decipher what they are saying but all I hear for sure are the words “doctor” “emergencia” and “accidente”. Then I hear the voice of la señora Gris beside me saying to me in accented English: “There was an accidente, go see what happen, I come in un momento.” Dr Gris Jr is already bolting from the car, and I fumble with the door and step out into the cold night air, unsure of what I will find.

I see two trucks, both with people in the back, one parked on the side of the gravel road the other on the lawn in front of La Clinica Bella Vista. Sheila, la esposa de Dr. Gris Jr, waves me toward the truck still parked on the road.

As I approach, I see two women sitting in the back, and ask them “Que pasa, en donde tiene dolor?” (what happened, where do you hurt?). One of the women, who doesn’t appear injured, has her arm around the other who I find to have minor abrasions to her arms and face, but no active bleeding, she is awake, alert, and crying. She points inside the truck and tells me there is another girl who is worse off. I look through the door of the truck and find the girl seated in the back seat, she is also awake, a good sign, but appears to be dazed from the accident and is slow to answer questions. There is blood on her face, most likely from a scalp laceration, and I try to see through the darkness to assess the extent of her injuries. Behind me Sheila speaks rapidly in Spanish asking those injured to come inside, but they explain that they are unsure if they will stay, or drive the distance to another hospital instead. I hear the words “mas grave” and see them indicate the other truck parked in front of the clinic doors, then I realize that these are not the only persons who were involved in the accident. Suddenly a man rushes past me, leaps into the drivers seat, closes the door, and the truck peals away down the gravel road. They are going to the hospital nearly two hours away.

I hurry over to the second truck and peer into back trying to see how many are injured and what we‘re up against. Just then, Dr. Gris Jr. rushes out the door pushing a stretcher so I help him maneuver it to the back of the truck. Several men lower the limp body of a woman down from the truck bed and onto our stretcher, I notice blood covering her shirt and hair most likely from an injury to her head, road rash on her abdomen, several teeth have been knocked out, and her limbs flop around limply as we attempt to arrange her on the gurney and push our way through the doors into the clinic. Once inside, we wheel her into an exam room, I feel for a pulse and find none, Dr. Gris checks for pupil reaction with a small light: none, I tilt her chin upward to check for spontaneous respirations and pink frothy fluid bubbles from her nose, the doctor listens for a heart beat and finds none. Dr. Gris looks at me, our eye registering a mutual understanding. A sheet is draped across her, and we leave the room closing the door behind us. There is nothing we can do here, we must move on to the next patient who we can possibly save.

Down the hallway in front of me I see commotion, I see that the Sr. Dr. Gris has arrived in the second vehicle and is now assisting. La señora Gris is directing traffic and prioritizing the patients based on the severity of their injuries, family members also crowd the small hallway a look of anxiety on every face. I head down the hall to see where I can help next, but register a voice calling my name, I turn and find Sheila holding out a full-length surgical gown. Looking down I realize that I’m still wearing a skirt, sandals and a white shirt from the meeting earlier tonight. I thank her and slip into the gown, taking the proffered pair of fresh surgical gloves as well. Now I am prepared.

I walk first into the lobby to see if there is anything I can do, the Sr. Dr. Gris is examining a patient lying on several chairs. Since everyone else in the lobby do not appear to have been involved in the accident I quickly walk back down the hall toward the patient rooms and OR. I glance into the two other exam rooms as I pass and see some of the other non-medical staff assisting the patients with very minor injuries. As I walk down the hall toward the other rooms la señora Gris grabs my arm and shoves IV supplies into my hands, telling me “Come to OB for put this in patient.” She points to a stretcher that is being wheeled past by the Sr. Dr. Gris.

I follow the stretcher down the hallway, through the double doors, and into the birthing room. The stretcher is guided alongside one of the two exam tables and we gently lift the young girl from the gurney onto the table. She appears to be around 18 years old, her left eye is swollen shut, the swelling on the left side of her face and head along with the bruising around her left eye suggest a skull fracture. Although the left side of her head is matted with blood at the moment it does not appear to be actively bleeding heavily.Her right leg has significant swelling and bruising to the shin area and obvious deformity which indicates she likely has a tib/fib fracture as well. She is dazed, but after being prompted several times finally gives us her name and attempts to answer the other questions used to assess her level of consciousness.

I start the IV, open the fluids up to flow in quickly, and give her medication for cerebral swelling, and another non-narcotic medication to help with the pain. I check her vital signs, and they are stable. After a quick exam the doctor tells me to clean up the blood and check to see if the scalp laceration would need sutures as he leaves to assess and treat other patients. I look around the room to locate supplies, not finding anything I hurry down the hall to look around the meagerly stocked shelves of the supply closet/pharmacy; this is definitely not a Stateside ER!

Finally I locate some 4x4 gauze, and I also grab a basin, fill it with water (no sterile water to use here, at least not on such short notice) and head back to the OB exam room. The patient is still lying on the table, occasionally groaning from her injuries, but otherwise lying still. I begin to clean her face, no lacerations there. I move on to the left side of her head, the skull feels soft and because the hair is so matted with blood I am unable to see the laceration causing the bleeding. Blood tinged water begins to pool on the floor as I pour the water slowly over her head trying to remove enough blood to be able to locate the source of bleeding. After several minutes of pouring and cleaning, cleaning and pouring, I am able move the hair enough to find a 3 cm jagged laceration to her scalp. I prod the lac gently with my fingers to check for any debris, and as I move more hair to examine more closely a sudden spurt of blood catches me off guard. I quickly cover the lac with the 4x4 gauze and apply pressure, when the blood does not seep through the gauze I carefully peel it away to try to reassess the problem. As soon as the pressure is removed the scalp again spurts bright red blood in sync with the beating of the girls heart, this indicates an arterial bleed which means it will be much more difficult to control, and an increased loss of blood. I quickly reapply the gauze and look around for something to wrap her head with that will hold pressure so I can leave to get the doctor.

A few moments later the doctor is again at the bedside.The dressing is removed, and he attempts to clamp the artery with hemostats, but this proves to be unsuccessful. Already there is a growing pool of bright red blood on the floor below the head of the bed. After several unsuccessful attempts at clamping the artery and stopping the flow of blood, we decide to simply pack the laceration with more 4x4 gauze and wrap a large elastic dressing tightly around the girls head to help control the bleeding until she can be taken to the larger hospital. All the while the doctor is rapidly discussing with the family member in the room the need to transfer the patient to the closest hospital nearly two hours away for possible surgery and further diagnostic tests. She nods her understanding, she leaves the room to work out a vehicle for transport.

After the dressing is applied we quickly transfer the girl from the exam table back to the stretcher and wheel her down the corridor back through the lobby and onto the front sidewalk. I see more commotion as another stretcher is wheeled toward the door toward where we are standing, it appears that another younger girl is also critical with a head injury and a probable fractured pelvis. A truck backs up to the door of the clinic, we quickly load the patient along with the mattress from the gurney, into the bed of the pickup. The other girl is also loaded up on her mattress, another injured, but less critical, girl is assisted into the cab, a few quick instructions are given in rapid-fire Spanish to the accompanying family members, and the truck pulls away to begin the two hour long drive to the larger hospital.

Heading back inside the clinic it is time to deal with the less critical patients. Dr. Gris Jr. is working on suturing a scalp laceration of another man, la senora Gris is starting an IV to administer fluids and IV medication for possible cerebral edema, he is in pain and still a bit dazed, but conscience, alert and oriented.

Hearing my name I continue down the hall to another woman who is still waiting to be seen, she has a hematoma to the back of her head but no laceration or bleeding. When Sr. Dr. Gris comes over to examine her he informs her that there is no fracture, only a hematoma. We move her to one of the patient rooms and put her in a more comfortable bed. I procure supplies for an IV and start the fluids and administer a pain medication. The final two patients are being taken care of by the other non-medical staff, their only injuries are minor abrasions which are being cleaned and covered with cream.

After the last of the patients are taken care of, our attention is directed back to the one room with the door closed. It is time to deal with the hardest part of our job as medical professionals; It is time to talk to the family and let them say their final goodbyes.

Already the family knows that their wife/mother/sister has died. The noise and chaos of working with the injured has been punctuated with the heartrending sound of their mourning. But now the doctor will take the time to explain our findings, and the family is brought into the room. Almost immediately their wails fill the halls as the reality which they already knew to be true is confirmed. It was only later when we realized that all the individuals in the back of the truck that rolled were related in some way. Those who were not involved in the crash now had the burden of mourning their loss, while simultaneously worrying over the lives of the others in their family.

The rush is over now. Two rooms are occupied, one by the man with the head injury, the other by the woman with the hematoma to the back of her head. The police are here taking statements from all those involved in the accident. The lobby is occupied by family members who are here for their loved ones. The stillness of the cold night air is still intermittently broken by the sounds of mourning, as the individuals present still struggle with the raw pain of loss. I look up at the clock, its 2:15 am.

Finally at 3am most of the staff has gone to bed, exhaustion can be seen in the faces of all those who remain. A final check is made of the remaining two patients. It is decided that Iris, one of the young assistants, and I take a short nap before waking up at 4 to check the patients. Sr Dr. Gris y la señora Gris finally go to bed themselves, and Iris and I make ourselves comfortable on two unoccupied beds. The decision is made to leave the light on to make it easier to wake up, we lie down and despite the hard mattresses are both almost immediately asleep.

It seems like only moments have passed when I hear the shrill sound of my alarm clock beside my head. I struggle to my feet, stiff from the bed, and shake Iris. We both shuffle sleepily into the hall, and find Dr. Gris Jr already in the room of the man with the head injury, so we pass to the next room to check on our other patient, she is still stable. Dr. Gris Jr. and his esposa Sheila have not gone to bed, so we gather in the office and discuss the events of the evening. The one patient with the hematoma is stable enough that she will be discharged shortly, the other patient appears to have a slow pupillary response and Dr. Gris wants to send him a larger hospital about 2 hours away. Now we just have to wait.

It has been a long night, and we all are tired, someone suggests a game of uno to pass the time and keep us awake.

Two more hours pass. Dr. Gris discharges the one patient, and a taxi arrives soon after to carry the other man to the hospital.

The clinic is empty now. The only evidence of our intensely busy and emotionally charged night is the stretchers without mattresses lining the hall, and the half-cleaned clinic that will await the morning. We sit down and finish the last game of uno, then walk across the lawn to our respective places of dwelling.

When I arrive back in my room I glance at my clock before falling exhausted into bed. It is 6:49 am, that was a long 10 minutes.

Irè a Mexico!

Random adventures, unexpected plans, the unknown…three things I enjoy, especially when travel is involved. So when a friend mentioned his trip to Mexico to get practical hours at a rural clinic, I felt a twinge of envy, and told him so. After being back in the States for 6 months, I am getting itchy feet again to go somewhere, experience something unique, and serve the underserved. What I didn’t count on was his quick reply of “well come with me then, a travel buddy would be welcome!” I definitely did not think it would actually be possible for me to go on a nearly 5 week trip given my full time job. But my boss readily agreed, I found co-workers to cover all the necessary shifts, and the tickets were purchased…things seamlessly fell into place within a matter of days, and two weeks before the departure date it was decided that I will be going to Mexico.

What I do know: we will be gone from Feb 25-March 30th, we are going to a small clinic in Bella Vista, Chiapas in South Mexico, there are 2 doctors, a psychologist, and a physical therapist, along with several other non-medical individuals that assist at the clinic. They do surgeries, and many days have inpatients from the surgeries and for various other reasons, along with hydrotherapy/massage type treatments. What I don’t know: pretty much everything else =)

The one thing that I am sure of, is that it will be a fun, interesting, sometimes difficult, faith-stretching, learning, growing experience, and I can’t wait!

More You Might Be...

You might be a missionary somewhere in Guyana if...

…Your definition of running water is: grabbing a bucket, running down to the creek, filling it up, and running back up the hill

…You’ve ever had someone try to barter with you for your sibling while you were in the market place (for the record I refused=)

…You are now qualified to write a cookbook called “101 ways to cook pumpkin”

…You’ve ever been tanning out in the jungle

…Your idea of hitchhiking includes boats instead of cars

…You have any idea of what it means to “lime,” to “dasha somethin’” or to “Sus-de-heights”

…You’ve ever uttered the phrase “ hey, look, there’s white people” (and you’re white yourself)

…You remove your shoes before entering any house without a second thought

…You’ve ever had the thought cross your mind that it might be cool to get malaria once just so you could say you’ve had it

….You can now nonchalantly pick a worm out of the piece of fruit you’re eating and continue eating it

…You’ve nearly been stoned for preparing a meal one day that did not include rice

…You know the difference between a star apple and star fruit

…You are aware that a pineapple plant will only produce one pineapple…ever!

…You’ve ever turned the room upside down looking for a giant centipede that disappeared under someone’s bed

…Your idea of entertainment includes running to the airstrip to watch the mission plane land and take off

…You’ve ever put buckets out to catch the rainwater

…You’ve forgotten what it feels like to take a warm shower (but are entirely grateful for running water!)

…You’ve ever climbed up into the rafters trying to extricate bats in the middle of the night

…You find yourself using words like vexed, jeer, fatigued, and gaff in your everyday vocabulary

…You’ve ever gone to the internet and been disappointed because you didn’t get a single email

5 miles for a sloth?

June 4, 2009

If there was any doubt before, the students of the little school in the jungle were now certain that the resident white girl was utterly mad. After all, what sane person would trek off through the jungle 5 miles one way just to see a sloth? But this is exactly what she had done. One phone call from the other white girl in Mashabo and she was off, she didn't even wait to eat lunch. As her friends shook their heads, and wondered to themselves about her mental soundness, somewhere down the jungle trail she was walking quickly toward her destination...

Not long after my arrival in Guyana, I had assembled a mental list of the animals I particularly wanted to see. First and foremost a jaguar, but some of the others included a tapir, a giant anteater, a capybara, and a sloth among others. One would think that soon after living in the jungle for a few months I would have been able to check off the objects of interest, but as one friend delicately put it: "You're not living in a zoo!"

In the past several weeks, my sister, who is now living over in Mashabo, reported that several times sloths have been spotted in various locations around her village. Although she had not been lucky enough to be in the same location as these interesting mammals at the right time, she informed me that it was currently sloth mating season so she was hoping for a personal encounter. I advised her that if she did happen to spot a sloth, she should catch it and call me. No matter the time, I was resolved to walk the 5 miles just to see the unusual creature.

Then one morning, after I finished my CPR class, I received a phone call. A breathless voice on the other end of the line blurted out "Come over here quick, we caught a sloth. We'll tie it up so you can see it." Without even a second thought I grabbed a small backpack, a water bottle, and an umbrella, just in case, and quickly headed off in the direction of Mashabo.

One hour, and ten minutes later, I arrived at my sisters house. There on the ground, with a long rope tied around his middle, was a real live sloth. He looked pitifully awkward trying to crawl in the grass with claws made for tree dwelling. Reaching down, I lifted him up to get a better look, and he quickly latched on to my side much like a small toddler would sit, perched on one hip. His long neck ended in a very small head, that reminded me of an old man. As he looked around, his mouth seemed fixed in a permanent smile.

For the next hour, while my sister finished up her afternoon of classes, I entertained our small friend. After school was finished for the day, I was joined by Alexis, and a troop of school children who gathered around to watch and laugh as the white girls "hugged up on" the sloth, and took multiple pictures. The rest of the afternoon was spent interacting with the unique mammal, I couldn't help but wonder at God's apparent sense of humor in creating such diverse, and sometimes comical creatures.

As the sun began to creep closer, and still closer to the horizon, I knew that very soon I would have to begin the 5 mile walk back to school, if I did not want to be caught walking in the dark. So the two of us set out into the jungle to find a suitable location to release our new friend. After seeing his slow, clumsy movements on the ground, I was surprised to witness his rapid ascent as he climbed up into the green canopy, and was soon out of sight.

Hiking back up the hill toward her house, Alexis and I couldn't help but speak with excitement about the days activities. And as I began my 5 mile walk back toward the school, I almost wished that in my travels I would encounter another animal on my list: the elusive jaguar...

I'll Fly Away...

May 12, 2009

The ringing of my phone roused me from my slumber; I pushed under the edges of the mosquito net, and fumbled around with my free hand for the source of noise. Sleepily I answered. “Hello”

“Is this Liz?” a male voice with an American accent asked.

“Yeah it is”

"Hey Liz, this is Gary. I’m headed on a flight to Paramakatoi and I have an extra seat, do you want to come?"

All thoughts of sleep were unceremoniously shoved from my mind, as I quickly answered. “I would love to, what time are you leaving? And when would you be back?”

The questions were answered, a time was set to meet at the airport, and we hung up. I looked at the clock: 7:12. Ugh it was late for me, but after all I had been awake until after 1 am making use of the wireless internet. When you only get online once a week (if you’re lucky) for an hour or maybe two, internet become a precious commodity and you take advantage of every opportunity that presents itself to use it.

Alexis, Nathan and I were in G-town since Nathan was leaving to go home today. The night before we had gone out to eat with him for an early birthday dinner, then spent the rest of the night on our respective computers. Now it seemed that my time in town would be double productive and I would finally get to go on the flight in the mission plane that Gary had been promising me since my arrival back in September.

At 9 o’clock a horn honked outside and Judd, a pilot with AWA, and I headed out to the waiting van. Gary and James, another mission pilot were waiting, and we set out for the airport. On the way we engaged in conversation about topics that can only be truly appreciated by individuals with an affinity for airplanes. It was then that I found out that our flight plan would take us directly over Kaieteur Falls, the tallest single drop falls in the world. If I was excited to be flying, now I was even more excited to have a chance to see the Falls, something I had been wishing to do sometime during my stay in Guyana.

Soon we arrived at the airport, loaded the plane with the supplies that we were flying to Paramakatoi, did the preflight, filed our flight plan with the tower, then we were off. Once again I was reminded of the fact that with each flight comes an increase in my desire to fly yet again. Almost like a drug, flying gets into the veins of those who love aviation, and with each new “fix” the appeal only seems greater.

We soared through the azure blue sky, occasionally passing through the puffy white clouds that were scattered around us, the jungle below a rich green occasionally broken by a river that gleamed in the morning sun. In the distance I could see a line of rain clouds, and I prayed that the weather wouldn’t deteriorate. Our first stop was at the BMMC airstrip to pick up the daughter of the missionary family who lived in Paramakatoi and deliver her with our supplies.

Soon we were airborne again, headed west/southwest this time toward Region 8. We hit thicker clouds soon after resuming our journey, and I learned that true instrument flying is much different than flying “under the hood” to simulate instrument conditions as I did in flight training. We bounced and tumbled a bit before breaking out above the clouds to a clear blue sky and bright sunlight. Now straight toward our destination.

Soon the clouds below us began to thin so that the terrain below was visible. At 9,500 feet the trees below resembled enormous fields of broccoli. Then suddenly, almost without warning, ahead I saw mountains jut up out of the green jungle, we had reached the escarpment. At Gary’s direction, I began to descend down to 3.500 feet. Low enough to have a perfect view of the Falls, but still with enough altitude to clear the granite walls we were flying above.

Then, up ahead, I could see the top of the falls coming into view. Closer and closer we flew, and with each passing second the Falls appeared larger and still larger. Gary took over the controls so I could act the part of excited tourist and snap pictures as we flew past.

All too soon we were past the Falls, and it began to recede into the distance. We continued our flight, and soon landed in the small mountain village of Paramakatoi. After dropping off our supplies and passenger, we began the return trip to Georgetown, again flying over the mountains, jungle, rivers, villages, and several smaller waterfalls. Gary told me many stories about mission aviation, some humorous, others sad, and still others touching. As we landed again at the Ogle airport in G-town, I was reminded yet again of all the reasons I love flying, and also of why I want to be a mission pilot.

Baramita in Pictures

Nathan during one of our house visits

Taking BPs during the home visits

Nathan flying kites with the kids

Little did mom know that she
raised two jungle monkeys =)

Footsteps into Baramita

April 5-10, 2009

As we loaded our luggage and ourselves into the familiar yellow plane, bright and early that Friday morning, a group of villagers crowded around to bid us farewell. To one side stood our translator, and his family, his cute little daughter Olive smiling shyly at us from behind her hand. I saw some that I recognized from the clinic that we held all week, children in school uniforms, and other villagers whose faces had become familiar over the course of the past week.

Finally, after more pictures were taken, goodbyes were said, seatbelts were strapped into place, and a prayer was offered for safety, we began the taxi to the end of the runway. Judd expertly maneuvered the plane around, pushed the throttle full forward, and we began to roar down the runway. People and buildings whizzed past, and soon we were airborne watching the runway, buildings, and small huts become smaller and still smaller. As we flew on, over a seemingly endless sea of green jungle, my mind wandered back to the day we arrived in this village in the same yellow plane 6 days ago…
That day I was flying, following the heading that would take us to a distant village that I had only heard about but had not yet seen. Beside me sat Laura, one of the AWA pilots, and behind me sat Nathan and Alexis, and a lot of baggage and supplies. A plume of smoke in the distance drew attention to the small clearing in the vast green expanse of trees below. We circled the runway, set up for a left downwind approach, and landed on the grass runway that was the center of the village. Many unfamiliar faces lined the runway, and several approached to help unload our belongings and carry them into the small community building that would house 10 of us for the following 6 days. The familiar faces of Bill, Laura’s husband, and Danniela and Micah, her two small kids also greeted us. We had finally arrived in the small, remote village of Baramita, a name that had become familiar to me over the past several months although this was my first time to see the village that I had heard so much about, and that had a need for a nurse or health worker that perhaps I would fill in the future.

The village of Baramita is located far out in the jungles of Region 1 in Guyana. There are only two ways to reach the village: fly nearly an hour over the jungle as we did, or walk for about 1 week from the nearest port town, Matthew’s Ridge, through jungle and swamp. The village is built around a gold mine, which is the main source of income for the villagers. It is quickly evident who benefits the most from the mine, their larger and slightly more modern houses and small stores/rum shops line the runway or are built up on the nearby hill. The others, who are the majority, have houses that are scattered in a 2 mile radius throughout the jungle, accessible only by walking along a maze of narrow jungle trails. These houses are the typical wooden house, situated on stilts, assembled from boards hand cut with chainsaws, with thatch roofing material. Some structures that we happened upon were simply wooden poles that supported the thatch roof with several hammocks strung underneath, and their few possessions tied up in the roof to avoid the rain. Over 50 percent of the villagers speak and understand only Carib, an Amerindian dialect, and the majority of them are unable to read. Health care is also limited to these villagers, it is well known that the local health worker will usually only open the health hut for a few hours throughout the week. If he is not at the health hut, he is likely to be found drunk at one of the nearby rum shops.

As the next several days passed, it found us holding clinic for the village, doing home health visitations, holding evening health meetings, and meeting the villagers. I still remember the first day of clinic, and what comes to mind is not the frustration that we all felt over being unorganized, or the untidy “health hut.” What comes to mind is the faces of young girls, still children themselves, bringing their own babies to clinic for immunizations, check-ups, or illnesses. What comes to mind is the shy smiles of small children who I knew would not be allowed their childhood much longer. In the first few hours of arriving, I saw only too clearly the great need of these beautiful people, and I began to feel the tug on my heart to somehow meet that need. This feeling only intensified as the week progressed. It surfaced again as I treated a 13 year old girl for an STD, then as I saw a 12 year old boy asking for condoms. Later I felt it again as I treated a man with a dental infection that was so bad, since he had no way of getting any kind of treatment, that he couldn’t talk or open his mouth. Yet again I felt it as our translator told us that he finished his Steps to Christ we had given him in one night and asked if we had any other books he could read, and also if we might have a Bible he could read.

Over and over again I saw the need, and was nearly overwhelmed with how great it really was. As I saw the searching hearts and the empty eyes, I again felt the call of the mission field that has been present in my heart since I read the book "Mission Pilot" and watched the DVD of jungle aviation for the very first time. While the road ahead may seem long, I know that it is the road God is taking me down, and He will be faithful to open the doors. The more I've worked down here, the more the needs seem to be endless. God needs willing hearts, willing hands, willing laborers. "The harvest truly is plentiful, but the laborers are few. Therefore pray the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into His harvest"

Week in Mabaruma

March 29th-April 5, 2009

As my dad’s group flew back to the States on Sunday morning, my sister and I were boarding a plane of our own, although of a much smaller size. We were headed for Mabaruma, a town in Region 1 that is the base for two AWA (Adventist World Aviation) pilots and their families. The first week would be a much needed week of R and R, and the second would be a week of health outreach for a remote village in that region.

Adrenaline surged through my veins as we picked up speed down the runway and then were airborne. This was my first time back in a small plane since leaving for Guyana last September, suffice it to say that I was thrilled to be in the sky again in a ‘real’ plane. We flew over the Atlantic coast, over the Demerara and Essiquibo rivers that I had only seen from the ground thus far, then seemingly endless miles of jungle before arriving in the small town of Mabaruma.

Immediately after arriving, Judd, one of the AWA pilots, asked me if I would like to fly with him to another village 30 minutes away to drop some supplies off. Needless to say, I was most willing, and we were soon off again. My flying knowledge quickly came back as Judd let me fly from Georgetown to Mabaruma, then again from Mabaruma to Port Kaituma, although my landings were a bit rusty, but I had a great time and we arrived in one piece.

The next week passed quickly. Alexis and I helped out some with local projects, we worked on painting the children’s Sabbath School room, helped out in the clinic, home schooled Laura’s (the other pilot) daughter Daniella on the days that Laura was flying, and helped out doing odds and ends when needed. We also had time to relax and do some sightseeing in the area. One day we went to Kissing Rock (no it does not get its name because it is a popular make out location=), another day we went to swim at a small waterfall, and we otherwise took time to unwind from the busyness of planning the mission trip and the school year. The change of scenery and activities was an enjoyable break from routine.

Then Friday afternoon my brother arrived in the same little yellow plane. He stepped out of the plane, and nearly blinded us with his pallor, but we assured him that he would soon adapt and trade in his white skin for a lovely tan color. We were thrilled to see him, and glad that the three of us siblings would be together for 6 weeks, the longest amount of time we’ve all been in one place in 9 years.

Quickly our last weekend in Mabaruma passed, and Sunday morning it was time to head out for our next stop: Baramita

Jungle Photoshoot

Some 'waterfalls' we went to one day to go swimming

Waiting for the plane to land the day Nathan arrived

One Small Child

Wednesday, March 25th, 2009

Our day in the clinic was supposed to be over. We had already seen 20 patients for minor complaints, done 2 simple surgeries that morning, and it was time for lunch followed by an afternoon of working on the mission house. Then, just as we were about to close up the clinic and head over for lunch, an Amerindian women stepped through the door holding her small limp daughter.

The look on the woman's face was unreadable, but her voice was anxious as she quickly explained that her little daughter had had 4 "fits" this morning and felt like she had a fever. The young girl in her arms was barely responsive, and felt extremely hot to the touch, so she was quickly brought back to our small exam room. Her still form was laid on the table, a quick prayer was offered, and we began our work.
The task at hand was to cool her down as quickly as possible. We began to bathe her in rubbing alcohol in an attempt to cool her small burning body down. This aroused her somewhat, and soon her screams were heard reverberating around the small room. An auxillary temperature read 102 degrees, meaning a temperature of 104 when adjusted for true body temperature. A dangerous range, especially for such a small child.

While Alexis and her mother continued to wipe her small body down with the alcohol, I began looking for a possible IV site, all the while praying that she would not be too dehydrated making it difficult find a vein. Thankfully, a good vein was quickly located, the IV was secured, and the cool fluids began to infuse into her bloodstream. As we worked, her mother told us that she had had diarrhea since the day before, and began to run a fever early that morning, then had her first seizure at around 9am, she had already had 4 seizures by the time she arrived at our clinic.

With the internal and external cooling underway, she quickly began to become much more alert, making her protests to our treatment loudly known. Soon, however, she calmed down and was able to sit up and drink some cool juice. In the next several hours, as the IV fluids infused, Alexis put her social work skills to work playing with her and involving her in her treatment by encouraging her to wipe herself down with the sponge. Later that afternoon, as little Taffeanna walked out of the clinic with her mother, Dr. Scott turned to us and said: "I really believe that if her mother had not brought her to the clinic for treatment, there is a good possibility she could have died." He went on to explain how quickly little ones can get into a downward spiral from something as simple as diarrhea that leads to dehydration and fever, something that I well knew from working in the ER. We were all very thankful that God was able to use us to minister to one small child, and as a result her whole family in the process.

Clinic Fun

Something that I thouroughly enjoyed while the group was here in Mashabo was the medical clinic that Dr. Scott and his wife, Rebecca, oversaw. While I immensly enjoy teaching, there are many days that I miss the hands-on medical work of the ER. Since arriving here in September, I have had several opportunities to use my nursing skills, but they seem to spread themselves out few and far between. Now, after working in the clinic with Dr. Scott, I have been reminded yet again how much fun it is to see patients, handle emergencies, deal with blood, and other such things that can only be truely appreciated by those of the medical profession.

Not your typical OR, that's for sure =)

Getting ready to cut

Removing the lypoma

Sewing it back up

Removing a cyst from a woman's scalp

Mission Projects in Mashabo

Anticipation and preparation; two words that accurately describe these past few months. Ever since my dad and his mission team purchased their tickets, thus making their trip a sure reality, I have been looking forward to his arrival. At the same time, I have certainly come to appreciate all the work that goes into the local end of a mission trip. My sister and I were bequeathed the task of coordinating all aspects of preparing for the group, aside from the building project, the details were seemingly endless…housing for everyone, shopping lists, menus, schedules for kitchen duties etc, hotel rooms in G-town, transportation via land and sea, evening meetings, temporary licensing for the doctor, I began to wonder if it would ever end.

Finally, the day came, and we traveled to the airport to meet the group. I cannot begin to describe how wonderful it was to see my dad arrive in this country I have come to love. Next came the cramped bus ride to the river, the wet crossing, the long tractor ride, and finally unpacking and settling in Mashabo.

Thus began the busy, fun-packed week of building, clinic, visitation, evening meetings and even some time for a bit of swimming and other such fun. All the work put into our end of the trip was well worth it, and I thoroughly enjoyed having my dad here.

Day 1: Starting with the floor

Day 2: Wall # 1 and # 2

Day 3: wall # 3 and #4

Day 4: inside walls the water tower

Day 5: Finishing touches on water tower, and working on the roof

The team that came down with my dad

A Few of the Reasons that I Love Mashabo

Here are just a few of the many reasons that I have come to love Mashabo...