“Dokta – inap mi ken stori liklik?”
As I conclude encounters in my clinic, I sometimes shudder when the patient or their family want to stay and visit. With a long line of the sick and needy waiting just outside, it’s hard to create space for anything beyond the essentials.
In this case, I had examined an elderly lady with classic signs and symptoms of congestive heart failure – something for which we have some effective medicines. Though it seemed a straight-forward case, there were three generations of their family in the room. I felt grateful that I could write a quick prescription and move on to the next person. But her son had other ideas and wanted to “stori” or to talk a while.
On this day I had already completed rounds – in which we lost two babies I had been caring for in our nursery. I just didn’t feel like I could keep up with any extra “hevis.” Mercifully, down the years I have grown into that need to pause and allow for divine interruptions. So, I braced myself for what might come next.
“Hear the trees, hear them whispering,
They tell stories of a King.”
The burden of illness and injury in the highlands of Papua New Guinea can quickly feel overwhelming. When patients die, the grieving family members often mourn loudly and sometimes painfully – throwing themselves to the ground or tearing at their clothes. More painful though, by far, are the somber but silent tears of mothers who lose their babies. Tragically, they are accustomed enough to children dying that the response feels almost muted. Part of me finds it tragic that these little lives receive comparably less attention than those of village leaders or “bikmen.” But another piece of me finds that quiet grief more sincere and thus more compelling. At times I put my arms around the shoulders of a crying mother while at others I touch the small and lifeless form on the bed. In the best ones I manage to bring a prayer for peace into those moments, sometimes half-choked. And it still happens that I start to wonder – what is the point of this work if innocent babies will still lose their earthly fights despite our best efforts? What am I really doing or changing? Is it worth it?
Jesus and some of his disciples visit a wedding feast. During processions the party guests exhaust their supply of wine. Mary, Jesus’ mother, approaches him about it. To this point in the Gospel, Jesus has not openly performed a miracle and it seems He realizes the importance of timing in His ministry. Despite telling His mother that His time is not yet come, she addresses the servants nearby and says, “Do whatever He tells you.”
Did they have any idea what would happen next? Did they look expectantly at Jesus or chase their own anxious ideas about the very real problem of the finished wine? Whatever their attitude, Jesus’ instructions must have seemed simple to the point of foolishness. “Fill these water-pots with water.” Thus begins the public ministry of the Son of God.
There is no shortage of work for medical missionaries. Sickness, injury, and need overwhelm many parts of our world – to the point that the staggering level of it can numb those who approach. A certain level of resilience is needed to encounter and perhaps even embrace those hardships. Yet while the hurts of a lost world cannot break my heart all the time, they must break my heart sometimes. When that happens, I’m tempted to question – especially the why and the how of God’s patient, but ultimately redeeming, work. Naturally, my next question is, “what should I do about it?”
In my clinic room, I resume my seat to hear what the four people in front of me want to say. The son spoke up. “Doctor, eight years ago my wife and I sat in this room with you. At the time we weren’t ready to have a baby. In fact, we thought we would end the pregnancy. But you told us that a child’s life is a blessing and that this one would be a blessing as well. I want to say thank you because this is our son, and he has been a blessing to us.” He pointed to the boy just in front of me and smiles broke out on all their faces. That casing around my heart melted and I knew this was a time for a joyous heartbreak.
“And the forest waits
with a divine ache
for His returning”
I confess I’d forgotten about that encounter all those years ago. The challenges facing parents in this place create a situation like that with some regularity. Perhaps once a week in my clinic I need to counsel a woman (sometimes her partner) through the anxieties of an unwanted pregnancy. Sometimes they return to our emergency department where I need to stabilize and then support them through decisions they’ve made in the face of very difficult circumstances. In those moments of counsel or encouragement, I don’t necessarily feel anything miraculous taking place.
But as I reflect on Jesus’ ministry and nearly twelve years of tending broken lives and souls in Papua New Guinea, I appreciate something new about my role as a missionary. Though I’ve seen God perform miracles in and through this place, my role is not to chase that kind of work. When I do, the disappointment that accompanies some of the “losses” overwhelms me. So perhaps I am the servant doing whatever He tells me. But when I’m asked to do the same things over and over it feels tedious sometimes, especially if don’t see the fruits of my labour.
So I choose to be a water pot.
Not ornate. Content to rest off to the side sometimes. Finding a peace in the process of being filled and emptied daily. Yet contributing to the very real needs of the Kingdom, even in a way that goes unheeded or even taken for granted.
Because I know that when Jesus participates, that water might become His fine wine to someone around me.
“I will forget who I am for who You are
‘cause the truth is all my worth can only be found
In your scars.”
