the Appendectomy mis-Adventure...

People keep asking how my most recent “spicy” experience has affected me. My answer is often disappointing because I don’t really have any impressive revelations. To be frank, I have found myself in much more perilous situations than in the bed of a Liberian hospital. I don't know if this incident will make me more obedient or holy, but God has certainly reminded me of himself during this time.

Most importantly, my ill health deepened my sense of responsibility and reminded me once again that everything is his. I was in the hospital for two weeks after my appendectomy because of a serious infection. I suggest to all my readers if you are afflicted with a sharp pain on your right side, near your hipbone, endeavor to find a hospital, ASAP. The week prior to my operation the infection was left to fester which created a lengthy and expensive recovery process. Thanks to the wonderful world of insurance, my family was not left homeless from the hospital bills. But the cost and the extremity of the surgery were severe. I was flown half way across the world and rushed into emergency surgery upon my arrival into the US. Countless people were involved in the logistical process of getting me home and in the medical process of healing my body. My post-op recovery team was huge and my insurance company paid out thousands and thousands of dollars for all of my treatment. Appendicitis is fatal without surgery so without the care, the infection in my body would have killed me.

When I reflect back on this experience, I think about the time spent in the Liberian hospital. I was driven to one of the best hospitals in Liberia, one were few could afford to be treated. I was placed in an “upper room” where only the rich are allowed to stay. I had an A/C unit in my room and I received clean sheets and bathing water. The “lower floor” was for the masses and for the poor. Hundreds of women, men, and babies lined up on hard wooden benches waiting for someone to ease their pain and heal their bodies. I have no doubt that many of the patients arrived at the hospital too late and succumbed to their illnesses. Others could not afford treatment. Others were not properly diagnosed and died from the misdiagnosis. I'm sure the Liberian appendicitis cases of the week were not as fortunate as I.

We know, in our hearts, those people are just as valuable as I am. There is no reason why such extreme measures should be taken to preserve my life, but not the lives of the other patients in that hospital. There is no reason why I should be spared because of money and resources and others should die because of their poverty. I don’t mean to make a commentary based on weak idealism, but rather, note the severity and harshness of life outside of our world. Life is unjust because of sin. Thus, humanitarianism is in no way the equalizer against injustice but instead a paltry attempt at action. Our attempts at social justice are approached in unjust fashions. To accept this is to disengage the petty ignorance of our culture and embrace the truth about our sinful hearts.

What then are the hope and the take-away from two months at home? Simply, a reaffirmation of the existing truths of Scripture: First, our days and minutes are numbered. The bible tells us we cannot add a second to our lives that has not been preordained by our Creator. In the same way, “we are God’s workmanship, created us in Christ Jesus, to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.” We will be here until we finish living out his purposes for us. Second, to whom much is given much is required. For some unknown reason, God has chosen to spare my life this year. He has given me an incredible family, and church body, and placed more blessings in my life than I can count. The innumerable blessings are not mine to keep, but instead mine to give away. Third, my life is not my own. We were bought and paid for with a price, crucified with Christ in salvation. Most recently I feel like my life was literally bought and paid for…but in reality, Christ has purchased all of his children with His blood.

He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God…

May we be broken bread and poured out wine for the Master.

2012

It has been many months since my last post, which I suppose is an indication of my humanity. My inability to communicate my situation well with others has lead to my absence from the blogging universe. I have learned so much since beginning work in Juba, South Sudan, back in May 2011. With so many changes, it is hard for me to communicate my situation that has in many respects, become my new normal.

Since being home for Christmas, I am reminded that things like showers, blankets, make-up, and an endless stream of amazing food, were a part of my everyday life, and perhaps are a part of many of your lives. I am so thankful to be able to drive my red car, stream online-tv from the Internet, and participate in “stock-up” shopping ventures. Although I often do miss these simple pleasures in Liberia, I am more grateful to be a part of God’s work in Monrovia.

I love working amidst challenges, and being reminded each day that people are in need. Working in a world, like Monrovia, that is so obviously broken, reminds me how sinful we are as God’s people, and how big His grace is. It reminds me that Liberia isn’t more broken than the West, its just broken in a different way. I am shown that Liberians don’t sin more than Americans they sin differently.

Thus, I am thankful to see God’s gospel and his truth in new ways. I am grateful that I can receive a fuller understanding of his work on the cross through my work and life in different countries. That is the most beautiful aspect of my travels, and the most beautiful thing I learned last year. I am able to see Christ transcend cultures and understandings in different ways than he does in America.

I hope to divulge my lessons, life, and interactions with Jesus better in 2012! Thank you all so much for your prayers and support. May He bless you this New Year.

The Job.

Liberian Asset and Entrepreneurial Development – what a mouthful. For a non-business major, that’s a lot of business words. I have to admit I was a bit intimidated by the title and by the vague job description. I feel like my offerings are often petty and my experience minimal, and these overseas exploits require me to do: program development. A similarly opaque title.

Opaque, though it may be, thus far, my daily grind with LEAD has been anything but. The “office” is a small, single room that has been sectioned off into 5 tiny rooms, two of which are located in a hand-made “loft,” a couple steps up from the ground floor. With nine people sharing a space fragmented only by thin bits of plywood, we have all become quite good friends J Aside from the occasional outburst, all nine, of the 30-somethings employees are always cracking jokes and sharing bowls of macaroni and stew for breakfast. Strangely analogous to my own household growing up, a friendly wrestling match continually ensues between the guys in our 8x8x8 box.

My workday takes place in the “loft” where my duties, as my enigmatic title would suggest, vary from day to day. Yes, the walls are cracked, the ceiling is so low, I have to duck to enter my office, I just saw a mouse crawl up one of the bookshelves, and there is not always electricity. But, this is a place of joy and vivacious energy. I get to work with young Liberians who have a passion for national change. As the country prepares for is next presidential election, in just three weeks, many fear violence. The supporters for the powerful incumbent, set again the ruling party’s Ellen Sirleaf, are aggressive. The ruling party fears aggression will be set against them in the upcoming weeks.

However, this weekend, as I found myself between batches of South African stew, a chimpanzee couple, gianourmous rhino-beetles, and a 300,000 acre rubber plantation, I again wallowed in the fact that I love this game. The uncertainty, the challenge, the adventure, the struggle, the beauty amalgamates into a giant picture of grandeur. Where else can you go mudding as a part of your day job? Or live three blocks from the beach? Or meet so many different people; you forget you haven’t seen an American in weeks? To lose yourself in the wonder of God’s world and his people is beautiful.

Africa: Chapter 2

Hot, foamy, whole-fat milk, poured into a paper cup with a strong shot of black espresso compelled into a leaf pattern on the top. Creamy white starched sheets covered by a plush down comforter. Orange nail polish. A bottle of South African red wine, with a string of colorful beads anointing the neck. Chocolate breakfast crepes and plain yogurt with cashews and wild honey. TIME magazine, books, and a poolside afternoon.

Needless to say (as I savor my undeserved simplicities) it is a fabulous week in Nairobi, Kenya. A gentle pause before the commencement of Africa chapter two…Liberia. I am peaceful. Grateful for the break, and enthusiastically expectant for West Africa.

I step off the plane. I begin to sweat. The rainy season has transformed the tiny nation into a giant greenhouse. Forty-percent of the West African rainforest lies in Liberia, making the current weather wetter than a South Florida summer. It is beautiful. We roll down the tarmac from the airport to the city center in a rusty old jeep. Bump started, missing cushions, one window broken, moldy smell, eats diesel fuel, oil, and power-steering fluid. I have already fallen in love with it. The absolute perfect car for Liberia, for the beach, for the bush, I need to think of a name. Suggestions?

Robertsport. The surf capital of Liberia, and home of the “annual surfing competition,” which just so happens to be the day after I arrive. Pristine beach, white sand, black sand, beautiful waters, gorgeous waves. I shall try my hand at surfing. Fail. Not strong enough yet and the waves are too big. It was a three-hour ride on a bumpy road up to the town, but totally worth it. I’m thinking… idyllic. Can’t beat that for the first day in country.

Day two. Monday morning. I am greeted by beautiful, kind, Liberian faces, but the office is out of power, so I can’t truly make out everyone’s features. It’s dark and hot inside…steamy, in fact, due to the incessant levels of rain the ground has absorbed in the past 24 hours. Its two stories, very small, five rooms constructed out of what could be one. The ceilings are low, so low that I duck below the door frame to enter my office, which I will be sharing with the National Director.

Business at hand: Driver’s License and Residency Permit. Check. Next, a cup of good coffee at Evelyn’s. Surprisingly restful and pleasant for a local joint but the café and the painfully slow internet, combined with the smells of African food, tile floors, and a half-hearted air-conditioning unit make Evelyn’s $1 morning coffee my new favorite treat.

An excellent orientation and wonderful welcome to the beautiful country of Liberia. Homework? Name for the car. Bless those around me. Shine Jesus into the deepness and sadness that is pervasive, and lurks just below the surface, hiding in the poverty, injustice, corruption, and simple daily life of people…everywhere. More to follow…

C'est La Vie

“C’est la vie,” she said in her beautiful Congolese accent as I attempted to apologize for the gross injustice in broken French. After months of work with no salary and no food, the refugee had just been manipulated out of her wage. Yesterday, I delivered money to the Yambio Diocese in hopes the labor of their clinic volunteers might hold enough importance, to be rewarded. Most of the workers had been denied salaries since April; it was now July. Their toil virtually unnoticed by their superiors and expected by their community, had taken its toll. I searched the face of the Congolese doctor. His resolve like granite, his eyes were somber and deep from 36 years of strong suffering, and his skin an ashy gray from months of malnutrition. As I looked at his face, my attempts to remain emotionally distant from my present dissolved. African bureaucracy was gnashing its teeth at us both and we both seemed to be losing. Africa Wins Again.

With the introduction of money came the fierce vengeance of greed. Siphoning off over 1/3 of the clinic staff’s hard earned money, the diocese devoured my offering and burped with satisfaction. I had been shaking with anger as the spineless leaders, cowered behind attempts to portray me as tyrannical, parsimonious, and indolent before the crowd of workers. Meanwhile, victimizing themselves as helplessly poor, they had manipulated names and numbers so as to reduce the already meager offering, to a fraction of its previous size. One thousand three hundred and fifty pounds was signed for, under what can only presumed as an alias, and placed in the pockets of an unknown member of the church leadership.

Was not the church required to treat all people with dignity and love, especially all aliens and foreigners? For we are all as such. Aliens of the world, beggars of grace, and heirs to the kingdom based purely upon the veracity God’s magnanimity. We are all pilgrims hoping for a better homeland. At least, these were the teachings of Jesus. Unfortunately for my counterparts and me, the theological subscriptions of the church seemed to be pre-reformation in nature.

C’est la vie…In Africa the whites become the problem and the solution all at the same time. You hold the purse strings, and for better or for worse oppress and liberate simultaneously. I would love to tell you my appalled sensibilities and strong words turned the tide of fraudulent dealings within the diocese. But they did not, and I remain unconvinced that I did any good at all to help the people. After my initial assessment of the situation, I unilaterally decided not to provide the next month’s salary for the clinic workers to the church leadership. I decided that if I provided the money, I would further oil the corruption machine. However, at the same time, I withheld any sort of assistance that might have reached the hands of the workers, however small the cut.

I also purchased $400 USD worth of materials for the clinic building itself. Paint, soap, cleaning materials, mosquito nets, etc. Church leadership confronted me after the delivery and asked for a list of the items. They said that if I did not provide them an inventory count, the items might be sold by the staff or misused or stolen. I did not provide them with an inventory list. If the staff sold the items and used the money for themselves, was that actually so wrong at this point? Very rarely is there a true right and wrong. It was Social Darwinism, survival of the fittest. Why should my inventory list give the diocese a leg up when they had already skimmed their portion off the top? How were the Congolese going to survive? On one hand I assisted by providing a bit of money to a few people and standing up to corruption. On the other hand I virtually fostered another form of corruption by dumping a load of “no strings attached” items on the clinic floor.

I am always a problem and a solution. In the harshest terms, intrinsically, my survival rate is high because I am white, American, and a 22 year-old female. My life is valued highly. Theirs are not. Why is that? How can we be more of the solution and less of the problem? In some ways, it saddens me that my life is valued so highly. Not only is my organization caring for me, but my family, my friends, my government, and the expat communities in Sudan all look out for me. I am surrounded by protection.

What is the heart of the matter? Corruption? Social Darwinism? I think to start becoming more of the solution and less of the problem we need to ask ourselves certain questions. We do not need to be the holder of the purse strings or implement more programs. To me, the biggest question is, how do we transmit this value we have as Westerners, to Africa? How can we actually assert, “All men are created equal?” Or do American citizens only subscribe to these principals on their own soil? The media tells us what we value. They report on what we think is important and showcase our own biases by juxtaposing the stories of the Somali famine and the US weather side by side. How is does 90 year-old American woman’s life, who died of heat stroke, hold the same level of importance as the famine that currently exists on the entire Horn of Africa. I don’t know the answers to my own questions, but I know they should be asked…

the world's Newest Nation...

So I’m living in the world’s newest country….that’s pretty cool. This past weekend, on Saturday, South Sudan officially became the world’s newest country, the 193^rd nation recognized by the UN. After 50 years of civil war, many years of colonialism, and a history of oppression, which spans hundreds of years and pre-dates the colonials, South Sudan finally has its own nation. It was an honor for me on Saturday to participate in the festivities and the joy of a people, most of who were born into a country at war. Many people have labored for years in Sudan to bring basic services and education to the people. I only began learning about the country last year and have been following the countries activities for the past 15 months. Despite this fact, I was able to sit, in Juba, in the heart of it all and hear speeches from world leaders and dignitaries on one of the most historic days of 2011. Amazing.

On Friday night, the beginning of it all, my roommate’s mother, visiting from the UK, made a wonderful celebratory dinner for several guests. I thoroughly enjoyed the food, however I mostly enjoyed the Lambrusco….wine, unspoiled by the heat, is an INCREDIBLE luxury.

After dinner, our company piled into a pickup and drove around the city, taking pictures and shouting our congratulations to the people in the streets. The town was manic the entire night. Everyone was out, rejoicing and yelling and honking horns and lighting sparklers and singing. The South Sudanese have an unprecedented affinity for Americans. This is due to the fact that George Bush and Colin Powell helped to broker the peace deal, the signing of the Comprehensive Peace Agreement, between North and South, in 2005. So, because of my white skin, the locals were more than happy to receive my congratulations. I sat with my $600 Canon on the tailgate of the truck, while guys in the street took bottles full of water (some clean and some yellow…yes), pouring them on me. “USA! USA! This is blessing! This is blessing!” they shouted, in reference to the support our country had shown them. (Thankfully my Canon emerged from the night, unscathed).

The next morning came early after a full night. I arrived as a part of the Episcopal Church entourage, bishops and company. The archbishop of Sudan, leading his rather large flock, walked us through security and up the steps to the VIP seating. I sat next to government ministers and delegates from around the world at the top of the stands, in the shade. Literally, best seat in the house. Notable attendees included UN secretary general, Ban Ki-moon, Robert Mugabe, Jacob Zuma, Colin Powell, Omar al-Bashir, Hassan al-Turabi, South Sudanese officials, of course Riek Machar and Salva Kirr, and many others.

The event was incredible and surreal in many ways. It seemed so humble and yet so definitive. So small yet so significant. So disorganized yet so meaningful. It was the biggest event ever to have occurred in South Sudan. I think the sheer number of people was overwhelming to the planners. Not only that, but the diversity of the people and their level of importance on an international scale was overwhelming. China sent a representative to deliver a speech during the ceremony. The delegate did not speak English, and therefore had a translator relaying his speech. At the sound of Mandarin, the audience began to laugh. I asked the men next to me why people were laughing. He said, “This is a new language to us!” Amazing. An entire audience of grown people about to begin a country laughing at the strange sounds of Mandarin.

Then of course, there was the overall poignancy and underlying tension in the presence of Bashir. The oppressor and mass murderer of Southerners stood up to give a speech about brotherly relations. In the audience in the distance there were banners, which read, “Stop genocide in Darfur and Nuba Mountains.”

Throughout the ceremony, soldiers and civilians alike fainted from the heat and dehydration. Thankfully the Red Cross was running the “hydration campaign” and was ready with stretchers and hydration salts. You could see a little white-uniformed army, running around the crowds below, carrying large numbers of people to a tent behind the stands for water.

I couldn’t help feeling like I was at a giant football game, except with speeches and guns. The subject was infinitely more significant but the participants and the crowd seemed similar. I was left in a daze as to how I should react or behave to all the things surrounding me. It was an over stimulation, physically and emotionally. Their chant raged on “We will never, never, never, never, never…Never, never, never, never sur-ren-der, sur-ren-der!”

God Bless South Sudan…

Arrow Boys and Border Towns

My most recent travel in Sudan has lead me to one of the more interesting stories I’ve heard in a while…so I thought I’d share it.

This morning I packed up my things in Yambio, and headed out to perform assessments on some clinics in a town called Ezo. Ezo is directly on the border of Central African Republic (CAR), and the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC). This being South Sudan, there is no demarcation, but apparently there are a pile of stools…yes like wooden stools… in a market, that designate the tri-border. Unfortunately I did not get a chance to document the pile of stools…but we did drive on a road, half of which belongs to Sudan, and the other half of which belongs to CAR. I fully appreciate that in another 50 years, there will most likely be security and guards and fences…but not yet ☺

The town of Ezo has been plagued by attacks from the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA), a rebel/terrorist group based out of northern Uganda. Their leader, Joseph Kony has terrorized citizens on the borders of Sudan, DRC, CAR, and of course, Uganda. The LRA are know for brutally torturing and mutilating their victims as well as forcing children to become child soldiers. The group is so effective because they are always on the move, constantly taking refuge in the jungles, and running from place to place up to eight hours without rest.

Since last year, LRA activity has significantly diminished, in Sudan in particular. In Ezo, for example, citizens are beginning to return to “the bush” or to their rural homes or villages. Most reports state that there only about 200 LRA soldiers, which operate in bands and groups of 4-5 individuals. Previously, the LRA has operated in bands of 30-40 and village raids have been much more violent. The decline in activity is due to several factors including the Ugandan Army, the Southern Sudanese Army (SPLA), and my personal favorite… the Arrow Boys.

The Arrow Boys are young men and local villagers who have equipped themselves with bows and arrows to fight Kony’s LRA. A blacksmith in town makes the arrowheads and distributes them to various young people in the region. The boys go out into the bush in groups of 2-3 in search of LRA members. Those who are founds are immediately killed. When LRA members try to raid villages or homes, taking captives with them, the Arrow Boys quickly mobilize and follow the group until they stop for rest. During their rest, the boys spread out and shoot at the LRA members with their arrows, which ensure silence. Their position is never surrendered and they can pursue bands of soldiers and captives more quickly than the SPLA.

When I arrived in Ezo I sat down to talk to some of the staff in the clinic. The building looked like it had been through hell. The clinic was evacuated and moved into town until the SPLA set up camp and secured the area surrounding the clinic and a school. I found it fascinating discussing “primitive” warfare tactics with a hardened clinical officer on the boarder of three suffering nations. The people were so wonderfully welcoming to me and grateful for my appearance in their town. I always am stunned by the disparity between my life and theirs and I am so thankful they tell me their stories. What an honor to hear about their lives…