Prayer Requests

PLEASE PRAY 1. Today one of our surgeons learned that he has cancer. The details and prognosis surrounding his condition are not certain, but he will be leaving the ship, with his family, this weekend. Pray for his family, for relief from pain, and for increased faith in a very stressful time. Also, pray for wisdom for the hospital leadership and for more surgeons to volunteer. It is likely that we will have to cancel all the surgeries we had scheduled for this surgeon. He was planning on being here 6 months. Pray for the patients that were hoping to have surgery with him. 2. We need more volunteers for the ship. We are having to cancel surgeries because we are short on staff. Right now we really need Operating Room (OR) Nurses and Anesthesiologists. If you have ever had an itch or desire to step out of your comfort zone and do something crazy, let me know (although I think it is perfectly normal to be in Africa, paying to volunteer). We are accepting applications daily. The pay is non-existent, you will be challenged, but the benefits are out of this world (literally, your reward won't come until you reach heaven!) But, once you look into the eyes of a little child and hold them, knowing their life has forever been changed because of your service, it is all worth it. Please let your friends and family know about this need. No specific length of commitment is required (but, I must warn you, this place is addictive). 3. Safety for our crew and day volunteers. Although we are in a relatively safe area, there is always trouble and crime lurking around the corner. This past weekend one of our day volunteers & a good friend of mine, was attacked, robbed, and injured. He is okay, but he has a broken arm and his passport was stolen, along with some other personal items. Pray for him in his recovery. Pray specifically for our volunteers that work long hours and have to travel home after dark. Thanks!

Under the Influence

I am really enjoying my new jobs and nursing roles on the ship. I am feeling comfortable in my role as VVF Co-Coordinator and this past week I had my first set of consecutive shifts as Charge Nurse. I love the challenge, critical thinking, and diversity these new roles bring to my job and nursing on the ship. I continue to work shifts as a ward nurse as well and this past week I added some training in my schedule to help out as an Admission Nurse, too. With my new leadership roles in the VVF department and as charge nurse, I have been given more responsibility and I am finding myself in a position of power to help make decisions. I would ask for your prayers that I will stay humble and that I would be a servant-leader. Recently, I heard this question, “Do you want to be a person of influence, or a person with a title?” I have been pondering this question a lot lately. Am I living in such a way to be a person of influence, or do I live for a “title/position?” It has been good to ponder this question. My desire is that I will remain humble and strive to be a person of influence, not merely a person with a “title.” I watched a segment from a DVD called "Faith Lessons on the Death and Resurrection of the Messiah" the other night and it prompted me to reflect more on the subject of striving to be a person of influence versus a person seeking recognition or a title. The narrator of the film, Ray Vander Laan, a historian and pastor, was holding small shattered pieces of stone and marble from the ruins of the Biblical city of Caesarea. Ray Vander Laan went on to explain, Caesarea was one of the greatest cities of its time; it was comparable to Rome in the areas of technology, development, and society. The narrator of the movie pointed out that King Herod was largely responsible for the greatness of Caesarea, but now all that remains of that ancient city and Herod’s greatness, is rubble, rocks, stones, and ruins. Today, few people take time to consider who King Herod was and his past accomplishments. But on the other hand, most people familiar with the Bible know the story of a simple shepherd boy and what he did with a few rocks and stones. In the face of adversity, ridicule, and challenge, David picked up a handful of small stones, put them in a sling-shot, and killed a giant. Yes, David, later became a king, but it his shepherd boy story that still influences many today. When we are willing to live under the influence of Christ, great things happen! God will take what we offer Him and transform nations. (The previously mentioned insight does not come from my small brain; all credit goes to Ray Vander Laan and the movie "Faith Lessons on the Death and Resurrection of the Messiah"). (I would fail university now if I cited like this, but I am doing the best I can, I cannot remember how to write formal papers, but at least I cannot be accused of plagiarism!) I am more and more aware that in life, we have the choice to take what we are given; the gifts and talents we are blessed with and we can push, trample on others, and fight to make a name for ourselves. After our struggle, we may earn a title, but we will soon be forgotten. Or we can take our abilities; give them back to God, and watch his influence spread through us. Having a title and a prestigious position is okay, but my prayer is that my heart and life will show that I want to be a person of influence, not just a person with a title. I hope that I will be responsible with the tasks God gives me and I pray that I charge into each new day, under the influence of Christ.

Root Beer Colored Children and Clothes Flying Everywhere

The group had just arrived at the beach bungalow and they were busy setting up camp for the day. Some women in the group grabbed pieces of straw to sweep the floor. Others neatly arranged large, colorful carpets on the cement floor. I looked around the beach hut and saw a bunch of little root beer colored toddlers ripping off their shoes, shorts, and shirts. Little pieces of clothing were being thrown everywhere. From the corner of the room an African woman attempted to make order of the chaos. I certainly don’t speak French or Fon, but from her hand gestures and what transpired, I think she instructed one person to gather flying clothing, another to cover diapers by putting cotton shorts on the little girls and underwear on the little boys (makeshift swim costumes/suits), and another person to keep the small children from making a mad dash toward the ocean. As I watched this site, my mind flooded with memories from Liberia and the last time I saw little children with black velvet skin ripping their shirts off. I thought about all my precious babies at the Sisters of Charity Orphanage in Liberia. Oh, those dear little ones! As I thought of my little babies in Liberia, I wasn’t sad; instead my heart was filled with priceless memories and joy knowing I was at the beach with a group of nuns, orphanage workers, and Mercy Ships crew; chasing babies from the Benin Sisters of Charity Orphanage. This past week, my schedule finally permitted me to volunteer once again with my favorite Mercy Ministry Project: Sisters of Charity. People from the ship have been going to the Sisters of Charity Orphanage weekly since the ship arrived in Benin a few months ago. Our noble, trustworthy reputation from our service with Mother Theresa’s Sisters of Charity Orphanage in Liberia paved the way for our work with the Sister’s Home for children here in Benin. Every Wednesday a few land rovers full of African-baby-loving, Mercy Ship Crew, volunteer to work with the children and support the work of the nuns. Normally our volunteer work takes place at the orphanage, but this past week we ventured to the beach with the nuns, a handful of orphanage staff, and about thirty chocolate skinned toddlers! We thought the Sisters were either crazy or very brave in their endeavor to introduce a troop of small children to the ocean. So, there I was. The majestic ocean waves crashed loudly on the sandy shore in front of me. It was a beautiful, sunny day and thirty shirtless toddlers dashed toward the crystal, blue waves. There was no question as to my role in this situation, I kicked off my sandals and ran after the busy bunch of children! As the children neared the water most of them came to a screeching halt. They realized the water was cold, scary, and all of a sudden my previously, frightening, white skin became a safe haven. I relished the opportunity to snuggle the startled, little, black, angels. After a few minutes and close observation of the water rushing around, a couple of the children mustered the courage to test the waters. I held them closely and let the waves rush around us and their little squeals filled my heart with joy. We spent a small amount of time with the babies near the water because most of them were not impressed by the cold, forcefulness of the ocean. I don’t blame them; I am still afraid of water for the most part! We made our way out of the sun and found shelter in our beach bungalow. We helped feed the shirtless, children yogurt before drying them off and changing their clothing. It is a universally known fact, that it is better to feed kids when they are half-naked if you have limited access to laundering facilities! After a few hours of loving the little ones, we helped the nuns load their pickup truck with the sandy toddlers, and we went our separate ways with the promise to return to the Sisters of Charity Orphanage next week, I cannot wait!

VVF Screening

I climbed the steep stairs leading to the aft gangway. Emerging from the ship, I stepped into the bright African sun. Ahead of me stood a weary, but eager group of Africans huddled together under a canopy on our dockside. I was dressed in my blue Mercy Ships scrubs and when the Africans spotted me, looks of anticipation and hope spread across their faces. The chocolate faces in the group all spoke at once. I had no idea what any of them were actually saying, but I knew they were echoing pleas for help. They were hoping I was there to escort them into the ship for their chance to be free from pain, suffering, and a life of hardships plagued with medical problems. I approached a cluster of women with somber faces; I was certain these were my potential VVF women, ready for screening. When I neared them, they stood and huddled around me, as they gathered around me, smiles spread across their faces when the translator told them they could follow me into the ship.

I escorted the group of women into one of our 10- bed hospital wards/ make shift medical screening facility. I recruited a group of nurses willing to help with screening on their day off; between the hospital beds, we set up three tables for history taking, and equipped with a handful of translators, we set to work. We began the tedious process of taking medical histories on our potential surgical candidates. The ward was packed with women and the noise level was anything but quiet. Obtaining a health history can be a complex task under normal circumstances, but this history taking process gave a new meaning to the word complex and forget about patient confidentiality and HIPPA.

I began the health interviews by introducing myself and asking the name of who I was speaking to. After a few minutes, my translator would have a name for me. At the beginning of the day, I attempted to write the names I was told, but quickly I gave up on that and had my translator write for me. The next question I asked was, “how old are you?” I thought this was a simple, easy question, but man was I wrong. I was totally shocked by the number of women I spoke with that had no idea how old they were. It was both stressful and hilarious at times when I would ask this question and my translator, in all seriousness, would tell me an outrageous answer like “she is 11 years old.” By merely at looking at the patient I could tell they were well over 40, but still I would get a blank stare and no sure answer on age. I knew it was going to be a long day! Next, I had to determine if the women actually had a medical definition of a VVF. The trouble with offering “free” surgeries is that nothing in this world is actually “free;” someone is always paying and our funding only pays for operations on women who are leaking urine as a result of pregnancy induced or related fistulas. It made my heart ache when I reached this point in the interview process. Sometimes it had already take 20 minutes to determine the woman’s name and age and then to find out she had been leaking urine since she was 12 and it was a spontaneous issue, not related to pregnancy, meant I had to crush her hope and tell her we could not help, even though our surgeons are capable of fixing the issue, funding did not support fixing it. Although I had a crowd of women waiting to be screened, I could not stomach crushing the hope of the women sitting in front of me. I would continue the interview to see if there had been a misunderstanding in the translation process, which was highly probable.

I had to play nurse/detective to reveal what actually happened in the medical history of my patients. I needed to know how many times each patient had been pregnant, how many babies, they delivered, and how many living children they had. This was a 10-15 minute conversation, at least. Many of the women did not know how many pregnancies they had carried and sadly, many of their babies had been miscarried. I also got really confused several times when someone would report having 6 living children, but only being pregnant twice. I am not a math whiz, but those numbers did not add up. After another 10 minutes I figured out there had been two sets of twins and some adopted children. Are you getting the picture of how tricky this screening process was? I haven’t even mentioned that fact that at times I had 4-5 people in my translation train, just to talk with my patient.

After the medical history was taken, we would send the women to the surgeon to perform a physical exam. The surgeon had to establish if the damage was repairable, or too extensive. The hours were passing quickly and there were still a number of women waiting for screening. We were informed that a few of the women had babies that they had left at home; we decided to move those women to the front of the line so that they could return home to their children sooner. From the corner of the room a sweet, mischievous aged woman stood up announcing that she had a baby at home too, so she needed to be next to see the doctor. It was funny, I looked at her and through my translator said, “You have a baby at home that you need to breast feed, I don’t believe it!” She was shocked by my perception and boldness and soon a sneaky little grin spread across her face and she started laughing. I had my translator teach me the French word for “liar.” I daringly called the lady a liar and all the French speakers in the room rolled with laughter. A bond was formed and my mischievous friend sat down resolving to wait her turn.

The day continued on. I interviewed patient after patient. I couldn’t believe the stories I heard. Some of the women I spoke with had endured such pain, rejection, and hurt throughout their lives. If I had doubted in the morning if I had approached the right group of women standing in the screening line, all doubts were erased at this point considering a horrific, nauseating smell of leaking urine and urine saturated clothing wafted throughout the ward I was sitting in. But no matter how much it smelled, it faded in comparison to seeing the crystal tears of happiness run down the black face of my mischievous friend when I had the privilege of handing her a surgical appointment card. I spent 12 hours in that tiny, little ward that day. When the screening finally came to an end and I escorted the patients off the ship with surgical appointment cards; I was tired and exhausted. While I was cleaning up the ward I looked around the room at the chairs scattered about and I saw the unmistakable remnants of VVF ladies; chairs shadowed with circles of urine. I took a deep breath and said a silent prayer a found comfort in the fact that after their surgeries, the women that had left moments before will never have to be haunted by the shadow of urine stained chairs again.

In the middle of it

Please pray for me. I am struggling to say the least. I mentioned to some of you that they warned us when we came to the ship that trouble would arise. We are humans; relational trouble will arise, it is reality. I am experiencing some intense relational trouble. I don't exactly know how I found myself in the middle of it, but here I am. Your prayers would be appreciated. There are many places for miscommunication to occur on this ship considering we are from so many different cultures. I am in the middle of a mess of miscommunication and attack on my personal character. Please pray for my head and heart to believe God's truth about myself and pray that I hold to his promises in this difficult time. Thanks.

Father, show me what I don’t see I hear their plea, but I miss their need I have been blind… change me May my mind be open as I embrace the broken Help me not to plan, but be lead by Your sovereign hand As I aim to rescue… don’t let me drown for my own thoughts may pull me down May my goal be for their complete restoration rather than temporary imitation of my salvation Instead of reinventing their wheel… let me rest upon the truth You reveal May I not merely bring another tourniquet that stops the bleeding until volunteers quit I pray You give me strength to dig for the root rather than being satisfied with picking the problem fruit Father, show me what I don’t see

I wrote this poem while at Gateway. It is my prayer. The words were inspired by a song called "Give Me Your Eyes" by Brandon Heath. Be Blessed!