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.
