We
came out Monday, along with Crystal Kauffman, whose family lives here
in Mbeya and Sheryl's parents who were here for 10 days visiting. We
4 girls begged Tim to let us ride on top of the Land Rover (picture
below) and he let us! :) Away we bounced out of Ivuna, positioning
ourselves on the totes, spare tire, and whatever felt most
comfortable. We reveled in the sheer freedom of the wind in our
face, and the fact that we were sitting above the avalanche of dust
brought on by those dusty roads. We sang out hearts out, laughed a
lot, and talked as the kilometers melted away and villages
disappeared behind us. In Utambalia, Tim made us get off, because as
we get closer to town, we'll find police who aren't exactly thrilled
about 4 wazungu riding a top a Land Rover. It made me grumpy at
first, squashing into the back of the Land Rover, shifting heavy back
packs and trying to not smash the feet of our neighbors as we got
comfortable, but then I realized that the next few hours would be
much more enjoyable if I accepted the fact. So I tried. But it was
still not nearly as lovely as riding on the top!
The
past few weeks since my last update have been very, very full. My
life has been packed to the brim of people. People in the morning,
people in the afternoon, people in the evening. I love being
immersed with the village people. I love caring for them,
interacting with them, and all the opportunities it brings me to
stretch my Swahili and learn more. I love being with the missionary
team and finding strength and encouragement from one another and from
the Lord. I do love people and my life would be incredibly
unfulfilled and absolutely boring without them. But at the same
time, I found myself struggling to care last week. As another
morning would dawn and my awful alarm clock would signal to my hazy
brain that a new day was beginning, I would groan and dread the
thought. My clinic mornings were very, very busy and not just with
“easy” cases like prenatals and wound care. Case after case of
fevers and other intense diagnosing situations came into my little
clinic room until my brain was about to fry. Actually, I think it
did sometimes. After 3-4 hours of intense interaction with patients,
we would find ourselves finally ready to lock the clinic and come
home. Trudy and I would cook up a quick lunch of rice and beans and
most days we would have people in and out of our house the entire
afternoon. Which, I loved, as it was friends and neighbors who
weren't there looking to me as a professional to give them answers
for their aches and pains, but it was still intense as I tried to
follow conversations and give simple input where I could. My brain
literally HURTS these days!! :) Between that, Trudy and I try to keep
up with the housework and laundry, but it's not at all uncommon to
not even get our lunch dishes washed before the sun goes down.
I
don't write this for pity at all. I love my life, I love the people,
I even love learning my new language- even when I feel like I'm not
getting anywhere. I just want to give a small glimpse into why it is
a blessing to be in town this week. Away from constant 'hodi's',
away from catching my breath every time a pikipiki comes close
because it might be a burn patient, away from the demands and
responsibilities. And that's why I'm glad that even Jesus needed a
time of refreshment.
I
wish I could bring each of you on a short waltz through the village.
I would introduce you to people- lots of them. Because they're
part of me now, and I wish you could know them! I would take
you to get chai and maandazi (tea and unsweetened doughnuts) from my
favorite little chai shop run by the sweetest couple. (And in case
you're wanting to know, a "chai shop" is nothing like a
"coffee shop". And, do I ever miss coffee shops!
Teresa and I love dreamily talking about by-gone days when coffee
shops were a normal part of life...another life, much removed from
the one we're privileged to be living right now.) But since you're
not actually here with me, I guess I'll attempt to give you snapshots
into what life means to me.
Morning's
are pretty "normal". The whole getting up ordeal, and
spending the much needed connection time with Jesus before the hectic
day begins. If I have time before breakfast, I'll usually sweep
a section of the courtyard, which is a very therapeutic task for me.
Early morning is the best time to sweep dusty courtyards as the sun
hasn't hit it yet and a bit of the night coolness is making it
somewhat heavier. I still cough tho, as a lot of dust still is
stirred up.
Clinic
hours start at 9, so shortly before that hour, you'll find Trudy and
I headed that direction, making our way through the village on any of
the varied paths that lead us there. We call out morning
greetings to people along the way, answer "shikamoo's" from
children who eagerly greet us, smile and holler "hujambo"
to other children to yell our names as we pass by. One of my
main goals the past while with the children was to teach them by
name, as I despise being called "mzungu" (white person)!
They're starting to learn that I respond a whole lot better to Kim
then to mzungu. :) At the clinic, we usually take time to sweep
and wipe down the past day's accumulation of dust, straighten the
sheet on the bed, and push back the curtain, letting the light shine
in. And then I start seeing patients. It's at the point
now, in my language comprehension, that I understand a fair amount of
what they tell us. I depend heavily on Trudy to be sure that I
actually DID understand, but most of the time I do. What is the
bigger challenge at this point, is being able to communicate back to
them. A lot of the well-used, familiar phrases and questions I
can, but anything beyond the basic questions I'm very lost in.
Even then, it takes a lot of guts to actually step out on my own and
talk!
One
evening after a day full of people in and out of our house, we had a
lull in visitors and decided it was the perfect opportunity to go
carry much needed water from the bomba (water tower). Trudy, Teresa,
and I each grabbed a bucket and a khanga and set off down the trail.
I had a patient I wanted to check up on, who lived in the general
direction of the bomba, so we decided to do that first. I wasn't
quite sure where she lived, so we asked a group of ladies sitting by
one of the houses. The one lady immediately jumped up and led us to
her house, where she proceeded to carry her small son of the house.
It was NOT the patient I had set out to find, but it was obvious that
this child was much, much sicker then the one I was looking for. He
was limp and quite spaced out, his entire body burning with fever,
and not able to sit up at all. His neck hurt badly when being turned
side to side, or put forward on his chest- and Teresa and I thought
of either meningitis or cerebral malaria. Teresa VERY sweetly
offered to run to the clinic (which happened to be all the way on the
other side of the village) and get me the malaria tests. Upon her
return, I did the test and it showed instantly positive for cerebral
malaria. We sat with the family for awhile, giving instructions on
medications and care for a child as sick as this guy was. It gave me
shivers to think of how God directed this meeting was, and confirmed
a blessing of following God's direction even in the little things.
It was after dark until we left, long past the hour that the bomba
closes, so we headed home with empty buckets bouncing on our arms.
Approximately 2 months ago, in early July, I did a prenatal for our neighbor lady and estimated her due date to be in November. After she left, Rebecca filled me in on her story a bit, and her inability to carry her babies full term. She has one child alive, and has buried many, many tiny babies born entirely too young. Deep in my heart I desperately hoped for a different ending to this pregnancy. Part of me was hesitant to hope tho, knowing how incredibly hard these women work. In the States, she would've been put on complete bed rest and monitored closely, but here...no matter how hard we try or how much we encourage, that just doesn't ever happen.
Several
weeks ago, Mama Ima came to me once again for a prenatal, this time
with the disturbing news that she had lost a lot of water the day
before. (We later pieced together more of the story, and found
out that her and Baba Ima were in a motorcycle accident which is
probably what triggered the breakage of the water and inevitable
danger to her child and herself.) I did a quick prenatal check,
and found that she measured exactly the same centimeters that she
measured at her earlier prenatal check up, 6 weeks ago. I also
was very aware that she had very little fluid surrounding her baby.
The one bright spot of the prenatal was finding a good, strong
heartbeat. But, I knew that the tiny child to whom the
heartbeat belonged was in imminent danger, and strongly encouraged
her to go out to town to a facility equip for this type of
emergency. Later that day, Trudy and I spoke with Baba Ima and
enforced the same thing. That evening, Baba Ima and Kredo,
(Mama Ima's father, also a solid believer in our little church here),
came to Tim's and Tim was able to lay out the seriousness of the
situation and the quick decisions that needed to be made if both of
their lives were to have a chance at surviving.
Baba
Ima looked quite uncertain and unsure, like it almost wouldn't be
worth it to even try. Part of me tried to understand how he was
feeling, not wanting to get his hopes up, only to be completely
dashed and disappointed once again. Yet, on the other hand, I wanted
to shake some sense into him and tell him to CARE about his wife for
once.
The
following morning while I was at the clinic, Sheryl texted me and
said that after much convincing from Kredo, and nearly forcing Baba
Ima to take Mama Ima out, they went. Relief. I prayed and
hoped that she would have a chance to rest.
Saturday,
Kredo delivered the news that Mama Ima gave birth to a tiny baby boy-
who, at this point was alive! I rejoiced that Mama Ima had made
it to town before her labor had begun, and her tiny child had a
chance to fight for life. I prayed that this child would be
able to live and Ima would have a brother.
Tuesday
morning we got word, from Tim and Sheryl who are in town that week,
that Mama Ima's baby died during the night. It felt like
someone had punched me in the gut. All that hoping. Praying.
Building up possibility. And then he didn't make it. I
can only imagine how Mama Ima's hopes must be dashed, yet again, as
she returns to Ivuna with the shell of her latest baby. She
lost so many. So many tiny graves around their house.
Tim
went into the hospital early that morning in hopes that they would
let him in to visit and get a feel of the situation. They let
him and Baba Ima in, only to find out the sad news. I'm so glad
Tim was able to be there over that time and I pray he was able to
minister peace and hope in Jesus to the grieving family.
That
evening around 7, we got wind that they had arrived back in Ivuna.
We went over to their house and joined the group of ladies forming
there. We settled ourselves on the mat in the dark house, and
before long a stream of people came in, with Baba Ima in the lead.
Then,
all the old ladies (who are responsible to bury babies) must have
felt obligated to lift their voices and argue about when and where
the baby should be buried. Oh, what a din. Finally, Kredo
stood up and commanded some order to the hubbub. Before long, I
absolutely couldn't believe it, but they began digging the grave
right inside the house! That's right. Just in the one
corner, by the door.
It
was a shallow grave. With a panga, Baba Ima hacked off a piece
of a mat, then a large, pink bag was brought from the adjourning
room. I stared, astounded, as they began emptying the bag.
First banana's. Then more food. A bunch of clothes.
In the bottom, a heap of khanga's was very gently lifted from the bag
and positioned on the lap of one of the old ladies. She gently
unwrapped the khanga's, finally exposing the incredibly tiny child
within. (He weighed barely 3 pounds.)
That's
when I lost it, and tears streamed unchecked. I wondered why
the tears, as I know where this sweet child is. I *know* he is
safe in Jesus arm's, forever safe from the awful effects of sin that
plague his people. It's not for the baby that I cry. No,
it's for his family. The hope, the expectation that they, we,
dared to allow to spring up in our hearts. Dashed. Broken
to pieces once again. Tears are shed because hope lies
shattered.
Tears
are shed for the lostness of the souls that surrounded me in that
dismal little hut. The hopelessness, the finality, and the
striking realization in my heart that his family will never see him
again if they don't realize their lostness and need of a personal
Saviour. In that instant, life seemed so dark. My soul
felt a burden to heavy to bear. I cried out to God to open the
eyes of the blind and to set the captives free. But for a
moment, God seemed to have deserted this feeble band.
I
sank against the wall again as the old ladies continued their
preparation for burial. I really had no desire to watch the
tiny body committed to the ground. The door was open to the
outside, and the golden harvest moon hung in beauty and splendor
above the earth, bathing our village in it's gentle glow. In that
moment, I felt the presence of God bathing my heart just like the
full moon was bathing the earth. God had not forgotten us, He was
very much there and very much alive. As well as very much interested
in the pain this family was feeling.
The
old women returned the dirt over the tiny, shallow grave and used
water to smooth it out. Then it was left to dry, while everyone
gathered around, listening to the story of Mama Ima and Mama Jose's
trip. It was getting late and my head was beginning to swim, so I
was catching very little of the Swahili going on. Eventually, I
slipped out the door and sat on the step at the side of the house,
staring at the moon and lost in a swirling myriad of thoughts until
Teresa and Trudy were ready to go.
Remember
in early July when I wrote about taking a woman with a transverse
lying baby out to town in an emergency? Well, I had never been able
to follow up on her and find out what had happened after we left her
at the Ifisi hospital and came back to the village. One afternoon,
she showed up on our doorstep with her adorable 2 month old baby
girl- Membe. She informed us that she did end up having a c-section,
as the baby had turned transverse again (if you remember, by the time
we had gotten to town, the baby had turned head down). It took 2
months to find out I had made the right decision, but it was so good
to hear. We are wanting to go to the Sukuma settlement where they
live and spend sometime with them- I can't wait til it happens, and
I've been aching to find out more about the many Sukuma who frequent
my clinic. They have to be my favorite people group here.
It's
about time to head down the Kauffman's house and enjoy a “girls
night” with the single women staff here in Mbeya. We're all
looking forward to it- it's fun to have other young people to connect
with. Then tomorrow, Trudy, Teresa, and I head to Malawi to get
Teresa's visa renewed for another 3 months. We're all looking
forward to seeing a new country and I'm especially excited about
getting a new stamp in my passport! :)
Life
is full of small delights, Things like lovely scented lotion
slathered on dry, weary feet at the end of the day. Like the
"precious" pumpkin spice latte's Teresa made when I was
greatly missing fall in America and the annual pumpkin spice craze.
No, it wasn't "starbucks" perfect, but considering the
setting, it was amazing! An email or picture from dear people
in America. The beautiful evenings when a refreshing hint of
coolness replaces the intense afternoon sun. Standing out by
the ball field with a host of village onlookers watching the intense
game of football (known as soccer in America.). The beautiful
sound of the "ping" of canned beans sealing- they just must
stay that way now! The sound of my name being called out as I
walk these paths. The feeling of a sweet baby tied to my back.
Just
in case you wanted to know, I love getting emails and hearing from
y'all!
For
Jesus, Kim
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