Feed My Starving Children - Part 1

 Yesterday I had the privilege - and I do mean that! - of volunteering with the eighth graders from Kenwood Trail Middle School (MIcah's school) and Century Middle School at Feed My Starving Children at Shepherd of the Valley Lutheran Church in Prior Lake.  What a hoot!  They were piping music through the sanctuary and the kids were singing at the top of their lungs.  But work?  Oh, did they ever!  My table alone packed 31 boxes of food!  Together, we packed 271 boxes, enough meals to feed 515 children one meal a day for a year!  Why is that important?  Well, in less than an hour, our family will be back at the church for some "forced family fun time" and soon you'll know if we packed more or less than yesterday's group!  

A highlight of the day?  These three friends were in the same class in kindergarten and first grade, then district boundary changes separated them.  But put them in a group of six hundred eighth graders  and they were like magnets!

Who Will It Be?

Micah had fun last Sunday making one of our contributions 

to the Super Bowl party we would be attending -

She put the quarterbacks' numbers on the cake

and chose the winning team as her frosting color!

 

A smile to warm you up . . .

Yaya . . . one year later

Do you remember Yaya?  Our friend Dan found him in the market and eventually, he came to the ship for surgery on those legs.  

Now, it's one year later and the crew has found out that he's doing well.  He's in school, walking around, playing football and enjoying life in Guinea as a little boy should.

Can someone say, "Glory!"

Back on the ward . . .

This is re-blogged from nurse Ali Chandra who was able to spend last Saturday down on the ward . . .

On Friday afternoon I got the phone call that every nurse secretly dreads. Every nurse except me, it turns out, because when I heard my boss explaining that there had been an unusual number of sick calls and that they were desperate for help, I practically started dancing around the cabin while I told her I'd be more than happy to work on Saturday morning.

I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve that night. I carefully laid out my blue scrubs, found my pens and calculator, and dug my stethoscope out of the drawer where it's been languishing since last March. I got into bed and laid there, wide awake, far too excited to sleep.

Walking onto the ward the next morning to find my report sheet (and everyone else's) adorned with some fingerprint art by one of my youngest patients was a pretty clear indication that it was going to be an awesome day, and the next eight hours certainly did not disappoint.



Nursing is apparently something like riding a bike or driving a car, none of which I get to do with anything resembling frequency. After the initial moment of hesitation when I realized that one of my patients was one of the more complex ones on the ward and that I wasn't actually sure whether or not I remembered what half the words in the surgery column next to her name meant, I gathered my courage and jumped back into the whirlwind.

It was a busy shift, but not so busy that I didn't get to chat a bit with my patients and their mamas. They were overjoyed to find out that I was pregnant, and I spent much of the morning with a hand on my belly. (At one point, I was actually in the middle of changing out a trach when I felt an arm snake around from behind me to give Bubba a little pat. D Ward nursing at its finest.) I got to change bandages and take out sutures and draw blood on a beautiful little baby who, it turns out, is incredibly ticklish and willing to forgive you for sticking her with a needle at the drop of a rattle hat.

And it wasn't just my own patients who filled my heart. It was meeting the others who we've been praying for as a ship family. Patients like the young man in the ICU who just days ago was fighting for his life and who today was sitting up in a chair watching football. Patients like Angelique who, for the past eight years, had slowly been starving to death as a massive tumour took over her jaw.



She's been struggling to heal and gain weight since her operation, and the whole ship has come together to pray over her; meeting her felt kind of like meeting a celebrity, to be honest. She was just a few beds over from one of my patients, looking so much better than she does even in that second photo, and when she heard I was pregnant, she smoothed her gown over her own belly to show me how it was growing before grinning and breaking out into some kind of muffled song while we danced together.

When my shift was over, I came back to the cabin to find that Zoe had woken up early from her nap, so there was really only one logical thing to do. I found her shoes, and we headed up a flight of stairs to where we could hear all my new friends scraping their chairs and getting settled to enjoy the fresh air on the deck right above our cabin. I sat down next to the belly-rubbing mama, held out my arms for the baby I'd been taking care of, and watched as Zoe quickly made friends with the plastics patients, sharing wagon rides and blowing bubbles with sweet Benjamine.



I was chatting to the mama next to me when I looked up to see Zoe walking away from me with a little patient who was probably eight or nine years old. The girl was bandaged from chest to elbow, her arm held out at a ninety degree angle from her body by a hard plastic splint. Zoe was practically on her tiptoes, her arm stretched up as high as it could go so she could hold her new friend's hand, completely oblivious to the gauze and tape and stigma that have followed this girl since the day she was burned as they headed off in search of adventure together.

I fought back tears as I looked around at realized what I was bearing witness to out there on Deck Seven and what I had been a part of down on D Ward that morning. A strange community of patients and nurses and translators and a little girl making new friends, drawn together from around the country and around the world by the sure knowledge that there is beauty behind every broken smile, that pain is not a birthright, and that standing together in the face of death and despair is a privilege that should never be taken lightly.

I can hear them now, moving around on the roof above where I sit as I write. I can picture their faces and hear their stories, and I have never been more grateful to live in this community and be called to this work.

(All patient photos in this entry are © Mercy Ships.)
 

Rainbows . . .

Our rainbow (sun dog) came this morning from the cold, 

Theirs came after the rain . . .

The Blind See . . .

This post is re-blogged from my friend Jodie Rothwell's blog.  She lives in the cabin we lived in in Benin and has a daughter Micah's age.  Pray for Jodie before you read any further as she's on her way back to Australia to have cancer on her nose removed, leaving Jessica and hubby Andrew on the ship.  Thanks!

I watched the man with great curiosity. At first he was tentative, as the bandage was removed from his eye. Then he blinked several times while his eye adjusted to the light around him. Then he smiled. His smile grew wider as he realised what was happening. After nineteen years of darkness he was seeing the world for the first time. He grabbed the man next to him, exclaiming loudly in an animated fashion. I couldn't understand what he was saying but I imagine he was saying, "I can see, I can see". He began patting objects in the nearby vicinity and naming them in French, "Stool", "Fan", Seat". Then he held his fingers in front of his eye and stared in wonder, like a child who first discovers their hands. He stood up, took a few steps, the smile never leaving his face, his joy overflowing. He looked over at us and we gave him the thumbs up

I don't know why it has taken me so long to watch the unveiling of the eye patients. It is a miracle to behold. The patients have surgery one day, usually cataract surgery on one eye. Because of the huge needs of the countries we serve in, surgery is offered on one eye only so sight can at least be partially restored. If there is time and the need, the second eye is done. The following day, the patients come back to the ship to have their eye patch removed. The vast array of emotion is unusual and certainly interesting to watch. From wild celebration to stoic disbelief. From quiet, shy smiles to loud, rambunctious laughing and singing. Some stay seated and some get up to hug the nearest individual.

 

However, the results are not always as positive as my friend above. We also witnessed several unsuccessful surgeries. It made me feel like crying. As the patients eye patch was removed and they began to rapidly blink their eyes, I was hopeful but then their eye began to stare blankly at  a fixed point and then I knew. As hard as the surgeons try, sometimes, for whatever reason, things do not work out. How painful it must be for those patients as they slowly realise that they are condemned to a life of darkness, their last hope gone, while the person next to them is celebrating, tugging on their sleeve to share their joy. I can't imagine. But for those whose lives are transformed through a simple surgery we give thanks to God.

 

Follow the pictorial story of Albertine (below), our first cataract patient in The Congo, and 63 year old Celestin who had bi-cataracts.

 

 

Celestin

"....the blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the good news is proclaimed to the poor."
Mathew 11:5 NIV