Suffering is not par for the course. It is the course.
This is not something we want to hear, but I am seeing it every day.
This trip has been amazing and so far we've only gone from Texas to Canada and down to Michigan. Only three weeks into a ten week sojourn. It has encouraged and challenged me. My friends have reminded me of the important things in life. Much as I'd like to give names, that might be invasive. So I will use hebrew letters to identify those who have ministered to me.
Aleph is recuperating from the ravages of chemo and accepting this second bout of cancer with grace and gratitude. Bet, her mother, is as joyful and full of laughter as ever; mindful of the precariousness of life, delighting in its robustness. The hospital stays and uncertainties are not dragging them down. Visiting them is a genuine "upper." Sure we talk about cancer, but we also revel in a son's amazing healing, an exotic eastern wedding, an upcoming grand/great-grandchild. God is honored.
Gimel deals with the effect of addiction in her family. Despite her own weaknesses, she presses on--encouraging all around her and keeping laughter close to the surface. Dalet and daughter are finding wholeness despite the loss of a beloved spouse; daughter is seeking to reach young people struggling with pain. Her tattoo is eloquent: the wrist slash ending in a heart. Jesus is pleased.
Hei is recovering from an invasive heart stimulation, but more aware of the needs and concerns of those she prays for daily. Her heart overflows with compassion. Vav has sons needing to make the right choices, but wisely chooses to allow them to make their choices and pray for them. Saying, "I told you so" would be easy. Watching them deal with consequences is so hard. The Body of Christ is strengthened.
Zayin is paying debts racked up by her deceased mother. Although her deceased ex-mother-in-law left a legacy, none came to her or her children. The injustice of this outrages me, but she says she is doing it to honor her mother. She harbors no bitterness about being left out of the other inheritance. Christ is smiling. Holy Spirit is given a situation to bring glory to God.
Het is caring for her Alzheimer's afflicted mother in law. At great personal and financial cost, she and her husband are taking up the slack from other siblings unwilling to help. Her own parents need more support and care which she struggles to give them. She is a source of encouragement to her sons as they see her example. The church is strengthened.
There are more that I hope to mention. But they are just a reminder of all those suffering, taking on of responsibility, doing the right thing which is the hard thing--being faithful disciples. Eternal realities are being tapped in this life. We are all heading on a course. The choices we make here are setting our direction. When we let suffering guide us into wisdom, the course is safe.
Suffering isn't par for the course. It is the course.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
Mom's hard battle
This morning I went to Windsor to see Mom. I'd visited in December for the Christmas party and she had no idea who I was then. I didn't know what to expect, but figured she wouldn't know me.
But without the glitz of decorations, confusion of overly loud carols, and general over-bearing good will of the season, Mom seemed less anxious and more aware. This saddened me. I'd hoped she didn't know what was going on around her. She knows.
It wasn't difficult to convince her I was me. She kept repeating, "I can't believe it's you," as she hung onto my hand. "Life is so frustrating . . ." her voiced trailed off many times to a humming she did to try to focus. "I just sit for hours and look . . ."
"What are you looking at, Mom?" "Junk. Just junk. I'm just wasting my time."
"I can't see any more. I can't hear what they are saying. You don't know what it's like in here." She pats her body. She isn't complaining about the environment; it's is her body that has betrayed her. Her accountant's precision and organization are lost in the confusion of being wheeled here and there for meals and visits to the toilet. "When can I go home?" When, indeed?
"It's such a struggle here."
"Mom, stop struggling. Just relax and let go." Her eyes look haunted. I feel pain and guilt and dread and yes, confusion. She doesn't deserve to be here. No one does. Looking around I see elderly folk nodding off in their wheelchairs along the aisles. One lady rolls her knee socks up and down, up and down.
Mom's hands are bruised and spotted from the effects of blood thinning drugs. Drugs designed to keep her alive. "Dad has been gone such a long time and I really want to see him," she whispers to me. She knows what she's missing. She doesn't understand why she is still here. Nor do I.
I have no answers.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Be Kind
Well, it has taken me much longer to resume blogging than I ever expected. I enjoy the liberty to start a "new post" and see where it goes. But I haven't written for half a year. There is a reason why . . .
A very sad thing happened right after Phil broke his tibia and fibula. Writing about the hospital experience was therapeutic. The trauma of seeing Phil crippled (temporarily, but crippled, nonetheless) quickly submerged under the confusion of being removed from our team. We had grown into a symbiotic relationship with the orphan ministry. We had such great relationships with the Shona people we were interacting with. (See the picture of Synodia, above, who was part of the exciting orphan group I nurtured.) I had been mentally writing blogs and not getting to them because of the fulfillment and delight in the work.
Then we were taken off the team and I had more time than I was used to, lots more time. With nothing to say. Nothing that would make sense anyway. So I felt it better not to say anything and wait.
I have waited. It has been a long journey and I'm not there yet, but I know how to write now. It is a very old philosophy that triggered me; old as Plato, some say. But I read it on Isabel's UD t-shirt. It caught me and resonated deeply.
"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."
I have just been through one, so I have a fresh reminder. And it isn't exactly over, but it's receding. It was painful to be taken off a team, then not understand why, then be advised to choose another . . .
My mind raced with protest. Now I remind myself, everyone I meet is fighting a hard battle. I might be part of the hardness of his (or her) battle. If only we could see the inter-connectedness of our struggles, and appreciate one another for the ways we overlap into each other's space. Tendrils of ourselves intertwine with tendrils of those around us. Sometimes we get pulled, and uncomfortably so. But there is perspective to be gained from the discomfort.
Oswald Chambers wisely observed, "As soon as God becomes real, other people become shadows." I see where he's going with this; it's in the perspective. But I am not there yet. In my life, God has a much more shadowy role, and the things others do seem much more concrete. This is an area I want to learn in: not to anesthetize myself to life, but to cling to the reality of God.
When God is REAL to me, then I will be able to be kind and maybe even help someone fighting a battle of his or her own.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Reflecting on "Hospital" ity
We have had our first close encounter with Zim hospitals. The occasion was Phil's rapid descent from a tree he was trimming, resulting in a shattered ankle and broken tibia and fibula. It happened around 5:30 p.m. and our dear friend (and nurse), Julie, came as soon as we cell-phoned her. She determined The Avenues was the place for Phil's trauma and we followed her in our car.
Upon entering "Casualty" which Americans would know as ER, the pace of time slowed. There was a doctor somewhere. There were people in uniforms, but no one was in a rush. We were offered a form to fill out within 30 minutes. When the doctor was available, it was discovered that we had not yet paid for him to look at Phil. So we filled out another form and paid. The good doc was an ob/gyn, but upon seeing Phil's ankle, declared it broken. He didn't know how badly, we would need an x-ray.
I needed to go to the x-ray dept, fill out another form (all with the same information) and pay another fee for the technician to take the picture. Then Phil was wheeled down the hall, the x-ray taken, and the doctor declared profoundly that it was "worse than bad." This did not bode well. It was clear that Phil would need to stay the night. An injection for pain was finally administered (about two hours after arrival).
Next, blood was taken. Oh, but there is no lab in the hospital, so Julie and I had to hand deliver the blood to an all-night lab some blocks away in a rather seedy neighborhood. We cruised the blocks until we localized the lab, shook the gate for the guard to wake up and let us in, took a complaining elevator to the 2nd floor, and submitted the blood. I filled out more forms and another payment (higher than the previous two) was exacted. Finally the blood was put into the centrifuge. The next client coming in warned us that the elevator was not working (had trapped him for a while), so we thanked him and took the stairs.
Upon regaining the hospital, we learned that now I would have to raise $1800 for Phil to be admitted that night. He could not travel and would not be able to go home, nor would he be allowed into the ward until they saw the green. It was 11 p.m. This is my first genuine encounter with an African Catch-22. Two of our team leaders tried to reason with them. Our mission has used them for years, and they have sent referrals to our mission hospital in the north. The matron finally relented and agreed to accept him for $500 that night. I had to go home and bring it before they would let me fill out the next forms and hope for his admission. After I paid that, they handed me the ER bill, I was stupefied.
Things take longer in Africa, you'd think I'd get used to it after two decades. He came in on June 31st and was finally admitted on July 1. He was exhausted with pain and bureaucracy. When they wheeled him up to his two-man room, the light was unceremoniously turned on, waking the patient in the other bed. Fortunately, he turned out to be a wonderful cell-mate and they are fast friends now.
The next day I attempted a variety of unsympathetic ATM machines, managed to find some money Phil had hidden and paid up for admittance. He was scheduled to be operated on that afternoon, but I had to come and pay deposits for the surgeon and anesthetist. After the surgery, I was called at home to come and pay for x-rays before he would be taken to diagnostic imaging. And so it went through the week. Each time a new expense appeared, I had to pay before it would be rendered.
I am still boggled that when he was coming home we were presented with another bill in the thousands. And he still has the surgeon's fee for the two operations. To be perfectly fair, the care was wonderful. The technicians and nurses were professional. The service was gracious. And the total cost was, of course, less than it would have been in the US. But the obvious priority of being paid was a reminder to me that as I am "serving" it is important for me to do it with a servant heart. Mercenary service is not really service at all, it is delivering a product.
Upon entering "Casualty" which Americans would know as ER, the pace of time slowed. There was a doctor somewhere. There were people in uniforms, but no one was in a rush. We were offered a form to fill out within 30 minutes. When the doctor was available, it was discovered that we had not yet paid for him to look at Phil. So we filled out another form and paid. The good doc was an ob/gyn, but upon seeing Phil's ankle, declared it broken. He didn't know how badly, we would need an x-ray.
I needed to go to the x-ray dept, fill out another form (all with the same information) and pay another fee for the technician to take the picture. Then Phil was wheeled down the hall, the x-ray taken, and the doctor declared profoundly that it was "worse than bad." This did not bode well. It was clear that Phil would need to stay the night. An injection for pain was finally administered (about two hours after arrival).
Next, blood was taken. Oh, but there is no lab in the hospital, so Julie and I had to hand deliver the blood to an all-night lab some blocks away in a rather seedy neighborhood. We cruised the blocks until we localized the lab, shook the gate for the guard to wake up and let us in, took a complaining elevator to the 2nd floor, and submitted the blood. I filled out more forms and another payment (higher than the previous two) was exacted. Finally the blood was put into the centrifuge. The next client coming in warned us that the elevator was not working (had trapped him for a while), so we thanked him and took the stairs.
Upon regaining the hospital, we learned that now I would have to raise $1800 for Phil to be admitted that night. He could not travel and would not be able to go home, nor would he be allowed into the ward until they saw the green. It was 11 p.m. This is my first genuine encounter with an African Catch-22. Two of our team leaders tried to reason with them. Our mission has used them for years, and they have sent referrals to our mission hospital in the north. The matron finally relented and agreed to accept him for $500 that night. I had to go home and bring it before they would let me fill out the next forms and hope for his admission. After I paid that, they handed me the ER bill, I was stupefied.
Things take longer in Africa, you'd think I'd get used to it after two decades. He came in on June 31st and was finally admitted on July 1. He was exhausted with pain and bureaucracy. When they wheeled him up to his two-man room, the light was unceremoniously turned on, waking the patient in the other bed. Fortunately, he turned out to be a wonderful cell-mate and they are fast friends now.
The next day I attempted a variety of unsympathetic ATM machines, managed to find some money Phil had hidden and paid up for admittance. He was scheduled to be operated on that afternoon, but I had to come and pay deposits for the surgeon and anesthetist. After the surgery, I was called at home to come and pay for x-rays before he would be taken to diagnostic imaging. And so it went through the week. Each time a new expense appeared, I had to pay before it would be rendered.
I am still boggled that when he was coming home we were presented with another bill in the thousands. And he still has the surgeon's fee for the two operations. To be perfectly fair, the care was wonderful. The technicians and nurses were professional. The service was gracious. And the total cost was, of course, less than it would have been in the US. But the obvious priority of being paid was a reminder to me that as I am "serving" it is important for me to do it with a servant heart. Mercenary service is not really service at all, it is delivering a product.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
The Green Bus, a parable
Quite a long time ago in a country not far away, someone noticed that children liked going places. In fact, they were positively on a perpetual mission to get somewhere, so it was decided to help them get there. The best way to get a large number of children to a certain destination seemed to be a large bus. So the community united around the acquisition of a beautiful, grand, functional green bus.
The fact that not all the children wanted to go to the same place rather got lost in the shuffle. It became the thing to want to arrive where the bus was going. So any disinterested children felt an odd obligation to quiet their misgivings and just go along for the ride.
The bus was acclaimed a great success. Everyone loved how brightly green it was, how comfortable the seats were, how safely the driver drove and most of all, how all the children ended up at the same place after such a long journey together. Everyone commented on how it was such a boost for their socialization. As time flew by, the bus was improved: repainted (green, of course), reupholstered, dvd players were installed as well as a speaker system, head rests, blankets, and a nutritional food service.
As folks from the community developed a sense of pride in their bus, they sought ways to make their bus better than the buses in other places and a marvelous hodge podge of technological entertainment was installed in every nook and cranny of the bus. Clearly, this community loved and cared for their children.
For quite a while the bus was well-maintained, but it required more and more attention the longer it was on the road and the more high-tech paraphernalia it accrued. Gradually its oversight became burdensome and some minor items were neglected: oil changes, timing belt due dates, air filter replacements, to name a few. No one saw these things anyway, and as long as the bus was clean and the children were having fun, they weren’t felt needs.
It’s hard to say exactly when it stopped. In fact, it stopped gradually. At first there were a few days here and there that it just pulled over to the side of the road, usually for fuel, because someone hadn’t noticed the gauge. The children became accustomed to random stops and sometimes the bus didn’t move for a week at a time. But the children piled in each day, chattering happily, bouncing in their seats, being entertained and fed, shooting spit balls and having a good time. Not going anywhere didn’t seem to bother them anymore and their perpetual mission to get somewhere wasn’t as terribly important. Besides, the fact that the bus didn’t move as much made it much easier to hop in and out.
Finally, several years ago, the bus pulled over to the side of the road for the last time. No one realized that it would not be moving again. A few folks tried pushing it to get it started, but the children swarmed happily over their seats, watched their dvds, ate their snacks and certainly didn’t put up a fuss about not getting anywhere.
Now it doesn’t seem strange at all. Everyone sees the faded green bus on the roadside. The weeds are growing around the flat tyres. Most of the windows are broken, the dvd player plays as long as someone recharges the battery. But this is much simpler all around. After all, this way they don’t need a licensed driver, there is no danger of accidents, there is no needless expense for fuel, and maintenance costs are so very reasonable. Of course, there are a few malcontents who complain that the green is fading and demand a new paint job--after all, the bright green is so stimulating for the children. So it is repainted every now and then, and folks seem happier.
Now the children hop aboard the bus and sit or stand or jump in their seats; when someone reminds them they are traveling, they all make engine noises in their throats and pretend to turn steering wheels. The fact that they disembark where they embarked in the morning doesn’t bother them in the least. They know that they are getting somewhere because they have been told so.
And the green bus sits.
The fact that not all the children wanted to go to the same place rather got lost in the shuffle. It became the thing to want to arrive where the bus was going. So any disinterested children felt an odd obligation to quiet their misgivings and just go along for the ride.
The bus was acclaimed a great success. Everyone loved how brightly green it was, how comfortable the seats were, how safely the driver drove and most of all, how all the children ended up at the same place after such a long journey together. Everyone commented on how it was such a boost for their socialization. As time flew by, the bus was improved: repainted (green, of course), reupholstered, dvd players were installed as well as a speaker system, head rests, blankets, and a nutritional food service.
As folks from the community developed a sense of pride in their bus, they sought ways to make their bus better than the buses in other places and a marvelous hodge podge of technological entertainment was installed in every nook and cranny of the bus. Clearly, this community loved and cared for their children.
For quite a while the bus was well-maintained, but it required more and more attention the longer it was on the road and the more high-tech paraphernalia it accrued. Gradually its oversight became burdensome and some minor items were neglected: oil changes, timing belt due dates, air filter replacements, to name a few. No one saw these things anyway, and as long as the bus was clean and the children were having fun, they weren’t felt needs.
It’s hard to say exactly when it stopped. In fact, it stopped gradually. At first there were a few days here and there that it just pulled over to the side of the road, usually for fuel, because someone hadn’t noticed the gauge. The children became accustomed to random stops and sometimes the bus didn’t move for a week at a time. But the children piled in each day, chattering happily, bouncing in their seats, being entertained and fed, shooting spit balls and having a good time. Not going anywhere didn’t seem to bother them anymore and their perpetual mission to get somewhere wasn’t as terribly important. Besides, the fact that the bus didn’t move as much made it much easier to hop in and out.
Finally, several years ago, the bus pulled over to the side of the road for the last time. No one realized that it would not be moving again. A few folks tried pushing it to get it started, but the children swarmed happily over their seats, watched their dvds, ate their snacks and certainly didn’t put up a fuss about not getting anywhere.
Now it doesn’t seem strange at all. Everyone sees the faded green bus on the roadside. The weeds are growing around the flat tyres. Most of the windows are broken, the dvd player plays as long as someone recharges the battery. But this is much simpler all around. After all, this way they don’t need a licensed driver, there is no danger of accidents, there is no needless expense for fuel, and maintenance costs are so very reasonable. Of course, there are a few malcontents who complain that the green is fading and demand a new paint job--after all, the bright green is so stimulating for the children. So it is repainted every now and then, and folks seem happier.
Now the children hop aboard the bus and sit or stand or jump in their seats; when someone reminds them they are traveling, they all make engine noises in their throats and pretend to turn steering wheels. The fact that they disembark where they embarked in the morning doesn’t bother them in the least. They know that they are getting somewhere because they have been told so.
And the green bus sits.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Greenfield was his name.
Two weeks ago when I went to coach my four English self-learners, I came up short against the reality of how harsh life is in Zimbabwe, even for those to whom it is not strange and foreign.
Shonas, all Africans, really, have a greeting protocol. It follows our “how are you? I’m fine” western one, but goes a bit deeper. After they’ve said they’re fine the next few probes bring out whatever is under the surface. That was the point at which I learned that Greenfield had died in a tragic car accident in the wee morning hours.
Greenfield was someone I wanted to meet. He lived in the pastor’s home along with the family and the six other young adult orphans. He was thirty, educated, employed and helped some of them with their studies. When I saw some of the corrections and comments on their papers, I asked who he was and found out he was another “big brother.” Greenfield carried his weight and then some. He invested in his extended siblings and honestly cared about them.
So when I arrived and saw the pain in all the faces, the story soon came out and it was obvious there would be no coaching that day. Part of my sadness comes from not meeting this young Kingdom builder. Part comes from the reality that we do not know the whole story. The accident was a head-on collision with a police truck around midnight. All three young men in Greenfield’s car died instantly, and they have received the full culpability. They are not alive to give their version.
In this world we will have trouble. Take heart, He has overcome the world.
Shonas, all Africans, really, have a greeting protocol. It follows our “how are you? I’m fine” western one, but goes a bit deeper. After they’ve said they’re fine the next few probes bring out whatever is under the surface. That was the point at which I learned that Greenfield had died in a tragic car accident in the wee morning hours.
Greenfield was someone I wanted to meet. He lived in the pastor’s home along with the family and the six other young adult orphans. He was thirty, educated, employed and helped some of them with their studies. When I saw some of the corrections and comments on their papers, I asked who he was and found out he was another “big brother.” Greenfield carried his weight and then some. He invested in his extended siblings and honestly cared about them.
So when I arrived and saw the pain in all the faces, the story soon came out and it was obvious there would be no coaching that day. Part of my sadness comes from not meeting this young Kingdom builder. Part comes from the reality that we do not know the whole story. The accident was a head-on collision with a police truck around midnight. All three young men in Greenfield’s car died instantly, and they have received the full culpability. They are not alive to give their version.
In this world we will have trouble. Take heart, He has overcome the world.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Uncle Julius, Post Script
I forgot to mention in my thoughts on Uncle Julius' passion for learning that later on in his adult life, Moody recognized the wisdom and worth of this amazing man. They graciously offered him an honorary degree, and he could become an alumnus without ever having attended.
He courteously thanked them, but assured them that the paper was not as important to him as the lesson he had learned. Does my culture value the paper which certifies the person or the person?
He courteously thanked them, but assured them that the paper was not as important to him as the lesson he had learned. Does my culture value the paper which certifies the person or the person?
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