Going Home.

Winnipeg. Vancouver. Sydney. Perth.

Bangkok. Kathmandu.

Bangkok. Poi Pet.

Bangkok. Perth.

Kuala Lumpur. Perth.

Bangkok. Nairobi.

Dar Es Salaam.

Nairobi. Bangkok. Perth.

Kuala Lumpur. Hyderabad.

Kuala Lumpur. Manila.

Olongapo City. Manila.

Kuala Lumpur. Perth.

Perth. Sydney. Honolulu. Vancouver.

June 6th.

An excerpt from my journal in Honolulu:

Took my sweet time since I had 9 1/2 hours.

Got my luggage on a cart and went to the bathroom and washed my face, changed my clothes, and washed my hair.

The temperature was perfect. With nice gentle breezes. It was wonderful! You were just warm enough in a sun dress, but not sweating either.

Anyway, I started to to get pretty sleepy around the middle of the afternoon...

I think it was the middle of the night for me.

I managed to sleep for an hour,

sleeping with my arms draped over my bags.

I leisurely checked in, and leisurely perused the small amount of shops...

I walked the spacious, open corridors to our gate,

the sun was setting and the sky was now a pale, dusky blue.

And there she was.

The Air Canada plane.

I stopped pushing my cart and just stood there,

soaking in the moment.

An Air Canada plane.

I'm going home.

I leaned up against the railings and thanked God for the various things that were on my heart, and if I were a little more sleep deprived

or aware of the meaning of this moment,

I would have cried.

The sentiment was there,

and it was welling up inside of me,

and then as I continued to walk down that hallway,

watching the palms rustle above me,

a strong wind came and blew up my skirt.

Well, sentimental moment over.

But seriously, the Honolulu to Vancouver flight was so emotional for me.

First, hearing your accent spoken by others.

Seeing all the Canadians sitting waiting for their flight,

knowing that I could speak to each one of them if I wanted!

I felt such a connection with them!

And then reading the Air Canada's inflight magazine there was an article describing Manitoba's Whiteshell landscape....

a small area in Southern Canada where I spent my summers growing up.

I'm coming home!

Wow.

It has been a long time.

****

"Ladies and Gentlemen: this is your captain speaking.

The time is 4:20 am and we are 20 miles from Vancouver Island.

We'll be in Vancouver before 5."

I looked down and I could see the dark tops of forests and mountains covered with trees.

Canadian land. Oh how I've missed you.

I crumpled in sobs with my face to the glass,

this dark and early dawn of June 6th, 2010.

And to think that I will see Aisha in a matter of moments!!

Graduation

Perth.

Travelling by plane gets me every time.

You pack your bags, walk down a few aisles,

sit in a seat, watch some movies,

and then boom,

you come out on the other side in a new continent.

So, we arrived back in Perth.

Familiar setting, familiar parking lot, familiar people.

But it was chilly!

The air was clear and bright,

and the sun shone to light the sky,

but the wind still managed to kiss your cheeks into a rosy red.

We had a week together as a team in Perth.

It was marked with joy and reunion.

There were many opportunities to tell stories of our latest travels,

and space to reminisce about our days together in Africa and India, and in seperate teams in Philippines and A-stan.

It was so good to see the A-stan team,

and hear all their colourful stories, finally, in person.

We didn’t hear much from them while they were there... emails had to be vague.

It was so good to be all together again,

to have a week to adjust and scavenge for winter clothes

(June is cold in Australia, and the houses don’t have insulation or heating!),

and the leaders of our school were really good about finishing up loose ends well.

We had time to reflect and express

what we’ve learned,

how we’ve grown,

and what God did in our lives over this past year.

We shared with each other our plans for the future, where we felt God was leading us,

and each one of us was prayed for.

We finally graduated, recieved our certificate, and enjoyed the exquisite handmade desserts full of chocolate and almonds.

The days were a little surreal,

but we savoured what we could of being together, even though the days were numbered.

But how do you really prepare for a life onward,

without the ones you’ve been with for the last year?

Mangoes on the Dashboard

It took a while to adjust.
I couldn’t get over the cleanliness of our house where we stayed, it was luxury!
The abundance of fans,
internet,
and a lovely open kitchen with good knives and refrigeration.
We even had a toaster.
Toast! What a novelty!


We got receipts for things,
we ate fresh fruit and vegetables in abundance
(fresh produce is nonexistent in Indian cooking),
and we could wear shirts that showed our shoulders.
What is this place!

Despite feeling quite jarred and shocked at the overt Americanization of this place,

we still managed to find the real Philippines.

Large open markets,
mangoes on the dashboard,
cats in the fruit boxes,
the smell of fresh fish
side by side the smell of freshly baked goods,
slums that flood with tides of sewage water each morning,
children whose teeth fall out at 4 years old from rot,
mothers who are too poor to pay for their birth at a clinic
and thus give birth at home, alone,
families where the father chooses to spend the food money on alcohol,
houses that are caving in and have tarps for doors.

We found these people.
They were just a walk away from the paved highways,
just down the road from the retail stores and fast-food joints.
And they became our friends.

Friends from the slum, attending church. They are so lovely.

Free prenatal check-up in a slum. Measuring the belly....
This is Odette. This is her fourth pregnancy, and the father has run off and refuses contact with her. Her other children have a different father, and he's not around either.

We also saw the effects of generations and generations of broken families.
Years and years of fatherless families have left a gaping hole in the understanding of commitment, nationwide.
Many of the women we saw who where pregnant had never been married and had children from various “husbands”.
The word “husband” and “boyfriend” is interchangable there,
so often I’d be doing a prenatal interview with a woman, and ask who would help her with the baby.
“My husband.”
“Oh! Are you married?”
“No.”

In the Philippines, being a Catholic country,
once you get married, you can’t get divorced (it’s illegal),
and only on special circumstances can you get separated.
Thus,
this generation has decided that they don’t want to get married.
If there’s no way out, why commit in the first place?
Besides, weddings are glitzy and expensive...
so they just move in together. It’s easy.

Unfortunately,
as easy as moving in,
it’s just as easy to move out.
So after a kid or so,
fathers move on to other girls,
and children are left with no dad.
These children grow up with the knowledge that relationships don’t last for long,
and that although their 19-year old boyfriend/husband is with them now,
he will most likely not stick it out for the long haul.
He may even call it quits during the pregnancy.

I did a prenatal check up on a girl who was 18, and thought she was pregnant...
if it was positive,
this would be her 3rd child.
She skipped her period the last month,
and so we did a pregnancy test,
turned out to be negative, and she did a little leap of joy.
18 years old. She already has two kids!

This was such a drastic change from India, where there are virtually no babies born out of wedlock. Marriage is such a big deal,
it means security and strengthening family lines...to disregard it would to bring shame to the whole family.
Here, it would be a surprise to find someone who’s having kids and is actually married.


One time, we were doing a teaching at a free women’s class at a clinic,
and women at all stages of pregnancy and motherhood came pouring through the gate.
As the chairs were filling up,
there were two girls in particular who caught my eye in the second row.

Still having the frame of a young girl and not yet a woman,
a bulge that could have been adolescent fat was showing under her t-shirt.
But no,
she was 16... and 6 months pregnant.
Her friend was also 16,
but a little less far along, maybe 4 months.
The two girls had such young faces,
joking about things here and there,
being teenagers...now having a new life grow inside them.
Being a mom at 16.

During our teaching,
we asked the women any complaints they had of minor things during their pregnancy.
The young girl put up her hand and said she was getting acne.

Pregnancy, or puberty?

And this was not the exception,
it was what was saw everyday.
Most of the women we met had their first child (or two) before they turned 20.
One girl that we got to follow week after week, Michelle,
she was 24 years old and having her 6th pregnancy.

The government's solution?
The hospitals advertised free bilateral tubal ligation (female sterlization) for women with 5 or more children and are under 30 years old.
... is that really the way to fix things?


What about issues deeper than surgery...
commitment,
repairing the fatherless generations,
faithfulness...


We also got to know local women (and their stories) through the government-run clinics.
Our team who had been there for the month previous,
had paved the way with open doors
into various maternal health centres all over the city.

We got to see organized clinics,
midwives and doctors who were relaxed and loved their job.
We saw prenatal care like we hadn’t seen before.
The health centres were civilized.
Needles were disposed of properly.
Every pregnant woman was getting immunized for swine flu,
because the goverment provided it,
and the workers were diligent in following through.

Mothers were on track with their tetanus injections,
and babies were immunized at all the right times.
If they were showing signs of anemia,
iron pills were freely given,
and the women were educated on danger signs in pregnancy at every visit.
They were treated with dignity and love. It was wonderful to see.

So in the Philippines,
with our concentrated focus on prenatal care, I saw how a working,
sustainable, basic clinic could look.
All you need is a room,
with a few dividers,
a few skilled dedicated staff,
a baby scale,
a fridge for keeping immunizations cool....

My perspective was wider for the look of the world’s health...
and it was a nice country to finish off in.

Next stop?
Australia.

Philippine First Days

When I first arrived in the Philippines from India,
I was in culture shock.

I had gone from wearing flowy,
modest punjabis with scarves in sweltering heat,
buying vegetables down the road from a family with a hand scale at a roadstand,
eating with my hands and drinking tea for 3 rupees (7 cents) on the street, to....

Western clothes,
tight fitting t-shirts,
the land of make-up,
hair straighteners,
big box stores,
aisles with everything wrapped in plastic,
plastered with a bar code,
and you could get Hamburger Helper in a box imported from America.

There was air conditioning in every store,
people had keys to their house,
and there was toilet paper in the bathroom.

The second or third day after we arrived
(there were 5 of us who came later, because we stayed in India for an extra month),

the team took us on their “regular Saturday routine”
which consisted of doing a children’s program at a slum in the morning, then walking through an airconditioned mall, to wait at the bust stop next to the fast food joint, to take the free airconditioned bus down the smooth civilized highway,
to an industrial part of town with massive Wal-Mart like stores, shopping carts and long lines.

My eyes bulged open wide as I slowly walked down the aisles in a shocked daze...
beholding rows and rows of canned foods,
mass produced clothing on hangers,
and bar code after bar code of packaged goods.

I didn’t want to be there.
I didn’t know what to do.

Any “list” that I had of things that I potentially wanted to buy,
had flown out the window of my mind. I was overwhelmed.

The others, more adjusted than I, casually filled their arms and baskets with sprigs of this and a can of that,
“Oh let’s try this,” and “Wow, I haven’t had this for months!”

I bought a pocketcomb.



We then proceded to a nearby, massive Starbucks.

The air conditioning chilled you as soon as you entered, and there was a “door opener” who greeted you through the wall-to-wall glass windows.
There was “cafe art” hung.
Shades of cream and mocha and espresso bean coated the walls,
and all the Starbucks “popular favorites” were professionally displayed on the board behind the baristas.
The latest jazz mix-CD played lightly enough in the background to find yourself leisurely tapping your foot while waiting in line.

I got a frama-lappa-chocolate something for 3 dollars ( enough for 4 lunches in India),
and sat on a plush velvet coffee-coloured armchair by the window.

What is this.

This looks exactly like North America.
This scene could be coming straight out of a downtown street in Winnipeg, and yet I am on an island in the Philippines.

My thrift store clothes are baggy and not matching.... but this is outreach, right?
Just this morning we were holding kids in a slum,
and now I’m drinking a frilly chocolate drink,
sitting in a luxuriously comfortable chair,
and I’m actually getting cold from the intense, unrelenting air conditioning!
I tuck my barefeet up into the plush seat and take it all in.

The half-litre of sugary-sweet coffee and whip cream were
settling in my stomach and shocking my system.
We didn't eat very many sweet things in India.

Culture shock.
I don’t like it.
Everything’s so.... organized.
so... excessive?

Oh man,
is this what it’s like?
How am I going to survive!



.....

What Have I Left Behind?

This is a poem:
that I wrote in the Philippines,
to reflect on India.
Remembering moments, situations,
pictures that remain on my mind...







what have I left behind?
dust
rocks in the road
the people whose smiles capture your heart
whose hands are stained with henna
and lean up against crumbling
moist
cement walls.

I have left behind
billowing fabric doors
and one room houses

chubby babies
and thin mothers

and smoke that is so potent with spice
that it makes a burn in
your eyes
your throat
and you cough.

I have left behind smooth
frictionless stairs
and
musty cobbled
ancient backways

that open up to a lively street
of sorting rice
wandering dogs
the whir of sewing machines
and the swing of incandescent bulbs.

Turn the corner and
the goats on the rubble
of the garbage mountain
stop their scurry for a moment
as we take swift steps
down a fork in the winding road.


I have left behind
a place
where rings on your hands
mean nothing
and rings on your toes
mean everything

a place where ears and noses
are adorned with a gold
that shines
bright against skin tones of olive and caramel

a place where
babies look better with eyebrows and
men look better in moustaches

a place that conceals the collar bone
but reveals the ribs

where
children with kohl-smudged eyes
sleep soundly on dark marble floors
of a goverment hospital

nurses scuttle in starched whites
gaggles of Muslim women
huddle in gowns of black
and a young girl faints in her chair
from her first miscarriage

this place
of joy mixed with sorrow
oppression and progression
hard labours and hot climates
silver shackles and pocket combs

in the midst
of it all--

yet
no necklace is too sparkly
no pattern is too outrageous
no crowd is too large
no smell is too strong
no braid is too long


and
there is
always
a reason
to smell of fresh
jasmine flowers.

A Homevisit: Revisited

end of April.


A friend and I went on a homevisit to Riya's house.
Chilled with the family for 5 hours.

Homevisits are so awesome...
This is what I love about Midwifery,
it gets you into people’s homes.
You are able to help them and care for them in a very crucial time in their life,
and then you can come to their house and further develop relationship with them.

You get depth to your view of the women of India.

Mostly we only see women in hospital beds,
in a very vulnerable state, scared, having not slept for long hours,
or seeing them as one of the many:
waiting to be cleaned up,
waiting to be sutured,
waiting on a cold, steel table,
alone,
with a big, clunky lightstand blazing starkly on their wound....
waiting... sometimes for hours.


Even visiting them in the Postnatal ward upstairs adds dimension to their real life.
Bustling with movement during visiting hours:

These are women with
families and
husbands and
mothers and
in laws and
people who come alongside them,
help them,
rejoice with them,
who bring them baby clothes,
and help rip old saris into little squares for fabric diapers.

But homevisits add such another element.
First of all, we get to see them again.
And we get to do a check up. See how the baby and the mother are doing now.

Visiting in them in their home is such an honour.
It shows me that after the birth of the baby,
it is not the end, it is just the beginning.
It's the end of the 9 months, the end of "our part" at the hospital,
but it just the beginning of "life with the new baby".


At home,
you get to see real LIFE.
You get to see the family relations.

We get to sit on their couch, their floor,
play with their kids, talk with their relatives,
with no real agenda,
for 5 hours!

In the downtimes,
you get to see how fathers really act towards their children,
their wives,
their daughters.
We get shown wedding photos and
are given a delicious homemade Indian meal,
and a small cup of hot milk tea to finish.

We get to bond with the children
and have an open door into the
dusty, dry back roads of where people really live in Hyderabad.


We get to hang out with the 19-year old sister,
and see the prospective choice of her arranged marriage:
She showed us the piece of paper with a photo of a man in his early 20s,
and some “stats”:
name,
height,
age,
job,
family’s jobs,
income....

she seemed pretty neutral about it,
she trusted her parents’ choosing.
She had not met him yet,
but she would meet him once before she would choose to marry him or not.
Then she put the piece of paper back on the shelf and carried about her day.


We get to see the comings and goings of a home that is 400 square feet, houses 7 people, and has a curtain for a door.

We get to see the neighbour pop by for a chat and eat a hot rice pudding,
we get to see the teenage daughter brush her freshly washed hair and meet her friend at the gate to go off to a cooking class.


One thing I love about India is the closeness of family.
The family stays together.
The bride comes to live with the husband’s family, with the parents and the siblings, and grandparents.
It’s more about the wholistic family community,
than the isolation of individuals and couples.
Everyone is taken care of.
So the babies grow up with family around,
and the elderly are looked after by the young.

All you need
as a newly married couple
with a new baby,
is one room to yourself,
right?

Well that’s how it is here.
Share the kitchen, share the couch, share the sink, share the bathroom.

Talk about a new take on simplicity, eh!


But I like it,
it’s cozy!

Anyhow, homevisits are a pretty special privilege.
I like spending time with Indian families.
I have a lot to learn from them.

*

Here are some photos from a day with Riya's family.
Riya delivered at the hospital,
and now the baby is 2 months old,
and very cute.
The baby's name is Kasheesh.


This is Riya.
and baby Kasheesh in motion.

















This is Riya's husband's grandmother.
She's chilling on the couch with Kasheesh,
her great-grandchild.













This is Gori,
Riya's niece.

She's 4 years old,
and such a little joy.
I befriended her when we were outside watching dogs together,
and from that moment on,
she was my little buddy all day long.




Gori having fun with her scarf.











Baby Kasheesh.
Cutie!










Riya's mother-in-law, Anita,
is a henna artist.
She does it for big events and weddings and such. Luckily, I happened to have a tube of henna in my bag (gotta love those moments!) and she offered to cover my hands with her skills.
All free-hand.

Alana, my friend who was with me, got her hands done too.

They were lovely. A really sweet family.


Then we took the ride home,
down curvy streets and bumpy roads,
thankful
for the little house
with the yellow walls and
hospitable hearts
located somewhere
down a dusty lane
and twirling ways
that I would
never
be able
to find again.

Dream Home

April 21.


Today I was greatly encouraged.

We didn’t know exactly what the day would entail,
but we knew that we were going to a far part of the city to visit an orphanage.

After more than an hour long rickshaw ride in the morning heat, through the traffic and eventually out of the city, down some windy roads and dusty turns, we arrived at:
Dream Home.

We met Aaron and Gloria.
This lovely couple has a two-floored simple house and serves the Lord with it.
“From the hour we got married,
we decided that anywhere we go,
wherever we are,
we will do ministry.”

They are now mother and father to 15 children, all orphans.
And the children all have one thing in common, they have lost both their parents to AIDS.
Aaron and Gloria are from the coast, but moved inland 4 years ago to volunteer at a Christian HIV and AIDS clinic.
After 7 months of working as a counsellor for HIV positive people,
Aaron shared his vision with the doctor who runs the clinic.

“We want to provide a home for the children whose parents have died from AIDS.
When the grandmothers and uncles and aunts will not take them in, we will take them in.”

The children themselves have not contracted the virus, they are HIV negative, but they have lost both their parents from it.

Three years ago, they started Dream Home.
A big simple house they rent and live in,
and provide a refuge, opportunity, and the love of Christ.
The first year they had dream home, they received 2 children,
a pair of brothers, whos parents had died.
The next year they received a few more, and now,
in their third year, they have 15.

“Do you have any children of your own?” I asked them,
“They feel like they are all our own!!” Aaron responds.
They really do love them.
And the children are so grateful, it really is a dream home for them.
They have been taken out of dire situations, and placed into a family of love and peace,
with two parents at home whose main priority is the children.


It was amazing to see.
Two faithful, loving people, with hearts committed for the glory of God, using their skills and talents to give hope and life to the full.
Gloria is excelling as a housewife.
She cooks, she cleans, she tidies, she loves.
I’ve never seen such a tidy house.
This is a strong and important statement!
In the three months we’ve been in India, I have not seen a tidy house!

Everything is clean, there are gorgeous potted plants on the walls outside, and hallways are swept and beds are made. Each child has their own bed!

Aaron, is a gentle, dedicated man with a gruff beard, with a heart that is humble and close to God. He is a good leader, and is trained as a teacher, and did some theological degree as well.

Things are organized, the children speak English very well, and they play so well with each other. It’s kind of like having a classroom... 15 children is a full-time job!

Aaron and Gloria’s vision is to continue to take in children and grow them up in the ways of the Lord. Their house has enough room for 20 children, so they can take 5 more.
But the house runs on donations and people supporting them, so they say,
when the money is there, we will take more children, if it is not there, then we wait.

They also want to have another house, but this one for HIV positive children, who have contracted the virus from their parents. These children will need more special care, such as a special diet to keep immune system levels high, and also being more careful with scrapes and cuts.

If they mixed the HIV negative and postive children together in one house,
the other children would become jealous because they wouldn’t understand why some where getting different food, and more special care.
Not to mention precautions with cuts, scrapes, and wounds.

So they are looking for a house so they can start taking care of the positive orphans as well.

Words cannot describe how hopeful and thankful I was when I met these two individuals, and their children they have taken in as their own,
using what they have to pour out a better life to these children.

I was so encouraged to see that there are people like this, who are dedicated and stay for the long haul, to be the mother and father to the parentless.

They don’t advertise their needs, or go on support-raising excursions,
they are just people of prayer, and see God provide the finance through a few families knowing about them and giving.
I was so excited to tell my friends and family back home about them, because I think it is a very worthy and trustworthy cause.

I don’t know anything about how much it costs Dream Home to live every month, or how much it costs to take in another child, as he wasn’t concerned about seeing us as white people to support their work. He didn’t even elude to it. We just got to spend time with the children, play with them, and be with them as a family.

But if you are interested in supporting them though, or
If you have been looking into wanting to give to something or something like this,
or want to learn more about them living life as everyday ministry,
I have his email, it’s
aaron.jakkula@gmail.com

I’m sure the whole family would be very encouraged by people they have never met,
from other nations and across the seas,
taking interest in them.
They are so cute!

Just had to spread the word about Dream Home,
a simple little house on the outskirts of Hyderabad,
with a whole lotta love.

Baby 22

....to be read in continuance with the previous story, “Explanation”.




I woke up to the hot morning with a sick ache,
a tightness in my stomach,
almost a shaking in my ribs.


Yet amidst the violent storm of the state of my soul,
glimpses and pieces of scripture flashed on the scene like something solid, an anchor.
.
Isaiah 65 ..... infants of but a few days.... Psalm 84 ... passing through the valley of tears... Psalm 23.... valley of the shadow of death.... 2 Corinthians 1....God of all comfort......

We had an hour in the morning before we started the day together,
and there in the hot stillness of my bed
I was searching these verses,
investigating their truths,
typing the thoughts and reflections...

It wasn’t so much me clinging to them,
as it was them wrapping around me and holding me like a lifejacket.
I still was in the water and feeling the waves,
pretty helplessly,
but the words of God were buoyantly keeping me afloat.

Here is what I wrote from that morning:


The Promise.

"For behold I create a new heavens and a new earth;
And the former things will not be remembered or come to mind.

But be glad and rejoice forever in what I create;
For behold, I create Jerusalem for rejoicing
And her people for gladness.

I will also rejoice in Jerusalem and be glad in My people;
And there will no longer be heard in her
The voice of weeping and the sound of crying.

No longer will there be in it an infant who lives but a few days,
Or an old man who does not live out his days;
For the youth will die at the age of one hundred
And the one who does not reach the age of one hundred
Will be thought accursed.

They will build houses and inhabit them;
They will also plant vineyards and eat their fruit.

They will not build and another inhabit,
They will not plant and another eat;
For as the lifetime of a tree, so will be the days of My people,
And My chosen ones will wear out the work of their hands.

They will not labour in vain,
Or bear children for calamity;
For they are the offspring of those
Blessed by the LORD,
And their descendants with them."

Isaiah 65:17-23



Today I woke up clinging to this promise.
There is a time that is coming.
There is a time that will come where there will be no more sound of weeping,
there will be no such thing as a child that only lives for a few days or a few hours,
and there will be rejoicing.

Families will be able to build and plant, and eat the fruit of their hands.
They will not be subject to another people,
they will not have their vitality taken from them,
they will be able to live so long and so full that
they will wear out the work of their hands.
The sturdy chairs they have made, their quality garments, the stable houses.
All these things will become love-worn, used to the maximum, used to be a blessing for generations to come.

And women will not labour for nothing.

They will carry life to the point of delivery.
They will bear children who will grow up strong,
valued, loved,
and knowing the deep love of God
that transforms.

They will be influence-makers,
exhorters,
watchmen,
watchwomen,
fierce for love,
passionate,
movers of the Kingdom,
bringers of heaven to earth,

and their descendants with them.



Raw journalling in the morning....
Psalm 84, verses 5-7

How blessed in the man whose strength is in You,
In whose heart are the highways to Zion!
Passing through the valley of Baca,
they make it a spring;
The early rain also covers it with blessings.

They go from strength to strength,
Every one of them appears before God in Zion.



notes from my Study Bible, page 805:
valley of Baca: “Baca” can be translated as “weeping” or “balsam tree”. The valley was an arid place on the way to Jerusalem.
they make it a spring: The pilgrims traveling to a festival of worship at Jerusalem turn an arid valley into a place of joy.
from strength to strength: Anticipation of joyous worship of God in Jerusalem overcame the pilgrims’ natural weariness in their difficult journey.



Psalm 23

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I fear no evil,
for You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.


Study Bible notes:
rod and staff: The shepherd’s club and crook are viewed as comforting instruments of protection and direction, respectively.


2 Corinthians 1:3,4

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,
the Father of mercies
and God of all comfort,
who comforts us in all our affliction
with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.
For just as the sufferings of Christ are ours in abundance,
so also our comfort is abundant through Christ.


***



It was time to go to the Hospital.
I didn’t know if I was ready for this,
but at the same time, it was the only place I wanted to be.

When we gathered outside with our bags, regrouping to sort out money for the rickshaws and lift up a quick prayer for the day, I was sitting on the concrete with my bag, and
I knew I had to speak up...

“I just wanna ask for prayer...
I’m still feeling a bit shaken up from yesterday.”

My team came around me and prayed out strong prayers, undergirding me with support,
and resisting lies that it was my fault,
or that I’d never want to be a midwife again,
and tears started to rim inside my closed eyes.
I was so on edge and fragile,
that when they were done I could hardly whisper,
“Thanks.”


“Fifi, why don’t you pray out.”

I knew that was what I had to do,
but it was the hardest thing.
There was some silence for a moment
as I didn’t even know where to start,
and as soon as I began to pray,
each word was laced with brokenness and tears.

I prayed for Balamani and her state today,
waking up in Postnatal,
with milk but no baby,
I prayed for her family,
I prayed for myself
and the very weakness I was feeling,

I prayed out not understanding,
I prayed to focus on God’s Truth,
and to trust Him for a
good
last day...
“...whatever ‘good’ means in Your eyes.”

Amen.


My mascara was fully off of my eyelashes and on to my cheeks,
and Rachel did the “mom thing”, and rubbed it off with her fingers.

On that note,
we left.


The labour room was full.
and even though I was on familiar ground,
I treaded softly from place to place,
well aware of the thinness of the state of my soul.

But as I think about it now,
in my weakness,
God truly was being such a perfect strength.

It was 10:25 am.
I was just washing my hands with the hospital bar of red soap by the window, and Rachel walks up to me.

“Do you want to do a delivery?”

“--Yeah!”
Nothing like getting right back in there!


A gentle, fair faced Muslim girl is laying on the bed.
She has big gorgeous eyes
with long thick eyelashes that were so cute!

When she would look
innocently over at me,
blinking and fluttering her dark,
naturally fluffy eyelashes,
she reminded me of a sweet little
storybook jersey cow named Buttercup.

I introduced myself to her, and gave her a big smile.
Rachel was with me,
we looked at each other and knew what the other was thinking.
First thing we did:
check the fetal heart.

I tried with my stethoscope,
couldn’t hear anything.
She tried with hers,
nope.

Classic.
It’s so common to not be able to hear it close to delivery,
because the baby is making its way down and in different spots, manoeuvering through bones, etc.
I wasn’t worried, this usually happens,
especially if you only have a stethoscope to listen with... it’s harder to pick up.
So we just believed the baby was alive and well and descending,
and spoke out in faith that everything would be okay.

The mother was calm and strong.
Her name was Hameeda,
19 years old,
first baby.

She pushed well, she stretched well,
I had to do a little episiotomy to help with the end,
but the baby came fast,
and as soon as the head delivered,
the baby opened its eyes!!!
The cord was loose around the neck,
we did a little manouevre and slipped the baby through,
the shoulders turned and restituted nicely,
and out she came,
a beautiful baby girl at 10:45.


As soon as she came,
the Lord started to speak Promise to me.
It was just like yesterday,

A baby girl.
2.75 kg.

But this one was
alive, active, moving.
This one had life in its limbs,
a cry in its chest, colour in its face.
What a difference Life makes in a body!


Yesterday,
it was a baby girl,
2.8 kg.

Same gender, same weight.
Parralleled beside each other in my mind.
Wow, God.

What an interesting way to redeem the last day.


There was a rest, and a joy, and a sense of peace after the delivery.
The mother was shining and relaxed,
and she had no complications.
Very little blood loss, uterus contracting well.

The baby was quite possibly the cutest baby I had ever seen!
She was moving and kicking and looking around and being a darling little girl.

As I doted over her and prayed for her,
I just kept firmly hearing the word
“Promise”.
and “Hope”,
and newness.
I was praying for a name, though,
and nothing was fitting,
then finally, it came.

Daisy.

It was the only name that fit.
And it spoke of new life and promise, and the hope of spring flowers!

And then I realized that I had made one more baby hat,
it was blue with a little frill for a little girl.

I put it on her head and she looked like a little bluebell flower!


She was my little flower child,
my last delivery,
and promise of newness and life.





The Lord brought me full circle through that delivery.

He brought things to
a fullness and completion,
and healing
in my experience of birth.

It was such a good last day.


The mother had an episiotomy, (which I gave),
and she also tore some as well.
So I sat there with a headlamp and the suturing kit
and did my most complicated suture.
7 stitches,
with 3 different suture lines.

It felt good to be able to finish off the time at the hospital doing a skill
to the highest complexity you’ve done it.

I also put in an IV line without a single drop of blood (which is very satisfying way to end off!)

Everyone had a good last day,
a day of rising to our skills and knowledge of the past 7 months, and
doing them well.

We had a lengthy goodbye, and some final photos,
packed our bags for the last time.
Walked the hallways for the last time,
and wore our “labour room punjabis” for the last time.

We came home, exhausted from the heat and the traffic,
washed my clothes
and gave my labour room shoes
a good final scrub.


It was a long day, a satisfying day,
a thankful day,
and things
felt --
complete.


thank you Lord.