Other

Well, I made it back, a little weaker in body, especially due to the salmonella friends I brought back with me, but stronger in the broken places and stronger in my walk with God.

Things I noticed when I got home

* Everything was so green and all the food tasted so good. I saw the world with new eyes, nothing deterred me, not even hardly sleeping for three days.

* I caught myself still checking the floor when I got out of bed to make sure I didn’t step on a scorpian.

* I don’t have to cover my head, but I feel half naked without it, and the clothes I wore for two months straight now feel like pajamas.

* I don’t shower three times a day and I wear socks and usually a sweatshirt because I’m always cold.

* People aren’t always holding my hand anymore, reaching out to stroke my blonde hair, kissing my head, laying hands on me to bless me or asking me to do something I don’t know how to do in a language I don’t understand. (I think I’ve lost some popularity and status.)

* I wear a seatbelt and people use breaks – amazing!

And so much more. It’s a totally different world.

So what about God? Never once did I question whether or not God had called me there, but I did question why he had called me and not someone else. Why did he lead me out of my comfort zone, away from the life and people I cared so much about and to a life of pain and starvation and to one that is threatened on a daily basis?

I guess because that was his plan for me. It was his way of refining me. He had prepared a place for me there and I needed to fill it.

I found my heart growing with love for the broken people that I worked with all day, everyday and sometimes through the night, but it was also growing for the people back home in Canada with whom I couldn’t even keep in touch.

It takes tremendous courage to love when we are broken, yet I wonder if love becomes more authentic when it matures out of brokenness. Brokenness compels us to find a force outside of ourselves and leads us to God, whose essential nature is love.

Through being stretched by grief, suffering and loss, my heart and soul were able to feel more peace, strength and joy. In the valley of suffering, despair and bitterness are brewed, but there also character is made. The valley of suffering is the vale of soul-making.

God had prepared a place for me in Pakistan and I needed to fill it.

You realise as everything is crumbling around you that you’re falling – falling straight into the arms of the one who created you, the one who calls you son or daughter. All you have to do is trust that he’ll catch you.

What else did I learn? I learned the truth of the saying, ‘Humility is not thinking less of yourself but thinking of yourself less’. We’re not home yet – this earth is not our home – we’re only here for a short while.

So what’s really important? When we pass into eternity, into our Father’s presence, what will matter? Not the things of this world. What counts are people, service and relationships.

A story of brokenness She looks at me, her face contorted in pain as we inspect her contracted belly. Tears fill her eyes as we tell her she really could not have been feeling her baby move; there is no heartbeat.

How she must have worked to get that baby where she did: I can see the head, but there he sits, stuck, with the life squeezed out of him, on his way into this world but skipping it and passing straight into eternity.

I see his lifeless purple body lying there on the table. Perfect. Every finger and every toe in place, but no breath, no heartbeat. Gingerly I touch him and gently place him in the water, washing away the blood, the dirt. His body is here in my hands, but he is not.

Where is he? Why God? Why must it end like this? How can I stand by and watch? What is happening to my heart?

Rachel’s journal – an extract

Most of the people who come to the hospital are Pushtu speaking Phutans. They are probably the poorest tribe in Pakistan, but they look regal and elegant as they are often tall (apparently they are descendants of Alexander the Great) and appear to be floating under their large burkas which cover them from head to toe. You never know if the person standing before you is a beautiful 20-year-old carrying her first child or an ancient, wrinkly woman until she leaves the presence of men and lifts up the front of her burka.

The men are often herdsmen or businessmen, and the women have children and run the home. The average woman has 8-12 children. It is more important to have sons, so the boys are often fed first. And if they are ill, their parents are more likely to bring them to hospital instead of just letting them die.

When taking obstetrical histories, one often discovers that it is the females who have died. In one example of 2-month-old twins (nonidentical), the boy weighed 10 lbs while the girl only weighed 6 lbs.

We also have some Afghan refugees coming through. The hospital was built on one of the main routes for the purpose of helping refugees.

Other

Well, I made it back, a little weaker in body, especially due to the salmonella friends I brought back with me, but stronger in the broken places and stronger in my walk with God.

Things I noticed when I got home

* Everything was so green and all the food tasted so good. I saw the world with new eyes, nothing deterred me, not even hardly sleeping for three days.

*
I caught myself still checking the floor when I got out of bed to make sure I didn't step on a scorpian.

* I don't have to cover my head, but I feel half naked without it, and the clothes I wore for two months straight now feel like pajamas.

*
I don't shower three times a day and I wear socks and usually a sweatshirt because I'm always cold.

*
People aren't always holding my hand anymore, reaching out to stroke my blonde hair, kissing my head, laying hands on me to bless me or asking me to do something I don't know how to do in a language I don't understand. (I think I've lost some popularity and status.)

*
I wear a seatbelt and people use breaks – amazing!

And so much more. It's a totally different world.

So what about God? Never once did I question whether or not God had called me there, but I did question why he had called me and not someone else. Why did he lead me out of my comfort zone, away from the life and people I cared so much about and to a life of pain and starvation and to one that is threatened on a daily basis?

I guess because that was his plan for me. It was his way of refining me. He had prepared a place for me there and I needed to fill it.

I found my heart growing with love for the broken people that I worked with all day, everyday and sometimes through the night, but it was also growing for the people back home in Canada with whom I couldn't even keep in touch.

It takes tremendous courage to love when we are broken, yet I wonder if love becomes more authentic when it matures out of brokenness. Brokenness compels us to find a force outside of ourselves and leads us to God, whose essential nature is love.

Through being stretched by grief, suffering and loss, my heart and soul were able to feel more peace, strength and joy. In the valley of suffering, despair and bitterness are brewed, but there also character is made. The valley of suffering is the vale of soul-making.

God had prepared a place for me in Pakistan and I needed to fill it.

You realise as everything is crumbling around you that you're falling – falling straight into the arms of the one who created you, the one who calls you son or daughter. All you have to do is trust that he'll catch you.

What else did I learn? I learned the truth of the saying, 'Humility is not thinking less of yourself but thinking of yourself less'. We're not home yet – this earth is not our home – we're only here for a short while.

So what's really important? When we pass into eternity, into our Father's presence, what will matter? Not the things of this world. What counts are people, service and relationships.

A story of brokenness She looks at me, her face contorted in pain as we inspect her contracted belly. Tears fill her eyes as we tell her she really could not have been feeling her baby move; there is no heartbeat.

How she must have worked to get that baby where she did: I can see the head, but there he sits, stuck, with the life squeezed out of him, on his way into this world but skipping it and passing straight into eternity.

I see his lifeless purple body lying there on the table. Perfect. Every finger and every toe in place, but no breath, no heartbeat. Gingerly I touch him and gently place him in the water, washing away the blood, the dirt. His body is here in my hands, but he is not.

Where is he? Why God? Why must it end like this? How can I stand by and watch? What is happening to my heart?

Rachel's journal – an extract

Most of the people who come to the hospital are Pushtu speaking Phutans. They are probably the poorest tribe in Pakistan, but they look regal and elegant as they are often tall (apparently they are descendants of Alexander the Great) and appear to be floating under their large burkas which cover them from head to toe. You never know if the person standing before you is a beautiful 20-year-old carrying her first child or an ancient, wrinkly woman until she leaves the presence of men and lifts up the front of her burka.

The men are often herdsmen or businessmen, and the women have children and run the home. The average woman has 8-12 children. It is more important to have sons, so the boys are often fed first. And if they are ill, their parents are more likely to bring them to hospital instead of just letting them die.

When taking obstetrical histories, one often discovers that it is the females who have died. In one example of 2-month-old twins (nonidentical), the boy weighed 10 lbs while the girl only weighed 6 lbs.

We also have some Afghan refugees coming through. The hospital was built on one of the main routes for the purpose of helping refugees.

Other

Other

Sarita is nine years old and lives in a remote village two days’ bus ride from Kathmandu. She is the youngest, and also the only girl, in a family of nine children. She was at the top of her class at the local government school. One day when climbing a tree she fell and broke her arm. There was no health clinic in the area to take her to, so a villager did what he thought best: he tied her arm tightly to a bamboo stick – so tightly that he cut off her blood circulation.

Her arm, naturally, got worse, so the next place they took her to was the witch doctor. The witch doctor would have gone into a trance, killed a chicken that the family had provided, and then rubbed the dead chicken on the affected arm. Ten days after simply breaking her arm, her family brought her into Patan Hospital for treatment. Her arm was so badly infected they had to amputate it at the elbow. What pointless pain and suffering she has been through.

Making things better After several weeks, Sarita was feeling quite at home in hospital, and was always there to greet me when I arrive on the ward. We wanted to sort out two things in particular for Sarita: a false arm and her education. Sarita’s parents are very poor and they will be unable to send her to school once she goes to secondary school. (Primary school is free at the government schools.) We talked to her father about the possibility of finding a children’s home here in Kathmandu so that she could continue her education. He was very happy, knowing that his bright daughter needs an education now more than ever. Sarita was delighted at the news and told her father, ‘Go: I’m staying here and going to school.’

But plans changed. It was arranged for Sarita to go to a good Christian boarding school in Hetauda, which is on the Terai. From Hetauda, her home, also on the Terai, is perhaps four hours away, so her parents would be able to visit her regularly.

We tried to take Sarita to Hetauda, but we were unable to go because of the travel strikes.

In the meantime I went with Sarita to an orthopaedic clinic to see about having a false arm fitted for her. A real blessing is that her amputation was below her elbow, and there is just enough arm to fix a new forearm. The doctor examined and measured, and said she would have a new arm in ten days.

Sarita’s father had been keen to return home, having been here in Kathmandu for over two months. He left Sarita with her uncle who lives here. I went with Sarita and her uncle back to the clinic to have a cast made. Her uncle was a very nice young man. When he was ten years old he fell and broke his arm very badly. He almost had his arm amputated above the elbow, but they managed to save his arm, although it is badly deformed and he has no movement in the lower arm and hand.

We planned to take Sarita to Hetauda once her arm had been fitted.

Changing plans Plans changed again. Sarita is not at the Christian boarding school. The school director thought it would be best for her to live with her parents, and everyone was very happy with this arrangement. It was also agreed that it would be best for Sarita not to use an artificial arm at the moment: with the unhygienic conditions in her poor home village, the arm could cause more harm than good. Sarita’s school fees are now being fully paid for her to go to a good school in her area.

The best plans aren’t always the plans we think of first, nor even the plans which appear best to us. The Lord has done so much in Sarita’s life, and we know that he has a wonderful plan for this bright young girl. What a blessing it is to be a part of Sarita’s and other people’s lives as we see God at work daily.

Other