Let’s Go Get Stoned

This is a song by Ray Charles, that takes on even greater meaning in the Biblical context.

Barbara, Kara and Jamie are three very fascinating women.  Barbara Oolman is a family practitioner, serving in East Africa for over 10 years now.  Kara Fisher and Jamie Bearden are fourth year medical students from Philadelphia College of Osteopathic Medicine who have served with us in Kenya for the past six weeks.  They have all been willing to go get stoned while serving in Africa.  They actually served in areas where, churches are being burned and there is genuine open resentment to the Christian faith.

As they relate their stories, it is clear that they were definitely in danger of getting stoned as they visited areas which were hostile to Christians, in hopes of ministering to predominantly Muslim areas of Kenya.  Christians around the world are being stoned, burned to death, shot and persecuted everyday in our present world.  This is very current news if we would be willing to know of it.

Getting stoned is actually a longstanding Christian tradition.  The religious leaders of the day tried to stone Jesus, and of course Stephen, the first martyr for the church got stoned as did Paul, whom they left for dead.  My friend and colleague Phil Renfroe who serves at Tenwek Hospital, made note of how many Christians got stoned during the church’s early history and he said the impact of stoning depended on how big a ‘hit’ was taken to the head.

Suffice it to say, we must be careful in the present day use of words and take the Biblical translations in the context of the times.  We don’t like the old context of suffering, so we deny suffering for our faith to be of any value whatsoever, unless someone else is doing it.

Very few if any of us are willing to be stoned for our faith, nor even suffer the slight of being embarrassed for what we believe.  We deem tithing and sitting through a hour and half church service enough torment and torture.  Giving to missions or even going on missions is beyond our mindset and ‘after all, that was for the old church.’

However, the Bible does tell us we should become filled with the Spirit, as opposed to being drunk with strong drink (Ephesians 5:18).  It is this same Spirit with which Stephen was filled as he looked up into heaven and could take a direct hit to his body, and his head and lay down his life for his faith (Acts 7:55).

Getting stoned may cost you money, reputation, time and in some instances your health and life.  While we may have sacrificed as much to be filled with the things which give pleasures to our bodies, how big a hit are we willing to take to advance the Kingdom of God? Would you listen to the Lord if He told you: “lets go get stoned?”  What would you give for your faith?  What are you willing to really sacrifice so that others may come to know Christ?  How big a hit are you willing to take to your head and heart?

Many Christians today are suffering stoning, burning, hanging and forms of torture and death.

Visit Voices of the Martyrs to learn more.

No Easy Answers Here

There are no easy answers here.  I actually told no fewer than 8 people today they would die within a few weeks or months.  They ranged from 14 to 60 years.  It was worst because most of them were dying because they did not have enough money to get care.

The 14 year old girl who has fistula from her body that would easily heal if I had the medication of nutrition I use in the US.

The 30 year old woman who’s husband passed out on my office floor after I informed him of her late stage breast cancer.  It was diagnosed late because she had been to several other ‘hospitals’ who told her not to worry about it.  These hospitals have no real surgeons or pathologists in them.

There was the 27 year old woman who’s husband began to cry as I told them that the tumor on her face could have been curable if they had not waited for 5 years to collect money for treatment.  Now it is nearly invading the base of the skull ready then on to the brain.

There was the…., well, let me leave it at that.  There were no easy answers for the other 5 people either. They will all most likely die within 3-5 months or 3-5 years.

We can’t fix this.  That is obviously not why we are here.  The light at the end of the tunnel in Africa is…., well somebody stole the candle and stole the matches so there is no light.  We can talk about Jesus is the light, but it is hard to share the Bread of Life without helping people to find long term bread for life.

There are no easy answers.

Pit Stop

“Dear Lord; please stop my bowels. “The more I think on it the more appropriate a prayer it was.

After all, the place to ‘relieve’ myself was a two minute walk away from where I was laying.  It was in the dark, in the middle of the night and it was raining.  The house had no electricity so the outhouse of course would be difficult to find with the small flashlight I had.  Besides that, the pathway was muddy, slippery and my destination for the pit was just on the edge of the cornfield, obscured by trees and bushes.  So I prayed.  “Dear Lord, please stop my bowels!”  I was praying for constipation to set in.  Well it may seem like a silly prayer to you, as you have a nice, well lit, comfortable warm place to sit and read.  I asked the owner the next morning if there were any snakes in the area and was told only the non-poisonous kind were there.  This was all the more reason to pray harder.  Anyway, God granted my wish and I was able to make it through the night until the next comfortable destination of our trip.

I think on this kind of object lessons more and more.  What if I really did not have an option?  This was literally a pit.  It was a hole cut in the bottom of the floor of a shack, on the side of a mountain.  There was no seat.  That is you don’t sit, but you squat.  This is an uncomfortable position for me as I can barely maintain it to tie my shoes.  That is why I wear slip-on shoes today.

In a recent visit to one of the Internally Displaced People camps ( IDP’s or refugees from the election violence), we were made aware that for the 817 people in the camp there were a total of 2, count them TWO pit latrines.  That is one pit to squat at for each 408 people.  Can you imagine the lines?

Obviously hygiene on this 2 ½ acres is a problem.  (Watch where you step please) The name of the camp is JIKAZE.  That is a Swahili word meaning ‘squeeze yourself’.  This is certainly an appropriate name for the population density and the long lines at the pits.  There are still literally thousands of IDP’s, living in places with similar names.  A few minutes away there is VUMILIA, which means to persevere. 

Needless to say, I did not get in lines but recited my prayer again until we reached home.

“Pit Stop” now has taken on new relevance to me.  Either squeeze yourself, or ask God to stop your bowels.

Dead White Man’s Clothes: The Luxury of Lazy Religion

In a Los Angeles Times article of July 14, 2004, I found a hint of sarcasm aimed at the ‘west’, or to put it another way, western culture.

The article starts with the headline “For Sale, Cheap! Dead White Men’s Clothes”

LAGOS, Nigeria — Tossed off a flatbed truck, a 100-pound bale of used panties and bras, worn socks, DKNY suits and Michael Jordan jerseys lands with a thud amid a jostling swarm of shoppers.  Much of Africa was once draped in fabrics of flamboyant color and pattern, products of local industry and a reflection of cultural pride. But with half of its people surviving on less than a dollar a day, the continent has become the world’s recycling bin. People scramble for 10-cent underpants, 20-cent T-shirts and dollar blue jeans discarded by Westerners.

Insatiable demand from village shops and sprawling urban markets has turned the West’s castoffs into an industry that generates hundreds of millions of dollars annually. Clothing is only the most visible example. Polluting refrigerators and air conditioners, expired medicines and old mattresses also are routinely shipped and resold here. Used vehicles imported from Japan dot African roads. Antiquated secondhand computers power many African governments.

The author noted that people in Africa buy the leftovers from the overflow of our overstuffed closets.  They know the items in question cannot be from a live person, because after all, if a person were alive, why would they throw away such good clothing?  Hence, they must be dead and the markets of Africa are filled with ‘dead white men’s clothes’.  Everything from underwear to outerwear is found in the markets and many well meaning Christians and other people give of their substance with the intent of helping out.

It is in this vein of thought that I would like to address ‘the luxury of lazy religion’.  Let me state from the outset that I am guilty of this myself.  I have on more than one occasion than I will admit to and on several others of which I am unaware, given from a cupboard or closet that was overflowing with stuff and from a heart that was filled with pride.

I have boasted of my giving without sharing.  I have bragged about and showcased my good deeds, and denied my greater greed.  My pity and pride have only been surpassed my self confidence and arrogance.  I have and continue to indulge in the luxury of lazy religion.

As I read in Malachi 1:8, I am impressed that this prophet was bold enough to rebuke the people who brought less than their best.  As I read these words, I am convicted of how often I have and continue to practice a lazy religion of luxury.

Mal 1:8 And if ye offer the blind for sacrifice, is it not evil? and if ye offer the lame and sick, is it not evil? offer it now unto thy governor; will he be pleased with thee, or accept thy person? Saith the LORD of hosts.

As the author of the article noted the people who bought these items found themselves being degraded in several ways.  First, they really did know that these were discarded items.  They only fooled themselves into believing otherwise for it was clear that these items are not in packages and the came in consignments and on large containers.

Secondly, they recognized that the very things they bought spoke of names and people, even places they had read about or seen on TV.  These names began to become more popular than their own names.  The cities emblazoned on the shirts, the ‘hip, jive, slang, covertly and overtly sensuous and outright cavalier profane’ art became common place in their cities, their homes and even in the churches.  These very things they came to treasure, were helping them to worship the giver, the American industry, and to despise their own wealth of customs and traditions.

Mere survival has a long-term cost: The continent is losing the capacity to produce its own clothing. Although labor is cheap, Africans cannot make a shirt that costs as little as a used one. Every textile mill in Zambia has closed. Fewer than 40 of Nigeria’s 200 mills remain. The vast majority of textile factories in Uganda, Kenya, Tanzania and Malawi are shuttered as well. Thousands of workers have lost their jobs.

“We are digging our own graves,” says Chris Kirubi, a Kenyan industrialist who blamed secondhand clothing for the demise of his textile mill. “When you make your own clothes, you employ farmers to grow cotton, people to work in textile mills and more people to work in clothes factories. When you import secondhand clothes, you become a dumping ground.”

Giving second best does several things.

  1. Robs God of the best, because we are giving to ‘the least of these’ of whom Christ is the chief!  We give our old linens as though we are giving our new lives.
  2. Shows people that they deserve less than God’s best.  This implies they are second class and we are first class.
  3. Since I am first class, I must deserve it for some reason and I become more prideful
  4. Robs God of glory that would be His if we gave people the best.  We get the glory.
  5. Hinders God from doing greater things in their lives.
  6. Shows God as stingy and greedy (man does not live by bread alone, he needs some meat and potatoes to go with that, but you my poor friend can eat gruel).
  7. We rob God of our talents, out tithes and our time.
  1. We have talents (singing, reading, knowledge) which we consume on ourselves.
  2. We have tithes (Luke 21:2 the widow’s mite versus the rich man’s gift) of which we give grudgingly and for recognition
  3. We have time which we use for self (no time to read the Bible to draw close to God, but plenty of time to watch TV and draw closer to the world).

When we take communion, we are reminded in 1 Corinthians 11:23-29 that we are to take it in remembrance that God gave His best.  We are told that we are to examine our hearts as we take this.

God gave His best, yet we approach the Lord’s Table with stinginess, defiling the altar as though our dumping our leftovers to the poor was as good as any other gift on the altar.

We need to examine ourselves.  Are we lazy about our religion?

  1. Are we more devoted to doctrine, denominations and divisions?  Do we have more invested in our personal assessment of the truth or in our personal evangelism about the truth (i.e. Jesus)?
  2. Are we eating the gravy of Bible study to the exclusion of witnessing and winning the world to Christ, i.e. Biblical living?
  3. Are we more involved with who is in charge, than fulfilling the charge that is before us?
  4. Are we giving without thinking or trusting?
  1. Our gift reflects our trust.  No one gives an investment broker whom they trust, only half the money if they believe they will get a good return.  They give all.  We say we trust God and we want to invest our lives in His plan, yet we hold back.

We are rewarded commensurate with our giving.  We lack peace, because we give only a piece of what God has given us.  He wants it all.  Give your best, just as God in Christ gave His all at the altar, on the cross.

Abraham laid His only son on the table.  We lay a remnant of our sums of things we have collected.  We are rewarded commensurate with our giving.

Le 22:24 Ye shall not offer unto the LORD that which is bruised, or crushed, or broken, or cut; neither shall ye make any offering thereof in your land.

The luxury of lazy religion would let us give less than our best, let us focus on denomination and division and deny God the glory He alone deserves and deny others the chance of experiencing that glory.

Kill Me

“I wish they had killed me.”  The camera focused on the veil of shadowed light and not on her face in order to keep her identity secret.  The veil of darkness did little to hide the emotions of her plea for death.

She watched as the soldiers entered into her home and slaughtered each family member with machetes, slicing them as one would cut through the clearing of heavy grass or bush.  Except this slashing brought forth screams and human blood instead of plant sap and falling underbrush.  The woman went on to describe how the soldiers kicked each body as they fell lifeless, just to make sure that indeed they were lifeless.

She lay under one of those bodies pretending to be dead, all the while watching as these same men gang raped a three year old girl.  When they had left the house and the 20 or so dead bodies, she saw her chance to escape.  She groped and crawled from under this gruesome pile and used what strength she had to run from the house to the nearest bushes.  Who knows, they had burned the other houses on the compound and they could just as well set fire to this one to make sure there was indeed no one alive.

She ran, but not quickly enough.  Some soldiers saw her.  They caught her.  At least 20 of them gang raped her.  They left her.  She was found later by relief workers and of course the camera crew that did the interview.  “I wish they had killed me.”

This is the Democratic Republic of Congo today.  Pray for the victims of the war that is brought about by the thirst for revenge, greed of resources and the lust for blood and power.

Hope of Dying

It was a stormy sea and the two men stood on the rail of the ship. The ocean waves kept crashing over them leaving their bodies soaked, salty, and shivering with cold. The younger of the two was ‘puking his brains out!’ His elder counterpart tried to comfort him. However the young man was trying at least to keep his saliva down. He had already vomited up the last several meals of the week. It seemed all that was left was for his tips of his toes to migrate up with the next ‘heave’ and be forcefully ejected from his throat.

‘There, there, young man, spoke his companion. Not to worry you will get better, I assure you.’

To which he replied, ‘oh no, I think I may die I feel so sick.’ He turned and gave a vigorous but empty heave. The toenails were next.

‘Oh now, don’t be so melodramatic the old man shot back. This voyage will not lead to your death, I assure you.’

He knew the old man was trying to comfort him, but it was not helping. He looked back at him, and though his face was drenched with sweat, he was pale and clammy cold. He spoke. ‘Oh no! Please don’t say that. The hope of dying is the only thing that is keeping me alive.’

I can imagine that the hope of dying would have been preferable to staying on that ship forever, sick with no healing in sight. I have often felt that way about the challenges I face in mission work. No, I am not depressed about the work, nor am I suicidal in any way, shape or form. But nonetheless it is an emotional and spiritual challenge to see my way forward in the midst of so much suffering.

I cannot begin to really explain just how I feel other than to say that it is only God who could keep me doing what I do in the way I do it. I do get tired of caring and feeling. One more incurable tumor, one more lethal infection, one more untreatable, un-diagnosable swelling, one more orphaned child, and one more victim of domestic or civil violence, none of whom seem to have money and look to me expecting I can find the resources they desperately need.

I break out in a cold sweat like the man on the deck of that rocking ship. Indeed the hope of dying is what keeps me alive. I know that there will be an even greater hope in death, than in life. So I hold on to life, knowing that I can’t, and should not even try to hurry death. Besides, life is so much fun when you get to help others live and live so much better. It is even more fun when you get to spend other peoples’ money doing it. However, if I thought this was an endless cycle of pain and suffering I am seeing, I would surely have died a long time ago, if not in body at least in spirit.

I believe the apostle Paul had a similar slant on life when he wrote: Philippians 1:21 For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain.

Paul had given his life to making Christ known. It was his sole purpose for being. Paul had choices. The choices of making Christ known and knowing more of Christ. The more he knew of Christ, the more he wanted others to know. And the more he wanted others to know, the more he himself wanted to know. In order to know the most, meant he had to die. But if he died, he could not continue to make Christ known. What a chicken and egg mess that is!

So the hope of dying was what kept Paul alive. He knew that death was inevitable and so he must accomplish what he could while still alive and so living was absolutely necessary and hoping to die made it…, well now we get complicated!

Suffice it to say, what we have in Christ far exceeds anything we can have on earth. That great hope is that I will one day be with Him and see Him as He is. That is what keeps me living…, the hope of dying in Him. John wrote: 1 John 3:2 Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is.

No matter what you are going through, remember there is hope in Christ and that is reason enough to live today. And there is also hope in Christ in death and that is reason enough to die. Enjoy living…, knowing Christ and making Him known. Don’t fear death, neither hurry it. Stay on the ship! It is only a brief voyage to make Him known and in the end, you have all eternity to know Him.

Porous of the Poor

I have been spotted! The black face trick is not working. I am surrounded by dozens of other faces with as dark a hue as mine, but somehow, I still seem to stick out. I am dressed in the same inconspicuous, casual attire as they wear. However, it does not work. A voice cries out my name; ‘Michael! Michael! Over here! Come over here!’

Without thinking I look up, unwittingly confirming my identity. After that, the rush is on. The seemingly quiet stroll through the market place has now become a mine field for me. The merchants and beggars have taken notice. ‘The rich American has arrived. Let’s go sell him our wares, or at least tell him our woes. One way or another, Michael will part with some money today.’

This may seem a bit of an exaggeration, but it is actually right on the mark. I have found it almost impossible to befriend the common man here in Kenya, without being…., well actually on the mark. I am marked because no matter how I look at it, I live a life of a multimillionaire compared with 90% of the Kenyan population. I don’t have to worry about water, food, clothes, electricity, and transportation, health care or even entertainment. I have two dogs that ingest greater than twice the caloric intake of the average child, and they never have to work for it. I hire guards to keep watch at night over my accumulation of ‘stuff’. They lose sleep and could potentially lose their lives, just so I can have the luxury of the internet and a variety of pizza toppings.

So why do I complain when I am confronted in the market with other black faces who track me down with the accuracy of an implanted computer chip? Why don’t I just give as they ask of me? Why don’t I just give ungrudgingly, without expecting in return? Why don’t I just give generously and gregariously?

The reason is that I don’t really know how to give. After 18 years of service in missions I still struggle with giving. How do I help the ‘Pourous of the Poor’? I coined this phrase to mean, no matter how much I give, it seems to never fill the gap. My own cup of material wealth is literally overflowing, into the saucer, onto the table and staining the table cloth in the process. It spills on my shoes and on to the nice clean carpet which serves to comfort my well heeled feet.

I have more than enough and yet, the more I give, it seems the more they want, need and have now come to expect. The vessel into which I pour my overflow seems to be full of holes, truly porous. It never fills up.

I know I will always be a mark. I can never know who is a friend, foe or fan. In fact the only true distinction is made when I am welcomed into a home and generosity is extended towards me and nothing is asked in return. Because this is so infrequent, I have become ‘paranoid’ when it comes to making even casual comments about the nature of my work, or my education.

I refer to myself upon entering a home or marketplace as ‘Michael’. This is not solely out of humility (though I am very humble!?!). You can stop laughing now. It is my best attempt to hide amongst the poor so that I can learn of their true desires, without the guise of being the ‘learned, enriched and enlightened one’. It is a feeble attempt to say the least because I really know no matter how I try to identify, I can always leave. I can pretend to be poor, but it is only like playing house as a child. We would make mud pies because it was fun. We would pretend to go to work. We would pretend to own a business. If we lost the job, or the business failed, we always knew we would eat that night. The mud pies were not for eating. However here, food is so scarce and expensive, just as in Haiti, who knows just how far people will go. They could muddle through a meal of mud.

That is why the poorest of the poor call me ‘Michael’ and not ‘Doctor Johnson’. I recognize that very few professionals, dignitaries or politicians in this country would allow themselves to be treated with such indignity as to be called by their first name. They would most certainly not forego the half dozen handles denoting their titles; e.g., B.A. M.D., FACS, Dip. ABS, CDEFGHIJ.., etc.

Just how do we satisfy the longings and fill the needs of porous of the poor?
Jesus had this very same problem. I think He may have invented it. He recognized that the ‘porous’ you will have with you always. He knew for certain that people in the market place would chase Him down, seek Him out, no matter how He tried to blend in with the crowd. He was well known to have everything they needed or could ever desire. Healings could be had from the hem of his garment, or the spit from His mouth. Thousands could be fed, just by placing in His hands the lunch of a little boy. A word spoken from Him could raise the dead from their graves and pay the taxes from the mouth of a fish. He had power. Yet He decided to go in the guise of the common man.

That is where I must start to meet the needs of the porous of the poor. Right now I give from what I can stand to waste from my wealth. I am giving from what I carefully measure so that I don’t miss it. I dare not commend myself as generous.
Giving starts with giving ourselves. We must allow ourselves to be marked. We must allow ourselves to be vulnerable. It is a difficult balance: to be vulnerable yet vicious. That is to be a peaceful as doves, yet harmless as serpents. Knowing how to say no and do so because I don’t want to feed into the cycle of dependency and patriarchal, feudalist, neo-colonialism is a very fine balance. I don’t know the answer.
I do know that we must allow ourselves to be amongst the porous of the poor. We do so because ultimately we are amongst the porous of the poor. God recognizes our poverty of spirit and He calls us to sit face to face with those who know poverty in a way we will never know it. When we submit to this call, we will understand how to fill the longings and true needs of the porous of the poor.

Rich Rats and Poor Dogs

Our storeroom is designed for non-edibles. Things like spare car parts, essential power tools that I brag about, but never use and old fishing gear that I faithfully take out for my alternate decade outdoorsman activities. We are typical Americans. We collect stuff. In 32 years of marriage we have amassed a fortune of things which we can neither evaluate objectively, give away nor sell. We hope our kids want it, but they have no doubt begun their own collection of American treasures. The prospect of no future generations laying claim to this mountain of wealth made seeing the rats run through our treasures in the storeroom even more distressing.

In 2002 Kay discovered that the snake which had been living in the storeroom had been killed by the gardener. So the rats having no predator to inhibit their productivity obeyed God’s commandment to be fruitful and fill our storeroom. Rats were everywhere.

Kay and Keturah had returned to Kenya several weeks before me that year, and were charged with the responsibility of getting the house in order and initiate the ministries prior to my arrival. It was a big task, made even bigger by the invasion of hundreds of furry critters. Kay tells me that as she opened the doors and saw the first varmints scamper across her valuable furniture she promptly slammed it shut and used my name in vain. I thought I felt my ears burn.

Time has passed. This is 2009. We have now fumigated the boll weevils; flea bombed for fleas, ‘eliminated’ the rats and are ready to stuff the storeroom all over again. This year we are set to use it for keeping the foodstuffs purchased to feed hundreds of children in orphanages. We will purchase maize, beans and porridge mix. Prices of these essential food items have skyrocketed due to drought and that deadliest of all diseases ‘GREED!’ Highly placed officials in the grain industry have somehow been able to manipulate the prices and availability of commodities to insure that the only well fed are the very rich people and the rats. The very rich have no problem in purchasing food at any price. As for the rats, they know how to fit in to every small hole in every large storeroom no matter how secure it may seem. They laugh at the poor dogs.

A ninety kilogram bag of beans (about 190 pounds) has doubled and tripled in price to about $70. To keep this in perspective, one child can eat a minimum of 250 grams of food (about one half pound) daily. For 90 children that means one bag of beans will last four days. We currently provide food for 700 plus children. As our supporters gave us $5000 to purchase food, we will acquire 70 bags of beans. 70 bags at 90 kilograms per bag will give us a total of 6,300 kilograms of food. For each kilogram we can feed four children. That means for the total of 6,300 kilograms we can provide 25,200 feedings of beans. For 700 children these beans will last about 36 days. That is, if the rats don’t get it first. In order for us to feed these children with a healthy basic diet, we really need a minimum of $60,000 per year, if the price of food does not go up. Ask yourself. What are the odds food prices increasing this year?

The rats eat will eat well if we don’t secure the storeroom. They could swarm our storeroom. That is why I have termed them rich rats. When compared with the poor dogs in the slums where we will distribute some of the food, the rats have it made. The dogs have it worst of all when compared with other members of this food chain. The food chain looks like this in Nairobi. At the top are the middle class people, like us who have enough to eat and even enough to throw away. We don’t live in, or near the slums. We just drive by and marvel how the raw sewage trickles down the streams into these semiprivate abodes.

These dwellings of mud and sticks are designed to house 16 people in 40 square feet of space, with headroom of six feet. Bend down to enter. Hold your nose if you plan to stay. There is no electric lighting, but your eyes will adjust to the dark because the smoke from the charcoal stove and kerosene lamp will make you squint. We could accommodate two such families in our storeroom, but we would have to sell some of our treasures first.

Lets’ look at the food chain again. The rich and middle class carry in their mounds of food and have their bags of rubbish hauled out to piles in the streets. This upper crust composes about 10% of the population of Nairobi’s 4 million people. The other 90% have access to their discarded excess. Their discards make up the essential nutrient source for many of the poorest slum inhabitants. From the crumbs of their tables, there is a rapid descent into desperation.

Along the streets, men sleep face down in putrid piles of warm, wet refuse as comfortably as on beds of sweet clover. They are not bothered by the swarms of flies. They are narcotized by sniffing glue (gas is too expensive) and are oblivious to their still awake foraging and hungry companions who are looking for something digestible and least likely to cause diarrhea or vomiting.

The poor dogs survive on the left over scraps that chickens won’t eat. As roaming cows rummage through garbage and litter, the dogs fend off wandering goats, which are defending their turf from the muddy ducks. The edibles are contaminated further with animal waste supplemented by the elimination of children and adults who find it easier to relieve themselves on the less trodden paths than the crowded pit latrines. The dogs eat the rotten corn meal mush, moldy kale and rotten fish bones. It is a real study in urban survival for domesticated animals.

The rats in our storeroom are the super rich, but after all, they aren’t man’s best friend. Come to think of it, neither are the urban poor. It is all in perspective. I guess that is why the dogs don’t mind. It was after all the dogs who licked Lazarus’ sores.

Lu 16:20 And there was a certain beggar named Lazarus, which was laid at his gate, full of sores, Lu 16:21 And desiring to be fed with the crumbs which fell from the rich man’s table: moreover the dogs came and licked his sores.

God Flips Coins

His arms and legs were about as thick as the IV pole. That may be an exaggeration, but for sure he was weak and the pole was just thick enough to support his frame from falling as he leaned on it from the edge of the bed. He teetered and tottered so I moved quickly to avert being hit by him and the pole. Then suddenly, it hit me. An idea that is, not the pole. It was revealed to me what all the theologians, thinkers, the prophets and priests have been unable to discern. I realized that God flips coins.

“Why me, he asked? I have never drunk liquor, I am faithful to my wife and I don’t smoke. I am a good church member and I work hard to support my family. Why me?”

I did not want to reveal to him my new found revelation, no matter how profound and true it might be. He was obviously not a deep thinker (as I am) and just dealing with his terminal illness was enough for him. So I thought of a different tact. I would not tell him that God flips coins. Instead I would tell him “God lets you pick a card out of His almighty hand.” No that won’t work. That is too easily associated with smoke filled rooms. Let me try “God lets you guess which shell the nut is under as He shuffles them around.” Hmmm! This was going to be harder than I thought.

How could I explain to him and his family members that at 27 years of age, he had an unresectable, untreatable, incurable illness? Why not just tell him the truth? The truth is; I don’t understand God and never will. God chooses to allow each of us a particular illness at a particular time based upon His infinite wisdom. It is actually written somewhere in the book.

Ecclesiastes 9:11 I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favor to men of skill; but time and chance happens to them all.

God has chosen me to be the bearer of bad news in many lives every clinic day.

One day if I am blessed to be alive to hear it, God will send someone to give me some bad news about my own body. If it so happens, I pray I will not begin to think that the Almighty has a two headed coin, a stacked deck, or that there is no nut under the shell. I pray that the Holy Spirit gives me the grace to say “Why not me? After all, you have blessed me with many years of good health, strength, wholeness and joy. I would rather you choose me this time and let someone else experience some of the abundant life I have had.”

Ecclesiastes 9:12 For man also knows not his time: as the fishes that are taken in an evil net, and as the birds that are caught in the snare; so are the sons of men snared in an evil time, when it falls suddenly upon them.

James 4:13-16 Go to now, ye that say, To day or to morrow we will go into such a city, and continue there a year, and buy and sell, and get gain: Whereas ye know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapor, that appears for a little time, and then vanishes away. For that ye ought to say, If the Lord will, we shall live, and do this, or that. But now ye rejoice in your boastings: all such rejoicing is evil.

Life is not a game of chance. God has intricately ordered every step of my path. If I want to take advantage of all that He has to offer me, I should start with surrender to His will. After all, He is in control even if I hold the cards up my sleeve.

If I Sell My Last Cows

If I sell my last cows, I can afford the surgery.

My mind drifted as he spoke to me. Well it did not really drift. I intentionally let it wander away. I was hoping he would quickly relate this yet another sob story. He went on to elaborate how he had sold his crops and now was selling his cattle to get his surgery performed. It looked like it was going to be a long day.

Yes indeed, here I was in yet another clinic day. Today was actually lighter than most days. I only had 55 patients to see. The day is only heavy when you reach 80 and overwhelming when it gets 100 or more. With such a paltry number as 55, I was confident that if I could avoid talking to them, I might get finished by 6 p.m. If I did not examine them, I might even break for lunch.

Six in the evening is the usual quitting time and if I am really smart, I can send many of them for laboratory and x-ray examinations that will keep them in those lines for at least half an hour. Those diagnostic results pending, I could tell them they have to come back the next day and see one of my colleagues, hence relieving me of the burden to hear another ‘last cows’ story.

Well I called my mind back to face the old man in front of me. His illness was not so bad, just a hernia. This is a relatively simple operative procedure which we perform frequently. However, this man was making it complicated by somehow trying to compel me to feel some of his pain. I have learned over the past 19 plus years of working in Kenya, ‘don’t go there!’ Don’t begin to listen to stories. Before you know it, you will start to have compassion and that could be dangerous.

It appears this old man was a subsistence farmer. I would describe that as a person who grows just enough food for the boll weevils to eat. If his cattle look anything like those I saw in recent travel, selling half the herd of 20 would fetch just enough money to pay for the x-rays, ultrasounds, laboratory tests and medicines I just ordered.

I have to financially triage my patients as well as sort them by the stage and severity of their illnesses. Is the 6 month old baby who was born with AIDS and now stricken with meningitis resulting in blindness from the increased pressure from the swelling on his brain, worth investing money in to put a shunt in his brain in hopes of regaining his sight? Wow! That is quite the conundrum. How many cows will that cost?

Which cancer is biggest and which should I offer to pay the deposit for treatment? Two of the women in my clinic had breast cancers so large it appeared they would explode if I did not get them out of the room in time. Who would clean that up? They had both delayed coming to the clinic because they had no cows to sell. Then of course there is always the option of saying; ‘ I don’t care how sick you are, I can’t help you!’ That comes in very handy when there is no money left in the account to help them. That happens more often than I like. Not feeling makes it easier or at least it seems so.

I am of course being extreme in my description of my reactions, but not of the severity of the illnesses, or the choices my patients must make. I am also being quite honest in expressing the emotions I feel. I really don’t know how to feel without feeling. I don’t know how to care without caring. After having two patients cry, I can’t tell the third one ‘I have had enough. Go cry somewhere else’ even if I want to say that.

That is why praying with my patients is always so comforting. I can take them to the one who never runs out of cows. He knows the answers when I don’t. When things don’t make sense to me, I just have to turn it over to Him and expect that somehow He will sort it out.

When I can’t listen and care, I find God can listen and care. After I sell my last cow, I remember;

Ps 50:10 For every beast of the forest is mine, and the cattle upon a thousand hills.