Zosangalatza Malawi - Days 3 and 4

Thursday, August 26 - Friday, August 27

Thursday and Friday were medical clinic days. I was greatly anticipating these days, because it was something very different than anything I had done on my previous trip. I also expected it to be greatly rewarding because of the physical help we were going to be able to provide these people. I was initially listed for help in triage, but changes in the team left gaps in the pharmacy so I was moved there. I felt like this would be a good place for me considering my ability for organization and my shortcomings in the area of compassion in personal communication. My over-confidence should have alerted me to those red flashing lights early on, but it didn’t take long to figure out this job wasn’t going to be the shruggingly easy and oh-so-fulfilling task I had envisioned.

First of all, we had a huge box of medicines to unload and sort out on a tabletop. Some things, like Ibuprofin and Robitussin, were easy to identify. Other things, like Flagyl and Panado, took a bit of education. Working quickly, we arranged things as best as we could, fired off some quick questions to the doctors when they came in to “see the stash”, and were given a quick crash-course in the prescription shorthand we would be seeing on the paper tickets the patients would bring to us from the doctors. Before we were really prepared, the gates were opened and a long line of people came in 10 at a time to work their way through the various stations.

Old and young, aching and tired, diseased and sick, the people made their way through a hand-washing station, the chapel where they heard the Bible in their own language, and then to a waiting area on the grass. From the grass they moved to chairs on a porch, taking their turn at the triage table where they were asked their primary complaint. The people waited patiently, paper slips in hand, for their turn with one of the three doctors in the nearby building. After seeing the doctor, the people came out and stopped at our pharmacy table. They handed the slips to us, and we took the papers inside to fix their prescription. And that is where the idyllic scenario ended.

We took those papers and stared. The words might have well been written in Chichewa for all I understood them. There were medications I had never heard of. Some papers had 3 different medications…take ½ a pill now, another half tonight, another half in the morning and another half at lunch…take one pill 3 times a day…take 2 pills up to 4 times a day. (I won’t even mention the steroid packs we had to put together where you take a decreasing number of pills over a certain number of days--I left that job to Steve Culpepper). I filled up a paper cone with pills and half of them fell out the hole in the bottom. My translator was sticking his head in the door with 3 more slips and people were piling up outside. My fellow pharmacy workers were faring no better, too absorbed in trying to figure out how to place their own orders to help much with filling mine. In a complete panic, I felt myself shutting down and found myself thinking of that scene in Pearl Harbor where the nurses are scrambling to help all of the massively wounded people after the huge bombing scene. Jennifer Garner’s character completely freezes and stands in the center of the chaos crying “I don’t know what to do!” At that moment, I knew exactly how she felt.

Of course it got better. I became quite good at deciphering the shorthand. I figured out that Loratadine just meant Claritin, and wrote that on the box. I watched one of the translators twist the bottom of the cones so the pills didn’t spill out and I wondered briefly who had come to teach who here. Using a Sharpie to mark the cones, Stacy devised a method to “draw” a picture of how many pills to take how many times a day to help the people remember once they left. We got into a groove. We measured out pills, wrapped them in the paper cones and marked them with the Sharpie. We picked up a vitamin and worm pill, and took the medicine back out to the patients, still waiting patiently at the table outside. We gave each person their vitamin, worm pill and initial dose of medication on the spot. The people drank out of shared cups using tepid water from a large bucket. Through our translators, we explained what medication they had been prescribed, and how and when to take it. We showed them the pictures we had drawn and made sure they understood. No matter how long they had waited or what meager supply of medicine we were able to provide them, not a single person failed to thank us genuinely, clutching their precious cone of pills in their hand as they walked out of the gates. However, their response only fueled the sick feeling growing in my heart. God, how are we helping here? They are bleeding out, and I’m handing them a Band-Aid. I’m giving people dying of thirst in the desert my water bottle…and then I head home to the oasis.

We stopped the flow of people for a late lunch, but I was too consumed with my feelings to leave the pharmacy room. I had a snack from my backpack and stared out the window with glazed eyes and a heavy heart. Cindy, who is an RN and was serving as one of our doctors for the clinic, came in to see how it was going. When I expressed my feelings, she reminded me that we were helping. The widows with chronic back and leg pain as a result of daily heavy labor…the Ibuprofin would give some relief for a time. The babies and children with infections…the antibiotics would cure this round of illness. The men, women and children with worms as a result of unsanitary water and living conditions…the pills would fix that problem and make them better for now. And she was right...but so was I. The medicine would help, but it was still all so temporary. The people were so grateful for any kind of medical care, but compared with what our culture is accustomed to, what we were doing was such a little thing.

Toward the end of the second day, the best of the medicine ran out. Just when I thought my burdens could get no greater, the inevitable family came through with a couple of young children who desperately needed antibiotics. All we had left to offer were a few children’s Tylenol and some vitamins. I am a very practical person. I believe miracles are possible…but in the Bible, in times of tribulation, or for other people…people who have more faith than me. Yet I found myself gripping that paper cone full of vitamins and uttering a plea that I’ve never had to utter on behalf of my own children. God, with You all things are possible. Please do a miracle with these vitamins. Use these pills to heal their little bodies. I know these are simply vitamins, but turn them into healing antibiotics. Please, God. Use me, use these vitamins. Heal these children. Thank you, Lord.

I have no way of knowing how those children are doing today. I don’t even know if that family knew they were simply getting vitamins instead of healing medicine. I imagine they probably didn’t know the difference in vitamins and antibiotics. Perhaps God used my request and their faith in the medicine I handed them and worked a miracle. I am trusting to believe that He did.

I can only speak firsthand for myself and on behalf of the others in the pharmacy, but I feel like I speak for everyone on the team when I say we worked joyfully but to the point of exhaustion over those two days. I love those people, and I love that place. When I see their little babies ravaged with fevers, battling coughs and mucus and obvious infections, my heart hurts because I think of all the times I have sighed with the “inconvenience” of “having” to take my own children to the doctor. Oh, how I am blessed with that inconvenience! What must it feel like to hold their hot little shaking bodies, listen to their labored breathing, and pray they live through the night with no hope of medical intervention save the Great Physician? God is the ultimate Healer, make no mistake. But He has blessed us with doctors and medicine to heal the physical brokenness in our land. I am determined to do my part in sharing with people here the great need to share our blessings with those in Malawi and other places.

I will write in the coming weeks about a very specific way you can help give these people the medical care that we take for granted. I pray if you are interested enough to read about my journey, you will help me help those in need. Please pray about sharing my story with other people in your circle. Together we can make a difference. We can do more than share our water bottles…we can build these people a well. A living well that will never run dry for their souls…and medical care for their bodies. All in the name of Jesus, I ask for your support.

http://puremission.org/get/get-involved/medical-training-center/

Zosangalatza Malawi - Day 2

Wednesday, August 25

Multiple alarms sounded at 5:00 am. Being the first day, all eyes popped open and the activity began. By 7:00 am everyone was showered, dressed, fed and wondering why we had been in such a hurry to leave the confines of our mosquito nets. It certainly wasn’t the incentive of instant oatmeal packs!

We left at 7:45 am, stopped at the Petroda gas station to pick up our translators, and traveled to Esther’s House orphanage, our base of operations for the week. There was much handshaking and greeting as we unloaded from the bus and walked into the chapel for a time of orientation. As we began the formal time of introductions, it was pointed out that we were carefully segregated in our seating—Americans clustered on one side and Malawians on the other. We all chuckled self-consciously. Malawian translators were then paired with American team members and we moved to intermingle and take some time to get to know one another. That morning would prove the last time that week there was any separation of the camps when we met together in one place.

My translator was Duncan, Pastor Kuzalo’s son. (When Pastor Kuzalo saw I was coming again, he decided I would be paired with his son. I counted this as an honor!) Duncan was one of my friend’s translators from the March team, so although I wasn’t personally acquainted with him, I knew of him through her.

Once the awkward adjustment time was over and we started to be able to understand each other’s English through the accents and dialects, we were invited to go exploring before lunch. Since I already knew my way around and wasn’t interested in taking more pictures of Esther’s House, I grabbed Duncan and we headed out into the village, getting a jump-start on the afternoon’s schedule. We went the opposite direction than I always went in March, and we went from house to house, making introductions and shaking hands. I prayed for each family I visited, and invited them to come to the medical clinic the next day and the discipleship times later in the week.

On our way back to Esther’s House for lunch, Duncan spoke with a pair of young women on the road. One of them asked for my prayers for her despair over her divorce two years prior. I prayed for her and she grasped me in one of the tightest hugs I have ever received (somebody told tales when they said Malawians don’t hug!). I told her I was sorry in her language and she cried as I rubbed her back. Her friend then asked for prayer as well, and advice on how to share God with other people. I told her one of the greatest and easiest ways to share God with others was to show Him through her very actions. Her love to the unlovely, her joy in times of distress and her peace in times of desperation would share God more than her words ever could. She left encouraged and joyful.

As I went into Esther’s House for lunch, I felt like my whole trip to Malawi was already worth it, and I was honored that God once again allowed me to connect with the personal lives of the village people.

Duncan and I went back out into the village that afternoon, joined by Stacy Mossberger and her translator. I went back to the local tailor I prayed over in March, and told him that he has never left my thoughts. We traveled down roads and dusty paths to many huts and houses. We shook many more hands, said many more prayers, and extended many more invitations to attend the events of the week at Esther’s House. Stacy watched and listened, and then took a turn doing the talking once she grew more comfortable. I remembered my first day out in March, and marveled at the difference between the two times. I was so happy that I didn’t have to overcome the crushing fear and distress this time, and that I was able to help someone else ease into the process without having to go through that same level of anxiety. God was using me again, and I was loving it.

Zosangalatza Malawi - Day 1

(Awesome, Wonderful, Amazing Malawi)

As I was boarding the plane in Northwest Arkansas headed to Africa, I could honestly say at that moment, I didn’t want to go. An exhilarating trip to Malawi in March and a clear certainty that I was supposed to go again in August didn’t serve to erase the anxiety that the moment of leaving brought to the surface. However, the instant the plane touched the runway in Lilongwe, the sun broke through my apathy, all apprehensions and travel fatigue melted away, and a joyous smile flooded my face. It felt like coming home, because there is simply something awesome about being in Malawi. Malawi is truly so zosangalatza.

Tuesday, August 24

We left the plane, entered the airport, and collected our bags. On our way out, we were cautioned to handle our own baggage, lest we be required to pay a “tip” to the well-meaning guys who were all too happy to “assist” by touching our carts and walking alongside us. So when someone spoke to me from my right hand side, I was already in the process of saying “no thank you” when I realized this was no stranger, but one of my translators from the March trip—a wonderful man named Gilosi who encouraged me greatly and holds a special place in my heart. Malawians are reportedly not “huggers” and this suits me fine, because neither am I. But in that time and in that place, all constraints and hesitation simply melted away. Gilosi and I hugged.

After the long bus ride, we made it to the mission house. The living and dining rooms had been given new coats of paint, furniture, curtains and wall decorations since March. It was lovely and comfortable and it took no time at all for our team of 13 to completely trash the place with all of our junk. Because Cindy House is currently serving as a full-time missionary in Malawi and living in this house as her residence, the rest of us divided up between the other two bedrooms. That meant 7 of us ladies piled up in one room, on bunk beds topped with mosquito nets. Amazingly enough, in spite of the very close quarters and complete lack of privacy, there was never a cross word or girl-drama the entire trip. That was truly a God-thing! We spent that first evening getting unpacked, organized and settled. In addition to each of us having our own 50-lb personal suitcase, we also each had a 50-lb supply suitcase (some had more than one) We worked several hard hours sorting out medical supplies, construction materials, pastor’s conference and other teaching supplies and food/toiletry items. It was like Christmas in August for Cindy, who was blessed to receive everything from brownie mixes to toilet paper.

Day one in Malawi was over, and it wasn’t even a full day. But it was an awesome day, and we were ready.

Malawi-Bound

The Story of a Repeat Offender

This time last year I had never even considered going to Africa. Missions was something I thought maybe I should explore sometime, but mostly it was for “other” people. More godly people, perhaps. People who could speak out loud without stammering around, their hearts beating out of their chests and their hands shaking wildly. Certainly not mothers-of-4 whose biggest weekly event was the shopping trip to Wal-Mart. And certainly not a person who had never traveled to another country or ever shared Jesus with anyone before.

So if you had told me a year ago I would go to Malawi on a mission trip, I would have thought it was impossible. But if you had told me that I would go again six months later, I would have written you off as completely insane. And yet, here I am, heading to Malawi again.

God grabbed a hold of my heart in a huge way when I was in Malawi. It wasn’t just the children, although their large eyes and huge smiles are riveting. It was the whole place. The mountains, the land, the way that time seemed to slow down to the point of stopping—all of it screamed “I am GOD, and I am HERE”. God is everywhere…but when was the last time I slowed down enough to feel Him? If such a thing is possible, I felt Him breathing on me in Malawi.

And it was the people. Everywhere I went, I encountered broken people. Oh, they weren’t broken because they had no medicine, or their children had dirt crusted on their faces, or they didn’t know what their next meal was going to be—although all of those things are very real concerns. They were broken just like we are broken—on the inside. They were broken because they were scared. They were broken because of destructive relationships. They were broken because they were lost and confused.

Why am I going back? I think the better question is how can I not? Those people need what we all need. They need the hope of eternal life. They need God living inside of them. They need instruction on how to grow and learn and live godly lives regardless of their daily living conditions. They need what so many people right around us need. Except in Malawi, they aren’t too busy to stop and listen.

Busy, Busy Summer

As a child, it seemed that summers lasted forever. They were filled with fudgesicles, water sprinklers, mud pies and skinned knees. But somewhere in between childhood and now, summers got really busy.

This summer has been packed full—but packed full of good things. Scrapbook-worthy, memory-making things worthy of recording so that one day when I’m old, with nothing to do on a summer’s day but sit on the back porch and feel some imaginary breeze, I can remember how good it used to be.

This summer kicked off with a week of true vacation. All of the kids were gone to the grandparents, and we were free to do whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted to do it, without interruption. We got the kids back in stages…Tyler that next week, so he could go to Kids Camp. Emily the following week, so she could go to VBS with a friend. (Tyler opted for art camp at the same time.) The pace was picking up.

The next week we braved the 12-hour drive to take a once-every-four-years-or-so “big” family vacation to Destin, Florida. We went armed with DVD players, DS games, books, stickers, snacks and Grandma. The beaches were tar-free but the weather was stormy; even so, we had a couple of sunny days and a good time swimming in the rain and hanging out in the condo.

We got back to the house on the 4th of July. There was just enough time to unload the van, unpack and change clothes before we headed out to the Fireworks at the Crosses celebration at Pinnacle Hills. The fireworks were a blast for everyone but Hannah. She shrieked and cried and had a hysteric fit every time a new firework went off (which was approximately every 3 seconds). She informed us later “I don’t like fireworks”. No kidding!

The next morning kicked off swimming lessons week at Swim Ranch. Tyler passed off all of his fourth lane skills except for the timed swim and the deep dive, which he is determined to master next summer. Emily and Lauren were both in second lane, and they both passed off every skill required to move to third lane next summer. Hannah was in the parent-assisted (in our case, Grandma-assisted) “babies” class. She could practically swim on her own and was begging to go with the big kids during their class and jump off the diving board. Unfortunately, because she is only 2 ½, she has another year of the babies class to go before she can move up to lane classes.

Tyler started a 12-session Speed Camp at All-Star on the same week as swimming lessons. The day after swimming lessons were finished, we had Kidapalooza (a carnival-type event at the city park, sponsored by our church, as a precursor to VBS). The next day after church, we had a pool party lunch with our Connection Group class. That night kicked off family-style VBS at our church. Tuesday we had a picnic lunch play-date with another family. The following Sunday night was an Africa team supper reunion and Tuesday after that Lauren had a birthday party, Tyler had a 5th grade swim party and we had two sets of friends over for supper—all on the same day!

But today? Today I didn’t have to leave the house at all. Today I had time to write about my busy, busy summer. And it’s not even over. I think I’m going to go have a fudgesicle. And sit on the back porch. Is that a breeze I feel??

Shopping for Two

I found myself at the grocery store yesterday, completely baffled. Only I wasn’t baffled because I was at the grocery store. I had a list with food items on it, so I was where I needed to be. No, the confusion came because of the oddity of the moment. Let me explain.

All of the kids are gone to the grandparents for a couple of weeks. This magical phenomenon happens a couple of times a year. After waving them goodbye, I always run maniacally through the house cleaning up. Every room gets a good, solid hit. All trash cans are emptied, all sheets are changed, all clothes are washed, and all toys are picked up. I scan the recent movies out in the theatre. I schedule appointments that just aren’t convenient to take kids to. And I go through all of my “sometime when the kids are gone” recipes searching for things that I want to cook.

I’m not a huge fan of the short-order supper cooking. Oh, sometimes I do it. But mostly I try to plan meals that include multiple items so everyone can find at least one thing that they will eat. That means processed chicken products, macaroni and cheese, rolls with butter and red-hot applesauce grace our table frequently. But when the kids are gone? Those menus take a momentary hiatus.

Which leads me back to the grocery store confusion. I wasn’t at the Wal-mart Supercenter, which was the first thing that was wacky. (Good thing it wasn’t Wednesday, or I might have gone right over the edge, you know?) Second, I was alone and taking my time. And third, the things on my list and going into my cart were strange and unrecognizable.

I was in the produce section. I looked into my cart and realized that half of my list came from the produce section. Ok, that NEVER happens. I had things like red and green peppers, zucchini, green onions, tomatoes and fruit. The dairy section is usually pretty lengthy on my list. But today, I only had 1 gallon of milk in my cart, not 4. I had ricotta cheese, vanilla yogurt and honey butter biscuits. And the cheese? Not processed yellow squares. I had 5 Blend Italian and Muenster. I don’t even know how to pronounce that! The bread in my cart was croissants and English muffins. I looked down and saw raw shrimp and sirloin steaks and real ham in there. Where were the Pop-tarts? And the cereal? And the chips? Strangely missing. But oh, wait…there’s a box of crackers! But not cheese-its or goldfish. Nope, these crackers were the expensive large multi-grain kind. Faaaancy.

The bewilderment passed, but the odd feeling that I was temporarily living someone else’s life made me smile. I found my way to the checkout. Halfway through the process, the bored girl asked me how I was doing. For once I didn’t lie when I said I was doing great.

School's Out

Ok, so it’s official. I can no longer call it simply “the weekend” or even “the long holiday weekend”. Starting today, it’s summer break, and mostly I love summer break.

Mostly.

I love day after day of being able to get up when I want, with no agenda but the one I make. I love being able to go with the flow of my preferred body’s schedule of doing things. First thing is taking care of last night’s dishes, sorting clothes to get the laundry going, or adding a few things to the weekly grocery list. Next is breakfast while doing a little reading—my current Bible study, my daily Bible reading, or an old but much-loved book from years ago that I happened upon the night before and took a renewed interest in.

If I’m going to exercise, it’s going to happen in the summer. During the school year, I refuse to get up early and deprive my body of sleep to exercise, and I also hate doing it after I have already showered later in the afternoon. But in the summer, I’m able to accommodate my 10:00-11:00 AM tolerance window for exercise, and usually talk myself into working some in.

After a shower is lunch; then the afternoon is mine to design as I choose, usually among a variety of long-term projects that I have running, like catching up on the family scrapbook, organizing the kids school-year binders, or more recently, researching and writing articles and lesson plans for mission trip work in Malawi.

Supper is much more laid-back in the summer. I still make menus and cook, but now I’m not juggling multiple people getting home to eat it at multiple times. When Dad gets home, we eat. Then we do whatever strikes our fancy. Maybe we play the Wii, or a board game. Maybe we go for a walk. Or maybe everybody just retreats to their own area of the house for awhile.

Bedtime is...flexible…in the summer. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say “nonexistent”. Who knows what time the kids really go to sleep? If we don’t have anywhere to go the next morning, I don’t care. Tyler takes up permanent residence on the upstairs couch in the summers. Why? Because he can, I suppose. And because it’s the closest place to sleep to his computer.

So that leaves the parts that I don’t like about summer break.

One, is the constant hazardous waste zone that is called our house. I’m a neat freak. (Not to be confused with a clean freak, which I definitely am NOT). Things can be dirty, as long as they are in their place. But in the summer, nothing is in it’s place. The swim bag and beach towels take permanent residence in the floor. Wet swim suits are wadded up in the most inconvenient of places. Dirty lunch plates, empty coke cans and a multitude of toys litter the family rooms. Every light is on, every TV is running, and every computer is playing some ditty over and over and over until I want to scream.

Two, summer means the swimming pool is open. And other than my daily shower and ice cold bottles to drink, I’m not a water fan. So I try to put the kids off as long as possible by offering water balloons and turning on the sprinklers in the back yard. When that gets old, I throw out the “the water is still cold” card. Of course that one only works for so long.

Three, when the kids are all home, the decibel level in the house is astronomical. Even if they aren’t fussing and arguing, which they usually are, with 4 children at least talking (and possibly screaming), plus 4 computers running, plus a couple of TV’s, plus a kazoo or two…well you get the point. It’s the one time a year I’m actually glad that I seem to be losing my hearing at an early age.

But overall, summer is awesome. Schedules are lax, bedtime is whenever, and baths are optional (the sprinkler counts, right?) And one day very, very far away (meaning the next time I blink) and I’m all old and the days all run together and I don’t know what time it is and I can’t hear anything at all and the kids are all gone living their own lives with their own kids and they only come and visit me once a year or when they need something—well, THEN I’ll probably miss these days. And I’ll have to fight off the temptation to turn on every light in the house and leave all the TV’s running and possibly throw all of my underwear all over the floor and leave it there for a week.

Or maybe not.