My Hope Secures

 

For weeks, our highlands region of Papua New Guinea dried up as the rains, upon which much of life is dependent, stalled out.  While the annual dry season often brings a brief spell of lower rivers and more tenuous gardening, this year has been unusually barren.  As we stroll the roads, my children find that the prickly remains of grass beside the stones do not provide the same relief to their bare feet as they used to.  Entire communities look eagerly at the sky each day wondering when the drought might break while walking a bit further to get a little less water.  A truly dry spell.

 

 

Our team of doctors meets every Friday morning before starting work to share a devotion with each other.  At times, we pray together while at others we discuss something the Lord has shown us.  In some of the best moments we open up and provide stories about patients that have touched us – in heartache or in encouragement.  In all cases, we try to acknowledge the Lord’s provision and sovereignty as He works in the lives of those who come to us.

I confess that during this day’s time of sharing, it struck me that I’ve gone a decent amount of time without feeling compelled by an individual patient – neither in compassion with suffering nor joy in healing.  While I didn’t feel numb, I realized that God had not given me a moment of deep connection in a patient’s story for a while.

In some ways I have found this helpful – to establish an even footing helps me avoid the despair that could accompany many of my patients struggles.  Conversely, it likely prevents me from experiencing the full joy of the many restorations that I see.  I sometimes comment to my colleagues or students that there are very few firsts and very few worsts left for me.  Does that mean callousness, or a mature response to the extremes of our ministry?  I cannot tell, yet I suspect some of both.  I have sometimes wondered if those redemptive stories will touch my heart as they have in the past.  A touch that kindles my hope – so easily shaken when I don’t embrace my patients for fear of their loss.  But I cling to the promise of His presence, even if I don’t always feel it.

 

I walked into our White Haus clinic to attend some patients that our nurses felt needed a doctor’s review due to cervical cancer lesions.  I have loved being a part of this ministry at Kudjip, but in recent years have turned most of it over to others on our team.  This week I was helping to cover an absence in the clinic just after giving a lecture to our medical staff while providing on-call backup to one of our other doctors.  I was grateful that only a few books were stacked on the desk for me to review.

I glanced at the notes as my nurse prepared the next patient for a pelvic exam.  While asking questions of her medical history I felt stirrings of a sort – too much of her story felt familiar.  Like the Lord was preparing me for a moment.

 

“I have been young and now am old, yet I have not seen the righteous forsaken …”

Psalm 37

 

A few years ago I cared for a young woman in a very difficult situation.  She had been neglected by her family, developed debilitating sores and growths, contracted Tuberculosis, and expected her first baby in a few months.  When I first met her she refused the care of the nurses, unable or unwilling to comply with their efforts, so I carried her despondent frame into one of our delivery beds to help bathe and dress her and assess her pregnancy.  After starting her on treatments, it unfortunately happened that her delivery became imminent at a time when her baby would not be able to survive.  With growths obstructing the birth canal, we operated to deliver her baby, who passed away shortly after.

During her recovery I struggled to engage with her until one special morning.  For the first time I saw a smile on her face and her countenance lifted.  I glanced at the nurse notes from the night before.  One of our young nurses attended her in the night to help bathe her, dress her sores, and change the bandages from her operation.  In the papers I saw that our nurse had shared the love of Christ with her and his work of rescue.  She had received Him into her life and they both prayed together.  A new joy – a hope - took hold of her.

After she left the hospital, I asked myself often what became of her.  I knew her family situation was not ideal, and I wondered if she would be able to complete her TB treatment and fully recover.  I feared that her story ending poorly would create a barrier in me to feeling God’s hope for the most destitute – even the ones that I see start a promising journey to restoration.

 

“'Twas grace that taught my heart to fear”

 

Back in the clinic and several years later she was unrecognizable from the wraith who nearly died in our hospital.  I gently recounted her story as I remembered it and she grinned.  She was now living with her husband and was expecting again.  She remembered how difficult her pregnancy became last time and came early to be seen in this one.  She had faithfully finished her TB medicines and was looking forward to the new life she anticipated in the coming months, while celebrating her own new life with Christ.

 

“And Grace my fears relieved”

 

After we prayed, she left the room and I broke.  I told the nurse to give me a moment which stretched into many.  Thankfully there were not many patients still to be seen as I recovered myself.  With my face in my hands I collected tears on my sleeves – the only gratitude I could express in that moment, that God would bring this one patient back into my life after years of uncertainty.

 

“The Lord has promised good to me

His Word my hope secures

He will my shield and portion be

As long as life endures”

 

A few days later, I conducted a reassuring ultrasound and counseled her and her husband in our outpatient department on the best steps to care for her unborn baby.  Towards the end of our visit, she glanced down at her feet and nervously said, “Dokta, mipela laik – inap yu ken beten long mipela?”  “Doctor, we hoped that you could pray for us.”  The three of us joined hands while a busy clinic in the PNG highlands swirled around us, and God gave His spirit in a way I had wondered when I might see or feel again.  As they left, her husband affectionately embraced me.

 

Three days later I eagerly scrambled through the dampening grass, climbed onto my roof, and sat on the tin, delightfully picking leaves and sticks out of my gutters while the rain fell on me.  A slow but certain stream of water began filling our tanks.  I knew we needed more, but in that moment I was content.

 

Does faith grow or dwindle as I minister among the great needs of people who must suffer so much?  Do I treasure God’s assurances despite circumstances and stories around me, or do I withdraw from them and from Him? 

I wish I could say my faith and trust endured without the messy work of dry and barren spells.  But I am learning increasingly that I do not possess faith on my own.  It is something I must ask and pray for.  How and in what measure God supplies is down to His own purposes and timing.  Yet I have seen that He gives assurances in important times – assurances that relieve a parched land and secure Hope.

Divine ache

 

“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.”

-Sarah Sparks

 

 

 

 

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.”

 

 

 

Standing Room

I could feel the sweat trickling down my back as I sutured a uterus closed, but I couldn't hear the cries of new life I so craved.  Once the baby was out in my arms I knew we were in trouble.  No breathing and only a faint heartbeat.  I quickly handed off to our visiting resident, Dr. Erin, who did an amazing job performing the resuscitation maneuvers she had recently taught to our staff.  After several lifeless minutes, Erin announced, "We have a heartbeat and breathing."  But I worried - too much time had elapsed.  Could this baby have any chance to survive and thrive?  The weight in the silence ...

 "And it's been like that for a long, long time and I heard we've got a longer way to go"

-Gray Havens

 I got the call during my Saturday morning rounds on the pediatric ward.  It felt odd that my twin brother would be making a direct call (when there wasn't a soccer game to watch that I knew of).

"Mom is in the hospital"

The subsequent conversation discolored the rest of the day - and more.  Though there was nothing I could do from afar and I had confidence in the doctors taking care of my mother, I struggled to diligently apply myself to the patients counting on me in the same way.

In the subsequent weeks my family has surrounded my parents in a way that has been impressive.  My mom walks a tough road to recovery from a stroke affecting her orientation and recall.  I can only image the struggle - "Like there's a memory there, except you don't remember anymore."  A longing to be restored.  I continue to hope and pray for them while grappling with the reality of not being physically present.

And all the while, the very real needs and losses of my community in the jungles of Papua New Guinea keep coming.

In the last few years I have heard much about the idea of "lament" - acknowledging and even dwelling in the reality of grief and loss.  My writings have consistently helped me in that area - reflecting on and processing those feelings while receiving the Hope that God can bring through them.  The experiences of fellow missionaries have been a tremendous blessing in those times - knowing that the handful of people in the world that could understand what I feel were walking beside me in those daily realities.

While I need to make space for those needed feelings and emotions, I must also continue to press into the eternal Hope of God's redemption.  That the loss, struggle, and tragedies that threaten to overwhelm me and all of this fallen creation are a temporary thing - a passing winter on the way to a glorious and bright future.  And I need to hold onto the glimpses I get of that just as fiercely as I feel the times of heartache. 

 

"Have you ever wanted so bad to believe in something more?"

 

The truth is that every time I encounter a patient, whether to refill blood pressure medicine or to counsel and answer the questions of grieving parents, neither of us ought to be there.  The need for physical help and healing in this world as an aberration.  I am grateful that God asked me to do it and that He makes it fulfilling - through the joys and the sorrows.  But one day all that I do will be obsolete and that is His original purpose.

"We are so used to death, disease, injustice, and chaos that we forget - they are the intruders in God's good world ... to follow Jesus isn't just to watch him do things like heal the sick and deliver the oppressed; it's to train under him to do those kinds of things too."

-John Mark Comer

The next day I couldn't find that new baby in the nursery.  Knowing what happened, I rounded on the remaining patients and then went to check on my resident covering the twenty or so post-partum mothers.  The first patient pulled me up short.  There she was - holding a newborn who was dead less than twelve hours ago.  She had done so well that the nurses had already taken her out to nurse with her mother.  And a glimpse of that eternal summer sent its ray into our ward, like a foretaste of the great and completed redemption that I long for.

So while I make space to grieve for my own hurts, those of my family, and the hard losses of my patients I cannot lose sight of the Resurrection and the endless days coming, somewhere, without any of those pains or fears.

"So while I find out where this goes,

I'm giving standing-room to the cold for now -

But not a place upon a throne."

From the dirt

"Circumstance often changes the way that I see"

-Sarah Sparks

 

I stepped out the back of the police Land Cruiser with a million other things on my mind, but I knew I would soon need to process what I had seen.

My resident and I were managing a mass casualty incident in our Emergency Room - in which nearly a dozen people had been injured when a PMV (public motor vehicle) rolled over not far from Kudjip.  Some experienced only minor injuries while others lay in a critical condition awaiting our stabilizing procedures or advanced surgery.  A policeman got my attention and informed me that I needed to confirm a fatality before they could take the body away - the body of a young girl who suffered a severe head injury and died at the scene.  

I walked just outside the doors for a brief moment and crawled a short way into the back of the truck - enough to confirm that a young victim lay there, clearly lifeless.  Thirty seconds later I had completed the paperwork, given it to the officer-in-charge, and returned to assisting my resident.  

Several other people received life-saving treatment in the space of a few short hours - but my mind lingered on the young girl who couldn't make it to us in time, as it so often does when we lose children.  

Though I know there was nothing else that I could have done in that circumstance, the reality that I need to pronounce the end of so many young lives weighed upon me.

Fast forward a couple months.

I've just finished teaching an obstetrics course to several PNG doctors alongside a friend visiting from the US.  I'm on call the next day and Matt agrees to work with me.  After a full clinic day, we are summoned to the ER to attend a young girl we will call Mara who is confused and disoriented with a head injury after being struck by a bus.  A wire of energy and anxiety go through me, recalling that tragically similar scenario, as we prepare to stabilize her.  

After administering an anesthetic her confused thrashings abate and we get to work.  A gaping head wound needs vigorous cleaning and scrubbing after filling with dirt from the roadside.  The dirt is removed.  The skull and underlying tissues are cleaned thoroughly.  Many stitches are placed and drains are sewn into the wound.  I write orders for some basic supportive care - IV fluids, medications to prevent seizures, antibiotics to prevent infection, and instructions for the nurses to provide suction as needed.  While the wound seems adequately treated, it is difficult to know how much damage may lurk beneath the bones and only time on our ward will show us whether she can survive.

While we have enjoyed furloughs at least every two years, we are now blessed with the chance to take a Sabbatical.  Two months of time completely separate from the responsibilities of our ministry - a ministry which escalated this year as Esther took on a full-time teaching assignment and I navigated being the senior missionary doctor for some months.  At first I struggled feeling that this time would be "wasted" - though I knew I needed a break from the stresses of Kudjip.  Through some painful emotions and times with God, I came to appreciate the chance for some deliberate time away.  I have managed to find new connections with my family and reflect on my ministry in a way that helps me prepare to resume it.  In a sense, I have been given a chance to see new life coming from the dirt of a difficult season.

A few days after my visiting colleague leaves to return to the US, I am feeling a bit overwhelmed as I leave the hospital.  I am headed to our missionary prayer room, but I pull up short on the walkway outside the paediatrics ward.  A man and his daughter are carrying their things down the ramp and I realize it is Mara - not only alive but awake, alert, walking, and speaking normally.  Her father grins at the surprised look on my face.  I give them each a hug, take a quick picture, say a silent "Thanks" to the Lord and make my way to the prayer room - where I fill several tissues and receive an encouraging time of prayer from one of my fellow missionary doctors.

 

 

 

"Surely I have calmed and quieted my soul" -Psalm 131:2

I have found myself genuinely struggling with appreciating God's goodness in light of the difficult things we encounter so often.  In the past, I have consistently been able to walk into those situations and feel His presence through them.  After a difficult year of ministry, my reserves for those encounters felt like they were running dry.

But then the Lord provides something that helps me remember His plans will be completed.  His work in the world, in His ways, on His time.  Though I cannot understand Him, He can understand me and He knows the hurts that still need relief - both for me and through me.

 

"You complete your plans with our broken hands, you have shown.

I have seen your work: raising life up from the dirt.

This I know -

See that thread of sin seamlessly woven in

This I know - 

See the lion, see the lamb, You complete Your plans - this I know."

Anywhere

"There's a shadow at my back saying, 'Everything's broken'

So I pointed to a star saying, 'That's where I'm going'"

-Gray Havens

 

For a couple months I have struggled to put this story together.  Bear with me if it gets disjointed or heavy.

I stared at the papers in front of me as a way of avoiding the very real suffering of a young woman on our paediatrics ward.  Inwardly I fought the temptation to leave - to walk away from that bedside and the heartbreak it held.  I wanted to escape.

"Kay" had walked into my clinic room about a week earlier bearing two baby bilums carrying her twins.  For a variety of reasons, including many outside of Kay's control, they struggled to find stability in their home and did not feed or grow well.  When I unwrapped those precious bundles two sets of weak eyes looked at me from wasted frames.  We went to the emergency room to prepare their admission to the hospital.

Over the next few days I struggled to adjust fluids, medicines, and feeds in an effort to save their lives.  But on this particular morning I approached the bed where a weeping mother sat on the floor cradling a baby in her lap as tears dropped onto its face.  Only one patient chart remained.

We dutifully and tearfully went through the medical ritual of morning rounds: "Any vomiting or diarrhea?  Was there any blood in it?  Fevers?  Did she take the feeds we gave?"  But we both struggled to put our hearts in it, dwelling instead on the ghost of that little life now missing among us.

I got through that encounter and got away quickly.

I changed departments soon after.  Several weeks passed and I no longer saw "Kay" or her baby around the hospital.  I assumed the worst and moved on.  

"Just take me anywhere - anywhere - anywhere but here"

 

Ten years serving in a mission hospital in one of the more remote parts of the world have taken me through some things I would never wish on anybody.  Losing so many patients.  Not losing others.  Performing procedures I never dreamed I would have to.  Running a treadmill clinic sometimes just to get to the end of the day.  Working seemingly endless shifts during a global pandemic when we had four doctors for half a million people.  Watching my son gasp for breath in a hospital with no ventilators. Wondering what kind of tropical fever could be afflicting my daughter.  Talking honestly with my teenager about why it is sometimes both great and awful to be a missionary.  Feeling torn between my call and my family.  Losing connections that I thought would last.

In our early years the solution to the most difficult times felt like it should be to escape them.  If only I weren't here - If only God had called somebody else to do this - I wouldn't have these challenges.  My relationships would be "happy and healthy" and I would be earning an income that allowed me to get a little more rest and recreation.

 

 

I have meditated a lot lately on Jesus' words, 

"Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light." (Matthew 11:28-30).

Before and after this passage Jesus admonishes: 

"Go and learn what this means, 'I desire mercy and not sacrifice'" (9:13; 12:7).

 

Our family prepared to walk home as we concluded the weekly missionary prayer meeting on a Thursday night.  I felt a nudge in my spirit that I should return to the hospital to check on a patient, so I told Esther I would catch up back at the house.

Our newest resident had discussed her with me that morning and it was clear that she was very ill.  A tropical fever with renal failure at just about thirty-two weeks pregnant.  Regretfully I look back and see that, while I listened attentively and made some helpful suggestions, I was inwardly avoiding the thing that I knew would be the most painful: to go, sit with her, hear her story, and see a face that I may have to say goodbye to soon.  After suggesting some orders, I had gone to clinic, seen heaps of patients, and gone home thinking, "maybe tomorrow." 

But apparently the Lord felt it couldn't wait until morning, and the gravel now crunched beneath my shoes on the way back to the hospital.  I tried to imagine what I would say or do that might help.  My resident had done it all.  What was I adding?  Should I just turn home and avoid this heartache?

She joined me in the delivery room where I repeated her ultrasound to provide a "reason" for this late visit. 

And then it happened.  For the next thirty minutes she told me things she had never shared with another soul.  I mostly listened for a long while to the unfolding of a tragically familiar story, almost dreading every next turn in the tale. 

 

"But it just feels like pain, it doesn't feel like progress ..."

 

Yet slowly, miraculously, that dread ebbed away and was soon gone.  I felt a comfort and peace that could only be Divine - and knew that the middle of this pain and struggle was exactly where I was meant to be.  The tears that rimmed her eyes spoke of guilt, fear, and shame - but the tenderness of the moment promised restoration.  Jesus filled up that space not because it was good and joyful, but because it was painful and sad.  A fitting place for a rescuer.  When I shared with her about His love for us, she immediately wanted to sense it and prayed for Him to join her life.

Her physical condition did not change - but a new sense of peace visited both of us as I said goodnight, hoping against the odds that I would be able to see her again in the morning.  

 

I know I have a tendency toward being sacrificial - working hard and enduring much as a way to "prove" my own commitment or strength.  I must guard against it.  But in those moments of pressing, when I know that I am overburdened and I want to go find something easy and light, I am discovering that Christ's comfort to me is not to remove the pressure.  His solution is much better.  My yoke becomes easy, and my burden light, not because He changes it - but because He is in it.  Joined to Him I don't have to endure - but to receive mercy.  The weight lifts.  The heaviness makes me not a sacrificial martyr, but an apprentice - being formed more and more into the likeness of the One who toils alongside me.  And my soul rests, trusting that my transformed self on the other side will be a better reflection of Him to those around me.

 

 

 

One morning I called for the next patient in our clinic to join me.  I looked at the pictures drawn by my children in their younger days adorning the walls - now sun-faded.  I briefly reflected on the thousands of patients I have tended over the last decade in those walls - with a mixture of joy and sadness.  A heavy burden attempted to creep up on me.

But Jesus walked in again - disguised as Kay and her surviving baby, now gaining weight and growing. 

And I was grateful that the One who joins me to his yoke in those dying moments is just as present in the new and living ones.  

 

"So bring me to a place where I don't chase escape,

somewhere I could finally say,

'Don't take me anywhere - anywhere - anywhere but here'"

Glories stream

Robert walked along the stony roads of Jiwaka some weeks ago, unaware that his life was about to change forever.  A bulldozer worked to clear large trees in preparation for a re-working of the road not far from our home.  One tree snapped violently in half and spun out of control, striking Robert directly across the side of the head.  He lost consciousness briefly and friends brought him to the emergency room at Kudjip.

After concluding a difficult post-partum hemorrhage management in our maternity ward, a nurse summoned me to the ER where Robert's injuries quickly threatened his airway and his life.  One look and I knew that even with aggressive surgery he could die.  I phoned my incredible friend and colleague Dr. Ben Radcliffe and we quickly took Robert to the operating theatre.

Fifteen minutes into the procedure we knew Robert was in big trouble.  After creating a new airway that bypassed his injuries through his neck, the difficult work of stopping the bleeding and re-creating facial structures for Robert began.  After two hours of work, Dr. Ben placed some stabilizing arch bars across his mandible and left large balloons and packs in his nose to slow the blood loss while we prayed for his head injury to stabilize before more definitive treatment could be pursued on another day.  I found his brother waiting outside under the night sky and gave him the heavy news.  As I bundled some things away in my clinic room and prepared to go home, I said a special prayer for Robert - one like so many I have uttered in the corridors of the hospital during those long call nights. 

 

 

 

Our family just returned from what has become my favorite Christmas tradition.

Each year the missionaries of Kudjip visit the hospital on Christmas Eve to bring carols, the nativity story, and small gifts to those in our community who are too sick to be in their homes to celebrate Christ's birth.  Each year brings tears to my eyes.

I miss the cold weather and the occasional white-morning Christmases in the U.S. but if I could choose one sensation to replace them, it would be the consistent blend of joy and gratitude that I feel during these special times with family and my patients.

 

 

As we shared Christmas presents with the suffering of the PNG highlands, a tender moment interrupted me.

After our songs and reading of the Christmas story, a seemingly new Robert smiled and spoke clearly of his gratitude to God in sparing his life as I saw him shaking hands with Dr. Ben.  Tears immediately came to my eyes as I recalled the thin, softly muttered prayer in the dark some weeks ago.  I took Robert's hand in mine and managed to choke out a "Merry Christmas."  I wasn't sure if I'd seen a more glorious sight.

Our efforts in Kudjip go far beyond medicine.  The lives of our friends and neighbors rub, and sometimes grate, against ours in ways that force us to bring God's patience, grace, forgiveness, and love to and through challenging times of ministry.  The times our mission family can share in a Christmas party or a Christmas outreach build connections that allow our friendships to transcend the difficulties of bringing health and hope to a hurting place.

And the hallowed halls and wards of the hospital become much more than just a place to practice medicine.  They have changed into a sort of home.  Not in the sense that I live in them - but, in a way, the sacred work and vulnerable people that they hold now live in me.  Sometimes I feel it strongly during times that my family can join the ministry there.  But many times I feel it most in darkened halls, whispering last resort prayers to a God that has shown himself willing to embrace the darkness of our world by joining us, dying for us, and lending His strength to us in pursuing His redemption for all people.

 

Glories stream from Heaven afar

Heavenly hosts sing Hallelujah

Christ the savior is born

JJ Heller