Saturday, August 9, 2014, Day XXXVI in Xela: I walk to the central park early in the morning. It is nearly 4:30 now and there only a suggestion of light in the sky. I stand outside the cathedral and wait and look and listen. A few people are moving through the area. I see a taxi driver sleeping in his car. I wonder if this is his job and his home because I see moisture accumulated on the windows from his breath. I think of the Hebrew word “Ruach”, or the breath of God and of the humble life this man must live. I watch; a dog comes and searches through the garbage that overflowed from the can. He pokes his nose into the trash and chews something. The dog moves to another pile, then disappears down a road. After a few minutes, two men emerge from one of the dark roads and digs through the same trash the dog just left. They poke around and pull something out. They happily separate whatever it was and share it between the two of them. I can’t help but thinking that they are eating the garbage of people and the garbage of dogs. They dig in the other piles the dog dug through. They move and disappear on the same road as the dog. At about 4:45, I see threads of light in the sky suddenly appear. It is a silent explosion of orange and red in the clouds. I guess this is that moment of when morning breaks. I immediately start humming “Morning has Broken” and hear the voice of Yosef Islam (Cat Stevens) in my mind. It is Hymn #8 in the Episcopal Hymnal. I feel moved to tears as I hum . The juxtaposition of a beautiful day break and men eating garbage is just too much. As I wait, there is a sudden breeze; this must be the reverse of the evening diurnal winds. There is a tinge of sulfur in the air; the smell must be from Tajumulco, the active volcano behind Saint Maria. To me, the elements seem so alive here. Reverend Luke arrives in his car and we drive towards his clinic in Zone 7. The clinic is located in a church “Casa de Adoracion.” As we drive he lets me know that he needs my help to drive his other car to the clinic. I was unprepared for this and don’t even have my driver’s license, much less my international drivers license. I drive the car anyway. At the clinic, we collect the plastic boxes with instruments, medicines, dressings, and other supplies. While we are packing several young women arrive. They seem far too young, but they are all doctors. It must be that I am getting older that everyone seems younger or too young. A few minutes later the dentist arrives. She too is very young. But they have arrived to help, and that is a beautiful thing. Eventually, a very young man arrives; he too is a doctor. We have a long drive to the clinic, which is being held in a school run by a Guatemalan Methodist church. Luke shares with me his struggles with his church and I share mine. We better understand that these kinds of struggles are not only in one church or the other, but a part of being an institution. When we arrive the gates are locked and line of people has already formed. I talk to a woman with a little girl. She is there with her mother-in-law. Her mother-in-law looks very pale, and lies down on the ground several times despite her nice clothing. As we wait, most of the people start laughing and talking about the realities of “Guatemalan time”, where “normal” is fifteen to thirty minutes late. The mother-in-law grimaces as she sits up. The plan for me is to work with the children. We have images of the “Good Samaritan” and “David and Goliath” for the children to color. We also have a soccer ball, lollipops, pencils and balloons. I start by getting the older children to play a game of soccer, while I blow up balloons for the smaller children. I am involved for about twenty minutes when Luke lets me know that two doctors didn’t show up; he needs me to serve as a translator for him because he knows much less Spanish than I do. All I can think is, “Oh my God, what are you giving me here?” This is a mental collision and moment of fear for me. Trying to convey critical information back and forth is quite a challenge, but for the most part I am able to communicate enough. There are several times we have to send a patient to another doctor who actually spoke Spanish, because of a patient’s difficult accent. This happens only a few times. I am deeply moved by the sea of people that flow through our table. Many of the illnesses are simple issues that have been left untreated. There is a woman with an infected ear that ruptured her ear drum. There is a little pale girl with profound anemia because of the worms her mother knows she has. There is a baby with puss-filled sores all over her body. They just don’t have access to the simplest of medical because of location or lack of wealth. As difficult as these cases are, the ones that are most difficult for me are those that are obviously more severe; however, there is no ability to address their problems. One woman has a hugely distended abdomen and blood in her urine. Luke says it is pretty clear she has some kind of abdominal tumor, but that we only have the ability to treat the probable kidney infection. This breaks my heart; I think about the people in the States that spend $80,000 for a better-looking butt. I like to think that these wealthy people would give some of their money if they knew of these people suffering. This is part of what I think I am supposed to do. More patients pass through our table. After a few hours I tell Luke I need a break. When I leave the room where we have been working, I am shocked by the number of people. I am told that about 350 people are waiting. They come close and crowd around me. They are curious I think. I immediately I think of Jesus and the story of the woman with hemorrhages (Mark 5:25-34). Jesus is surrounded by a crowd of people who want to be healed. A woman touches his cloak and he feels the power leave him. He asks, “Who touched me?” The woman says it was she. Jesus says that her faith has healed her. I think Jesus must have felt that human pressure of people drawing close with need. For me it is a bit overwhelming. For me it feels very Biblical. But I am not full enough of faith to embrace the promise of healing the sick or moving mountains (Matthew 17:20). I find the bathroom and wash my face. The water hides the little emotional release I was having. These are tears for the suffering of others and the brokenness of the world. It is only right that I cry. There is a lunch break where the community brought out huge baskets of food. I know that Reverend Luke brought a cooler filled with chicken, but I don’t know if he was responsible for all the other food. Regardless, I think of the Gospel from a few weeks ago, the feeding of the five-thousand. Again, for me, this is a biblical moment. As everyone is finishing lunch, it begins to rain. The dry period in the rainy season, the “canicula,” seems to be over. It has rained several days in a row. The corn needs the rain. After lunch, we continue seeing patients. I am mentally exhausted and am working solely on adrenaline and the Holy Spirit. I actually start thinking a little in Spanish. We finish well after the expected 4:pm; this whole experience is a good exhaustion for me. As we drive back, the young doctors are laughing and giggling, but they soon fall asleep. I talk more with Reverend Luke about who and what we believe. We challenge each other’s structures, as only people who care about theology can challenge. We have a long period of silence as the roads wind through the mountains. I think about my feelings of “little faith”. In fact, I have helped heal; in fact, we moved across the mountains to deliver the care. Perhaps, my lack of faith is that I do not see the miracles unfolding before me. As we drive, the sun finally sets. Though, I cannot feel them, I know the diurnal winds are blowing. We pause at an intersection. A dog is digging through the garbage. We continue on, in our journey. https://youtube/watch?v=e0TInLOJuUM
Posted on: Mon, 11 Aug 2014 21:42:42 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015