And Yet...

 "I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us" Romans 8: 18

While I acknowledge that death is a part of life, it's hard to accept when it could have been prevented.  Malaria is a preventable and treatable disease. Machines exist that help premature infants breathe until their lungs are more fully developed. Where I'm from, if someone has an injury or accident, some form of healthcare is almost always available. There are various and advanced medications/treatments/surgeries available in developed countries that can either cure or prolong life for patients with heart failure, hepatitis, cancer, sepsis, and other illnesses.

And yet...

"We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time" Romans 8:22

Malaria resulted in 435,000 deaths worldwide in 2017. Mothers run into the hospital with their child who has no heartbeat, but is still warm. Without extra respiratory support, we watch as premature babies decline and pass away as their tiny lungs weaken. Amputations, massive infections, and other complications occur from a broken bone or simple accident because they simply waited too long. Doctors and chaplains speak with patients and their families to tell them that there's nothing we can offer them, and I think, "if only...."

And yet...

"We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us" Romans 8:26a

I never assumed that the difficulties that third world countries face would be easy to overcome. However, after living among the people of Togo for five months, I'm realizing it's immensely complicated. The layers of reform needed to create change are massive and interwoven and tangled together.

There is no simple fix. What if we gave everyone a mosquito net? People often sleep outside. Ambulance? Need new roads. New roads? More debt. Health literacy classes? Language, education, and proximity barriers. It goes on. Trying to figure out where to start or how to help most effectively is so far beyond my comprehension and would require fundamental changes on every level.

And yet...

"We know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." Romans 8:28

The Togolese are strong and resilient people. There is an incredible beauty, richness, and strength in the way that families and communities care for each other. In the setting of this vastly different culture, God is working, and the fields are ripe. Circumstances that I have viewed as tragic have also been ways that God has been calling lives to Him. Despite all the sorrow, Hope shines brighter.

For yet...

"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword?" Romans 8:35

At times it may feel overwhelming, and that's okay because I want my heart to break for the things that break God's heart. The poverty, low literacy levels, limited healthcare options, or other struggles are not barriers to what God has planned. While hardships may be common now, we consider it all joy.

For yet...

"In all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons,neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord." Romans 8:37-39

I may have varying roles, positions, degrees of influence, or callings throughout the course of my life, but nothing I can do could be a panacea. The Day for that is coming. Right now, my role is a nurse in a small hospital in a small town in a small country in a big world.  My position is whatever a 'more than a conqueror' might be. My degree of influence is my circle of family, friends, neighbors, and patients. I know that I was called to Togo for this time in my life. And yet... my real calling is to always do my best to love, obey, trust, and hope. 

Alvin

It was one of my low-energy days, so instead of my usual soccer ball, I grabbed an Alvin and the Chipmunks coloring book and 10 markers.. I walked over to the cuisine where patients lie on mats in the shade, families cook over tiny, coal stoves, and where the only thing that can be found in abundance is time. Home health care is non-existent, so patients with any IV medications, wound care treatments, or follow up appointments can stay in the cuisine for free. I know patients who have lived in the same 8x8 square furnished with a cot for 8 months.

I smiled, greeted, and extended a short bow to everyone as I walked around to find my two little friends who love to play (Both around 6 years old. They don't speak a word of French, and I don't even know their names. We communicate via high fives, fist bumps, laughs, and hugs.).  We found a spot and sat on the small, shaded ledge outside the building. I pulled out the coloring book, ripped a page out for both of them, handed them each a marker, and showed them how to color (for what is probably the first time). As you can imagine, it didn't take long for the entire page to be covered in monochromatic scribbles. I showed them that they could use a different color if they wanted, but I don't think they really cared too much.

It's kind of hard to recall what happened next, but in the span of a couple minutes, a few women came over, and I offered them a page and a marker. Then more women came. And then a few men. And then I ran out of markers. And then I dug through my bag for extra pens. And then more came. And I ran out of pens. And then everybody started sharing their markers. And before I know it, there is a line of 25 chattering people sitting on the ledge coloring Alvin and the Chipmunks. I don't know if it was my lack of clear communication or if they decided to do their own thing, but the trend was that instead of coloring inside the lines, everyone colored the lines. They would carefully trace along Simon's glasses or Theodore's sweater, laugh, and proudly show me their progress. I congratulated them with a 'good work' or a 'very pretty'. They would laugh and hand their marker to their neighbor for a turn.

Sitting on the ledge with both of my little friends leaning against me and using my legs as their tabletop, I reached for my camera to capture the perfect selfie. But then I paused. I don't think taking a photo would exploit anyone (I am frequently recorded doing seemingly insignificant things). Most of the Togolese like having their pictures taken and might even ask for it. I obviously don't have any qualms sharing the story either. But a picture felt like such a cheap memory for a moment that felt so rich.

It took me a while to write this post because I couldn't find my hook. It's a nice story, but what could I do to tie it together or have a strong conclusion that didn't just include me losing several of my markers when I looked at the time and realized I was very late. I also didn't really know why I didn't take a picture or how to identify that feeling in that moment.

Truth is-I still don't really know. Maybe it's that these people have watched me play with their kids for a couple months now and were familiar enough to come and participate this time. Maybe it was that even though I stood out like a sore thumb, I still belonged there. Maybe it was because a picture would put me in center stage when in reality, I was in the audience. Maybe I discovered that the most significant thing I can do is sit on the ledge for an hour, bypass all language barriers, and show that I care just by sharing my time. Or maybe it was a combo of all these things, but I know that it was special.

And after all that, I found my hook. I think it's more of a practical application than a theoretical musing or meaningful conclusion...
After that day, I started bringing more markers.

In Him,
Caroline