At the same time, the hospital was sponsoring her husband Yoseph to get his diploma as a lab tech. When Yoseph finished, the hospital moved him to Gimbie to work in the main hospital lab. For several difficult months, Yoseph and Teshaynesh were separated. To further complicate matters, Teshaynesh became pregnant.

Sometime during her maternity leave, Teshaynesh graduated with a diploma and received her license from the government. We moved her to Gimbie so husband and wife could be together. There was a vacancy in the male ward, so it looked like long suffering Teshaynesh would finally have her dream job.

Except for one thing. She turned out to be a terrible nurse. Teshaynesh flunked our standard entrance exam, so we had her work as an assistant in the wards, hoping that a month or two of practice could improve her knowledge and skills.

But it didn’t. She mixed up the drugs and managed to nearly send a very important someone “into a far country.” Last night I gave her an exam. It was the exam Becky used to screen second year nursing students who wanted to join our school (FYI, our school is now widely recognized as the best around. The government inspectors were so confident of our compliance that they didn’t even bother to visit—good job Teshome and Becky!).

The exam should have been a piece of cake for Teshaynesh—she had had three times as much schooling as the intended test takers. But she totally bombed. She said that the digestive system pumped blood through the body, 62 beats per minute was an abnormal heart rate, and the pituitary gland was part of the skeletal system. Teshaynesh’s English is poor, but that can’t explain how Tejube, who had only one year of school and no English, performed far better on the exam.

Of course Teshaynesh was in a difficult place. She had her diploma and license, she knew that the hospital needed a nurse, and she wanted the job with all her heart.
Ethiopia being Ethiopia, all the nurses were publically supporting Teshaynesh and kicking up a royal reek about her working as an assistant—then coming and talking to me privately and begging me not to schedule Teshaynesh on their shift.

I discussed the situation with Engedi, one of the better nurses at the hospital and the head of ER. We recognized that Teshaynesh’s situation was a big deal to her and the other staff. We both saw both sides—if Teshaynesh was hired, patient care would suffer, the other nurses would be overworked, and the chances of full scale disaster were moderate to high. On the other hand, if Teshaynesh was not hired, she and the staff would give me no end of grief, large scale insubordination was likely, and I would stand a decent risk of physical harm.

Engedi’s final statement was classic: “Oh Mister Paul, it is too hard to be the administrator of a hospital in Ethiopia!” “I know…” I said, and put Teshaynesh on the schedule as an assistant…

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There are many stellar staff member here at Gimbie Adventist Hospital; some excel professionally and others shine personally. One of our nurses, Adise, exemplifies family commitment and financial generosity. Adise and her husband, Abera, are in their 30s and have two young children. They work hard to provide just the basics (food and clothes) for their small family. Recently this task has increased in difficulty.

Five years ago Adise’s sister, Sara, passed away leaving behind her husband, Abebe, and two young boys, Amuel and Yaqiob. Abebe then became the sole provider for his boys ages 7 and 4. However, Abebe is HIV positive and over the past five years Abebe’s health has deteriorated. Simultaneously, his dependency on Adise and Abera has escalated. Because of the HIV virus, Abebe is unable to do manual labor. Instead he tailors clothes by hand to earn some money. Even so, Adise knows if she does not give them leftover food or buy them grain they will starve.

Today, Amuel and Yaqiob, ages 12 and 9 respectively, attend the tuition free government school although they would like to attend Adventist school with their friends from church. Their after school responsibilities include caring for their father, helping with household chores, buying and carrying water from the pump in town to drink, cook, and wash with, and lugging home charcoal to make a fire for cooking.

Adise tries hard to fill the absent mom role in the boy’s lives. Despite the challenges in her own life, she still gives her time, emotions, and money to her extended family in need. Adise is happy that regardless of the hardships Amuel and Yaquiob have faced they are growing up to be smart, Christian youth.

Gimbie Adventist Hospital is one of the largest employers in the town of Gimbie. There are about 230 full time staff and 100 daily laborers. We are proud that many of our staff, even the lowest on pay scale, give their own money and food to community members in need. It is impressive because Adise and other staff do not give from their surplus. (There is no surplus to give from!) They give straight from their pocket or dinner tables via their heart. May Adise and other selfless staff be abundantly blessed.

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Several of our more hot tempered guards, a garden worker, and a number of ex hospital employees were rather quietly sneaking towards my house. I’ve had a number of death threats recently, mostly because I helped end a stealing streak at the nursing school construction site. I haven’t paid much attention because a number of past promises to machine gun me have apparently fallen through, our employees are mostly very loyal, and staff moral is high. But when I bumped into the group last night I did wonder...

After exchanging a few tense greetings I discovered that they were coming for the brother of a hospital employee, who happens to live under my house. The guy, who we shall call Benti, has a history of psychiatric problems. He is also rather brilliant and is currently enrolled in a bachelors of nursing program in Awassa, sponsored by the hospital. Benti’s girl friend recently dumped him and he chased her across the country. No one was sure if he was hoping for reconciliation or revenge, but given his history, the girl made herself scarce and Benti drifted back to Gimbie without meeting up with her. I’d talked to Benti about some of this that afternoon and learned that he was heading back to school in the morning. Like many people in his condition, Benti had no interest in drugs or treatment.

It soon became clear that the group’s intent was to tie Benti down and shoot him up with some bootleg high powered psychiatric drug.

I have a fairly long fuse, but I was not amused by what was going on and said so in no uncertain terms. For one thing, if Benti really was dangerous, all of them stood a decent chance of getting cut up in their sleep when the drug wore off a few months down the line. More likely, he would go to the cops, convincingly plead his sanity (which has never been medically challenged) and get the group locked up for assault and unlicensed use of dangerous drugs. In addition, Benti was headed to school in the morning and there would be no way to monitor the impact of the injection. Most importantly, Benti isn’t a particularly violent dude and the likelihood of trouble seemed slim. It is hard to rule things out, particularly with the potentially crazy, but given my past experience with the group at hand, I’d wager a considerable sum that the would be injectors were fair more likely to commit violent crime than Benti, particularly since that is exactly what they had in mind.

After some discussion, things calmed down, everyone went home, and I got to Becky’s in time for the out takes. Never a dull moment.

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Becky and I groggily met in the living/dining room. “What are we doing?” I asked. “Beach Body?” she suggested, referring to her exercise DVD. I utter an “um-K” as I returned to my room to grab my mat. Within moments we were led by our “friends” Tony, Pete, and Lisa through stretches, power Pilates, and cardio. “The cardio section’s not long enough” Becky stated. So we went outside to run the red dirt steps between our house and the hospital.

Yesterday we did not exercise or shower; for us the two go together like a pen and paper. Even though today is colder than yesterday we MUST shower. Thus we push ourselves to raise our heart rate and sweat. Our morning motivations are mutual: because the shower is cold we exercise and because of the warming exercises we shower.

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To read about her experiences and see pictures from Sudan and Ethiopia go to http://www.puc.edu/campus-services/public-relations/pr-projects/viewpoint and select the “Fall 2009” issue. The cover is blue with two Ethiopian children sitting on a bench.

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About 10 years ago Bekuma served the Ethiopian Army as a soldier. While fighting on the boarder of Eritrea he received a bullet wound to his abdomen. He had abdominal surgery at a border-land hospital and was sent home to Gimbie. After he recovered, Bekuma found work on a day to day basis. His wife Alemtsehay also worked as a daily laborer but stopped when she became pregnant with their first child.

Since then, Bekuma has felt the continuous responsibility of feeding his wife and three daughters. Often, Alemtsehay will leave the girls with a neighbor to find miscellaneous work for more desperately needed money.

Despite their poverty, symptoms of severe abdominal pain, vomiting blood and fever, motivated Bekuma to come to Gimbie Adventist Hospital . He was seen by Dr. Priscila, our general practitioner, and referred to Dr. Khalid, our surgeon after it was found that his previous wound had herniated. Dr. Khalid performed an emergency hernia repair.

Bekuma is grateful for the treatment he received at Gimbie Adventist Hospital. He acknowledges that it is God’s providence that allowed him to receive medical treatment. Gimbie Adventist Hospital is thankful that God has blessed the hospital with generous friends and family.

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In utero, she had been in distress for hours. Her mother hadn’t wanted to have a C-section, despite the information that her baby’s head was too big for her pelvis. Finally with the doctor screaming at the mother-to-be, her fingerprint was pressed Into the paper, sealing her alleged consent. It took around a half hour to get the consent, and another half hour to secure proper anesthesia for the surgery.

My shift was complete, but I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to make sure the baby breathed. There was a miniature ambu-bag at the foot of the bed in case she stopped. Not that it would matter. Even if we do CPR, there is no way to correct the causative physiological factor(s). So the patient usually dies anyway. I touched her small chest, counted her heart beat and felt her lungs expand. I held her small cold hands to warm them and checked to see if perhaps she had any reflexes. She didn’t.

Finally, she moved her tiny limbs. The machine continued to pump oxygen into her starved lungs. She breathed. Her heart beat. So I went home to get some rest. In the morning, she was gone.

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At breakfast, we wished each other a “Happy 2002!” Ethiopians follow the Julian calendar, which is 7 ½ years behind our Western Gregorian calendar. A local story explains the disconnect. Apparently, the world leaders gathered and decided upon creating a new calendar. The Ethiopians thought it was a wonderful idea, and sent an emissary to collect the new design. Unfortunately, what with the difficult road and the distractions along the way, it took him 7 ½ years to arrive back with the calendar. Yet, in typical enthusiasm, the Ethiopians decided to begin following the calendar right away.

No one works on New Years. We spent a delightful day lazing around the house, trying to be as unproductive as possible. The medical staff had a relaxing day as well… at least until later when the post-holiday trauma began to filter in to the ER - mostly those who had over-eaten or been injured in drunken brawls. We ordered tea and cakes for all of the hospital staff who had to work, and good cheer was preserved.

The next day was Sabbath – the first time I have ever enjoyed two consecutive “days off” at the hospital. I joined in the mass choir which performed for the celebration at church. We belted out multiple local songs, all in Oroomiffa and all in unison. The rafters were strung with twirled toilet paper (to resemble streamers), a few strands of plastic flower chains bedecked the sanctuary, and the pulpit emitted an electrifying strobe of red Christmas lights, which kept the congregation mesmerized throughout the service. Smiles radiated from every face. A New Year meant new chances to do good.

On Sunday we were back to work at the hospital. Still, it seemed like a new exuberance pervaded the building. We were so inspired that we couldn’t help but make New Years’ resolutions together over lunch. I intend to have better posture. Renee plans to wake up earlier. Paul resolves to exercise more often. We’ll do our best to keep these promises… but then again, if we slack off, the rest of the world’s New Years is only 3 ½ months away…

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Yes, a verbal. I had to look it up too.

A verbal is “a verb form that functions in a sentence as a noun, an adjective, or an adverb rather than as a principal verb” (95). Basically, a verb went to a costume party and we call it a participle.

The challenge was to teach identification and usage of participles to 23 EFL (English as a Foreign Language) students that still mix up past tense and do not understand commands. (Disclaimer: There are about 6 other above average students that are capable of understanding and using participles.) Our nursing school students will be tested over this information when they take the governmental exam upon graduation. Therefore, they must learn and I must teach.

Following the advice of Frauline Maria per Rogers and Hammerstein we started at the very beginning: verbs, nouns, pronouns, adjectives, adverbs, and subjects. Then, we progressed to present and past participles. All students were copying the example sentences and taking notes. Next, participle phrases: modifiers, objects, and compliments. Somewhat confusing, but punctuation rules make identification of these phrases rather simple.

After one hour and thirty minutes of definitions, diagramming sentences, and learning the rules and exceptions, I’m pretty sure their heads were spinning. I assigned 5 sentences for homework, asking them to underline the participle or the participle phrase, label it as past or present, and place commas where needed.

I am curious to see how they do. Even more, I want to know how I did teaching these undercover verbs. Monday is our next class. I’ll know then.

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Alternative topics presented themselves from time to time—at the terminus of a long hike, I inadvertently dropped a notepad, which was retrieved by local corn farmers (bearing wood hatchets), who pursued me at full sprint for many miles in attempt to return it—but seemed largely inappropriate for the blog’s historical audience.

As I am scheduling two return trips to Gimbie (a one-month visit in October and again in April 2010), I thought it most appropriate to document how Gimbie continues to change my personal life. This started with a spreadsheet, but given the limitations of this host, I edited it as true type, wherein the first number of each line was an average before my first trip to Gimbie, and the second is a current average.

Diet:
Daily servings of dairy and meat: 3, 0
Daily servings of caffeine: 4, 0
Estimated daily kilocalorie consumption: 2300, 1800

This isn’t a guarantee that individuals who visit Gimbie will develop proper eating and habits, but after developing an appreciation for simple food prepared well, it is exceedingly difficult to reacclimate oneself to complicated food prepared poorly.

Exercise:
Miles ran per week: 1, 10
Miles hiked per week: 0, 12
Hours of group sports played: 2, 8

This isn’t a guarantee that visitors will develop proper exercise habits, either, but after appreciating friends while engaging in hiking or playing volleyball at Gimbie, it is difficult to schedule a social engagement at a movie theater wherein the selected showing is based on a mutual decision of “least likely to make viewers exit the theater prior to ending credits.”

Weight (pounds): 190, <155

Exercising is a terrible method of losing weight: per Richard Muller, PhD, it is possible to burn a pound of fat by 1) running 60 miles; 2) ascending 2,500 flights of stairs; and 3) swimming 25 miles. It is also possible to burn a pound of fat in one week by lowering your kilocaloric intake to 1,600 calories. The food in Ethiopia is wonderful (and it is easy to prepare Western-style food if one is not a fan of local delicacies), but absenting oneself from vices (liquid calories and ice cream) almost guarantees weight loss.

Good Habits:
Weekly hours of reading international news and related research: 0, 4
Weekly hours of pursuing new relationships: 1, 10
Weekly hours of contributing to charitable projects: 0, 20

Proper charity is addicting, and as I have indulged more recently, I have gained increasing disaffection for teachers and professors who have made improper charity mandatory. Proper charity requires that: 1) you are wholeheartedly committed to the individuals or community that you are serving; 2) that you express unyielding affection for all individuals who are also dedicating their time, simply because their commitment outweighs any personal differences you may have; and 3) that you are able to observe positive changes because of your work. I am grateful that all three, and many more, are readily available at Gimbie.

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The earlier part of the week had been rough. Government inspection, a fight in the laundry, an intense four hour general staff meeting. The hospital is full, the community is satisfied with the care we give, and we are marginally in the black, but there is no way that salaries can keep up with the spiraling cost of living. It is hard for staff to be happy when they are hungry.

For the sake of the censors who will read this post before you do, I will indulge in a short story that of course has nothing to do with the hospital. Once upon a time there was a bakery. It was the only bakery in town and everyone came there to buy bread. The bread was good, and the people were happy. Then new bakeries came to town. At least they were called bakeries. But they didn’t bake much bread. And what they did bake tasted bad. So the people kept coming to the old bakery, which still baked good bread. But the bakers at the new “bakeries” got paid lots of money—money that came from other towns, not money that came from the sale of bread. These bakers were happy because they did not have to work much since nobody really wanted their bread. But the bakers at the old bakery were sad. They knew that they were better bakers than the bakers at the new bakeries. They knew that their bread tasted better. They knew that the people love their bread best. And they were always busy baking bread, sometimes all night long. The trouble was that they did not get paid as much as the bakers at the new bakeries, because the old bakery only got money from selling bread. The manager of the bakery was always thinking of ways to make the bakers feel special, but it was hard because he didn’t have much to work with.

Anyway, last Friday night I was baking pizza with Petra, Renee, and Becky. It was Becky’s birthday. Some kind soul mailed us a jar of green olives stuffed with garlic. These were the centerpiece of a fine smelling pizza that was about ready to come out of the oven. We had just opened the Sabbath.

Then someone pounded on the front door. A young girl seemed to have acute appendicitis. Our surgeon was in Addis getting his license renewed. Our GPs and ob/gyn refused to operate—with good reason. Anyone who operates without a license for surgery gets a free stay behind bars.

A couple years back the great Erling J Oksenholt in cooperation with Bob Barden facilitated the donation of a Ford ambulance to Gimbie Adventist Hospital. Most of the roads around Gimbie are too rough for the ambulance and few patients have the money to cover the cost of fuel for its thirsty V-8, but there are times when the ambulance is simply invaluable. Friday night was one of those times.

I ran out my front door, grabbed the keys from Mark (who was overseeing an evangelistic campaign in the hospital auditorium) put the girl and her family in the back of the ambulance, got Ellen (a visiting EMT) and Beniam to ride shotgun, said a prayer for safety and tore off into the night.

The lights and siren parted the crowds of Gimbie like Moses rod and the red sea. The guards at the Gimbie checkpoint respectfully raised the barrier and we were on our way to the government hospital in Nekempte.

Most of my driving time in Ethiopia has been behind the wheel of the hospital’s land cruiser. The land cruiser has many admirable qualities, most of them only apparent off road, but it is not particularly powerful, corners poorly, and becomes highly unstable above 60 mph.

The ambulance may be ill suited to rough roads, but it is very stable, and at least in comparison with the land cruiser, it goes like a bullet out of a gun. I know my mom and Bob Barden will read this, so I won’t say exactly how fast I drove or how long it took us to reach Nekempte. Suffice it to say that little time was wasted.

About 40k from Nekempte it started raining hard. It felt like a hundred fire hoses were aimed at the ambulance. I had to keep the window down to keep the windshield clear. I was soaked in seconds. The rain stopped quickly and steam rose in clouds from the warm asphalt. This made it tough to see the road surface.

The road between Gimbie and Nekempte crosses a number of rivers and creeks. At one of the smaller bridges a foot of water was flowing over the road. We plowed right in at a decent clip. Ellen screamed. I kept the wheel straight and avoided the gas and break. Water shot onto the windshield and over the top of the ambulance. A few tense seconds later we were on the other side.

The end of the trip was anticlimactic. We pulled into the Nekempte hospital, had the girl out of the ambulance on the stretcher almost before the ambulance stopped moving, and then waited for the surgeon to show up. And waited for the surgeon to show up, and, well, you get the picture. We left before the surgeon arrived. The girl’s father is a well connected dude. If there was a surgeon in within cell phone range of Nekempte that night, he was called in.

The drive back to Gimbie was peaceful. The people in the roadside villages had gone to bed. We saw several hyena, Ethiopian deer, some dik dik, mongoose, and a beautiful owl. Ellen and Beniam dozed and I thought about the story of the bakery.

Even if times are tough at the old bakery, at least the bakers and their manager can take comfort in the quality of their bread and the quantity of bread that they provide to the community. I don’t know the end of the story. Part of that may be up to you. But I do hope that someday soon when the Master Chef will call us skyward, the poor workers at the old bakery will get a special reward.

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Which doesn't sound like a big deal, but the whole process was balanced on a knife blade and if I didn't get the plan switched to pdf there would be trouble for sure, because some personages who view the hospital's activities with a jaundiced eye are on annual vacation--for now. Odd as it may seem unless the document was in pdf on the appropriate desk in the morning, the hospital would have no five year plan, no right to operate, no right to import supplies, and little chance for future survival. TIA.

I'm reasonably computer savvy, but I haven't gotten a full nights sleep in ages and the obvious quickly became opaque.

The internet at the Union is abominably slow, but I started loaded facebook while I was fiddling with the plan and five minutes later the page came up and a girl hailed me via facebook chat. I didn't know her. Most of our staff add their friends, so that wasn't surprising.

I was in no mood to chat and fired off a few terse words in reply. Facebook is distracting and I almost signed off. Then inspiration struck. I told the girl what I was struggling with, which wasn't easy because most days I could just about do the pdf switch in my sleep, or so I thought.

She happened to be in the library at Southern Adventist University. She enlisted a librarian (blessed be all libararians) and started giving me instructions. Lo and behold, the plan was in an antique version of word. A quick switch to word 07 and the process was complete.

I know this story sounds trivial, and compared to our surgeon crisis, supply shortages, and the odd death threat it is. But to me it was a miracle, just in time to save my faith and sanity.

So thank you God, and Monica Nunez, thank you. In your own small way you saved the hospital.

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Priscila did her best, but it was pretty clear that Abdissa would die in Gimbie and would have some chance in Addis. Given the gravity of the situation, I decided Abdissa was worth part of our charity budget. I went to his family and told them we were willing to transport him to Addis for free.

They didn't seem excited or thankful, which was weird because patients and their families typically erupt in tearful "God Bless yous" at this point. Between my bad oromoiffa and their bad English, it was tough to figure out what the catch was. So I called Birassa, the hospital's purchaser and billing officer to translate.

The family had no interest in treating Abdissa. They came to the hospital for a court letter (MD's analysis of the cause of death) which they are planning to use to sue the pants off the spear thrower, who is a well heeled local gentlemen. Abdissa's family actually hoped that Abdissa would die quickly (they figured he would die in ER last night) so they would have an easier time in court.

Patient rights (i.e. family rights) are the name of the game in Ethiopia and we couldn't force Abdissa to stay. Birassa and I gave it our best shot. If Susan Smith's jury had heard passionate and well reasoned appeals of our caliber she would have walked with 10 days of community service. Abdissa's family did not bat an eyelid. They picked Abdissa up (incredibly, he was still alive and conscious) and took him home to die.

I don't think Priscila or I will sleep well tonight. Which is a great pity because she will be on call tomorrow and tomorrow night and I have to drive to Mugi starting early and goodness knows neither of us have been getting anything like enough sleep.

Usually we have trouble with people asking for charity when they have money to pay. It is rare indeed for free treatment to be refused. It hurts. I wonder if this is how Jesus feels when we thumb our noses at his offer of eternal life because we want revenge. How utterly stupid and cruel of us.

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I ran home to grab some wash clothes and soap and returned to find Amanuel collecting clean sheets and rubber gloves. I sprayed several thick clouds of bug repellent around the bed to disperse the flies. Amanuel carefully rolled her over. We stared in shock. She had been lying in pool of stool. Her back was covered with sores. The bed was crawling with a mass of white maggots. Amanuel and I looked at each other silently. There was nothing to do but set to work. It took us an hour to get her half-way presentable, and the whole time Amanuel was muttering under his breath about how sad it was. We decided that she simply must get some IV fluids and pain medication, even if we had to pay for them ourselves. We also forced some sugary juice down her throat. “Can you hear me, Chaltu?” I spoke loudly, “I’m praying for you, okay? God bless you!!” She continued staring blindly ahead, fighting for breath. Amanuel shook her strongly on the shoulder. “Say ‘amen!’ Say ‘amen!’” He ordered. She coughed a bit, probably from the juice, and moved her mouth silently. “See?” he smiled at me excitedly. “She said ‘amen!’”

We kept her alive for a little over two weeks. Every day, I stopped at her bed, shouted out a greeting, and read her a Bible verse. Perhaps something was getting through to her brain. But yesterday, as I was in the midst of shouting my greeting, a nearby asternamy frowned and shook his finger. “She will not hear you.” He said, “she is dead.” I froze. Dead? I looked at her again. Yes, she did look a little different then she had looked yesterday. And no, she wasn’t breathing. I ran to the nurses’ station and asked someone to come quick. The stethoscope confirmed the asternamy’s assertion. Chaltu was dead.

I have witnessed many deaths at Gimbie. But always, there is someone to mourn. Family and friends gather around the deceased body and wail and beat their breasts. But Chaltu’s death was silent. There was no one to mourn. A couple asternamies clicked their tongues. The nurses on duty offered a sad sigh. Amanuel would not come into work until later.

I gathered my belongings from my office and headed home. It was almost time for choir practice. She was so young… I left my Bible and keys by the front door and walked to the bookshelf to find my choir book. She was so alone… I took my jacket off of the hook and began to put it on. She was dead… I dropped my choir book on the floor and put my jacket back on the hook. I went into my bedroom and cried.

*asternamy – a caretaker, usually a family member of a patient.

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Your comment was super encouraging. Thanks for that last sentence: “Just know you’re famous and you’re making a name for Gimbie.” I appreciate the complement, it’s encouraging too, but Stella, I want to be truly great.

Famous. Honestly? I’ve chosen to live in a muddy stagnate point some 7 degrees above the equator. Our friends are landing jobs that pay, starting grad school, celebrating weddings, attaining the Fulbright; and here? Here mediocrity and poverty reign. People don’t have shoes to wear. No one I know has a bank account. I wonder if there is a word meaning “save” in the Oromo language. People are afraid of fresh air, think it is manly not to drink water, and discriminate and reject people (and even children) with HIV even though they know it’s not transmittable via the air. We pray for rain because if it does not come neither does our food. The electricity is off every other day and it is super expensive for the hospital to run off of our gas powered generator. Tell me, where’s the popularity in that?

Last night I couldn’t sleep. I think the tea I drank at our 4th of July party was caffeinated. I thought about the future, specifically, my future. I mapped out every possible option and where it would lead: Spain to Boston to a Master of Science degree in Human Service Policy by age 25, or Chattanooga to Spain to Austin with a Master’s in Communication at 26, or Atlanta to Austin with a PH.D by 30. I want to be great, Stella, mud-free and making a difference.

Here at Gimbie, I answer emails, post some notes on Facebook, make sure guests have a bed made and a cook lined up, plan 4th of July parties, write snapshots about patients and happenings that probably skew the true picture of the hospital, and dream about a future of greatness.

I wonder if the greatness I seek—education, travel and broad life experience—is truly greatness. Am I just chasing sanctioned expectations and societal myths dubbed as greatness? What does true greatness look like? How do or will I know when I have attained it? Are greatness and simplicity opposites? Do fame and greatness always cohabitate? To attain one do I have to give up the other?

Most days I cherish my simplistic life: story time with 3 year-old Jonah, card games by candle light with friends, a diet of local unprocessed foods, raising support for our needy hospital, befriending orphan boys, singing with a Sister from the Catholic mission down the street, morning runs and morning devotions, a good book with tea, making bagels and guava sauce with my neighbors. It is great when we value the simple basic things in life.

The difference, I suppose, between the greatness of the famous and the greatness of the simplistic is not that one does and the other does not. On the contrary, both do much but they do differently. The greatness of the famous calls one to do things, expectations, meetings, style, money. However, the greatness of the simplistic beckons the heart and grows the mind. It focuses on people, quality time, and service of others.

I like living abroad, Stella, because I feel like the latter greatness is simpler to attain than in the States. I think it’s easier to adapt John the Baptist’s great attitude of “He must increase, I must decrease” (John 3:30) whilst living in a developing country. It’s so easy to forget about many of the great people who lived before us. They are recognized for their sacrifice. Who today asks themselves “what can I sacrifice” on their quest to become great? Honestly, not me.

Recently I’ve read the book Uprising by Erwin McManus. He talks about wholeness, generosity, faith, gratitude, love, responsibility all aspects of being great. He writes some deep stuff. He clarifies sacrifice by saying “The goal is not so much to have less, but to give more” (p. 113). That blew my mind. It’s not about giving away what God has given us until we have nothing left. It’s about being a channel that passes on the blessings that flow from God.

I appreciate how McManus acknowledges responsibility in the equation. After meeting a smart guy from UCLA with much potential who thinks life is about paying bills he writes, “Those who have the privilege of a healthy upbringing and a great education have to embrace more responsibility than simply paying their bills. If it were within his reach to produce great wealth, to create jobs for the unemployed, to provide income so that meals could be put on a table, if he had been entrusted by God with the skills and capacity to improve the quality of life for hundreds, if not thousands, it would be sin for him to do anything less” (p. 167). That quote raises some other questions. Who is to say that deeply influencing one person is less, or inferior to influencing thousands? Is it possible to lead a life of simplistic greatness and influences thousands? I know Jesus did it but honestly, it doesn’t seem possible today.

“There is a place where very few of us ever aspire to go, where the measure of our worth is not how much we have, but how much we give” (p 156). Those that venture to that land are great, with or without fame.

Thanks for listening Stella. I’m praying for you and your students.
Eat some kim-chee for me!
TQM!
Renée

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The next day, I was hailed once again. “Hallo, Patiraa!” I made my way over to the corner, grinning. “Kaf Halak?” I said. The mirth was still present, but not nearly so deafening. A pudgy uncle was immersed in the crowd this time. “You see him?” the fat aunt pointed her finger at the honorable gentleman, “You must read your Bible for him. He is sick. His head hurts.” I could hardly believe my ears. “Does your head hurt?” I asked the man. He nodded sadly. “May I read for you?” Once again, he nodded. I surveyed the vast collection of relatives. Fatima sat quietly in bed, watching me. Was this a joke? Somehow, their faces did not say so. I opened my Bible with shaking hands and stumbled through several passages. As I finished, I glanced up at the crowd. They were nodding thoughtfully. “Amen!” Said the pudgy uncle. “Amen!” Said the fat aunt. Fatima simply smiled and nodded. We shook hands all around, and I went on my way once more. To think that “Kaf Halak!” could do so much…

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Just the word conjures up different impressions, pictures, emotions, and colors for each person. Hot, sultry safaris, blonde tall grass covering flat plains is one African stereotype that exists. If that’s what you think, I want to pop that preconceived idea right now.

West Wollega, Ethiopia has rolling hills and small mountains. Since the rains started, bright green grass covers the hills, evergreen and banana trees coexist, streams meander where they please, and it is cold.

It is not a wintery Canada cold but a windy, 60 degrees Fahrenheit, no heaters in houses or buildings cold. I deeply inhale the crisp morning air and enjoy the freshness as I walk to the hospital with a 26 ounce jar full of hot tea in hand.

Fortunately, I have socks, some long sleeve t-shirts, a fleece, a scarf, and pants that provide more warmth than skirts. Although we have no heat in our house, our windows close and we have thick wool blankets for our beds. Others are not as lucky. Some people wear all the clothes they own and still shiver.

Petra, our chaplain, told me she closed the windows of the crowded wards. (This was a monumental occasion because Petra always opens windows and preaches the benefits of fresh air.) The skinny patients, lying on their beds, with a thin sheet were quivering, so she shut the window to prevent the cold air from pouring in.

Sweltering, dry Africa was just one preset idea that was shattered. In some places it exists, just not in West Wollega, Ethiopia during rainy season.

The End.

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In Peru the patients would show up to clinics with bundles of herbs pressed to their abscesses. In the States we make poultices of mashed charcoal and apply them to bee stings or infections. Chadians were known to spread rabbit fur over their burns, and to cut the uvulas of babies to stop vomiting.

In Gimbie, the treatment of choice is butter. Sour, oily butter, spread thickly over the heads of sick children and newborn babies. The idea is that the butter will absorb into their heads, and the richness of it will sustain the sick during their recovery. Or protect the newborns during their first few days of life.

Sometimes I forget this and rub my fingers tenderly over the head of a brand new baby. Instead of soft baby fuzz, I discover slick gooeyness. Oopsies.

Maybe that smelly butter will soak into my fingertips and sustain me as well.

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His title for the summer, Outer Clinics Director, is abbreviated OCD. We tease him about how we find this fitting.

Alban brought some new games with him, most notably the random Italian cowboy card game, Bang! and Argentinean Truco. We fit in rounds of cards during our lunch break, and also in the chilly evenings with the ever-present cup of tea. Alban and I have also taken up the Review and Herald classic, Birds and Animals, which can be played with two people. We're learning to differentiate the Gemsbok from the Gnu.

Alban has many talents. He fixed the flushing mechanism in our toilet, built sturdy trellises out of branches for our pots of sweet peas, and he also bakes fantastic biscuits for breakfast.

Except for that rare Christmas vacation when we were in the same country, Alban and I haven't lived under the same roof for almost six years.

It's nice to remember how much we have in common.

We share good conversation as we wash dishes together with Ella Fitzgerald humming in the background. On an amiable walk up high street to the market we stop for a bitter shot of Ethiopian coffee, about 10 cents for a tiny cup, then sit and chat as the town wanders by.

We both like to be well prepared, to have a plan. We both like to meet new people and discover their quirks.

We both like to let the cows know exactly how we feel about them as they stand in the road and the car honks and honks and they don't move one inch.

I'm moping around the house at the end of a long, discouraging day. He meets my depression with wide arms, and pulls me into his blue sweatshirt. "Hug it all out," he tells me, "hug it all out."

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About two goiter operations are preformed each morning. In the afternoon, potential surgery recipients are screened. Because of the quantity of people with varying intensities of goiters, we are not operating on a first come first serve basis. Rather, Dr. Saunders evaluates each potential goiter patient and chooses those with pain, difficulty breathing and swallowing. Those not selected are given a dose of Lipiodol (iodized oil in pill form) that lasts a year. Those admitted are normally in the hospital about three days; pre-surgery, surgery, post-surgery, and discharged on morning four. Chaltu and Wogari are two of our patients that have successfully completed the process.

Forty five year-old Chaltu is the mother of 9 children. Together, the family farms their land and then sells their produce to for an income. Chaltu, like most people over thirty from the rural community, has never attended school. She has lived with her goiter for at least 24 years. Chaltu is very thankful for the surgery and prays blessings upon her donor(s).

Wogari is 54 years-old. He too is a farmer and has suffered with a goiter for the past 25 years. He has wanted to remove his goiter for a long time but was never able to because of finances. He is thankful to God for the opportunity to remove the once inconvenient, problematic goiter. “It is very nice that I can move my head from side to side now” Wogari said, “May God bless all of you who made this possible.”

Our plan is to remove the goiters of 36 patients’ total. Surgery costs about 2,200 birr, only 200 USD. However, that is a price that many cannot afford to pay. The average wage is 12 birr, one dollar, a day. Thus, a family must save every cent for half of the year. This is the average. Most people with goiters, however, do not earn an average income. They cannot afford to buy ionized salt let alone have an expensive surgery; hence we provide these surgeries for free. Although, we only have collected the money for 24 patients we will move on in faith knowing that God is Provider and Sustainer. We are thankful to those who have already given to the Goiter Project and are thankful for those that will.

To donate go to www.gimbie.wordpress.com/donate.

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As Feyisa and I drive in the Land Cruiser (me driving, Feyisa shot gun) through chaotic Nekempt toward the East Wollega Health Bureau, I express my doubt that it's going to be a successful trip. Feyisa listens patiently, nodding his head.

He knows better than to be optimistic.

I was here just last Thursday, with the same mission: to pick up free UNICEF milk for our malnourished kids. It was a disaster--a dead end. After waiting for nearly an hour on creaky chairs in a damp office, we were told that the Pharmacy Guy with the only key to the milk stock room was sick, and wouldn't be coming in for the day.

Since he possessed the only key, I had jumped into the Land Cruiser with Ashebir the driver and Karessa the pharmacist and drove to his house to get it.

He wasn't there. "He's at the market today," his wife told us.

So we called this Pharmacist Guy. He said, "I won't be coming into work today, I'm sick. But I won't give you any milk powder, anyway. We don't distribute to the Gimbie area."

But I had papers from UNICEF in Addis, with specific instructions to collect milk powders at that office. I had an official request from our hospital as well, and plenty of stamps and signatures.

We tried to talk to the boss, the manager of the Bureau. "The managers are out today," the round-faced secretary told us. "Come back tomorrow."

That was a week ago. I have since collected more papers, signatures, and stamps, talked with the directors of Ethiopia's UNICEF Feeding Program in Addis Ababa, and received more instructions. But I'm still dubious that we'll leave the Bureau today with milk.

As we pull up to the gate I tell Feyisa that I'm going to pray. We stop the car and we pray. It encourages us, if nothing else. God knows our kids need that fortified therapeutic milk.

This time the round-faced secretary tells us that Pharmacy Guy is in the WHO (World Health Organization) stock room. Apparently they are counting vaccinations. A goose chase around the compound finally lands us at a small warehouse sort of building. The roof is rusted and cracked open in several places, floods of chilly morning sunlight pour in.

Pharmacy Guy shakes my hand.

The answer is yes. Yes, we have milk (we find it stacked to the ceiling in a small, dusty room, some of the boxes moulding and some chewed up by rats, none of it moved or touched in months and months). Yes, you can have as much as you want (we pack 60 boxes of 30 bags each into the Land Cruiser).

I am so happy. I don't know why it was so hard last week, and somehow so easy this time around.

I guess right now it doesn't matter. Feyisa and I smile all the way up and down the hallway, carrying armloads of boxes of milk powder.

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She managed to find me a couple spare basins and seated herself on the sidewalk curb while I went to get water. Carefully, she removed her soiled, hole-filled socks. They were still wet and muddy from her walk to church. She didn’t cringe as she placed her foot in the icy basin. I stared at it in awe. The top knuckle sported a large, cracked blister. The sole was flat and calloused. One of her toes was half eaten away by a cancerous sore. I delicately took it in my hands and dipped it in the water. “Does your foot hurt?” I managed to say. “Yes, very much.” She answered cheerfully. What burdens had these feet borne? How many miles had they travelled?

Then, it was my turn. I had worn my long, black stockings because of the cool weather. Not wanting to immodestly begin undressing right in front of the church, I simply offered her my foot, stocking and all. She asked no questions. She gave me no funny looks. She quietly took my foot in her hands and began scrubbing vigorously. I was glad for the stockings. I would have been ashamed for her to see my neatly trimmed toenails and soft soles. They had borne no heavy burdens. They hadn’t travelled many miles.

We emptied our basins in the bushes and turned to thank each other. She hugged me happily and pronounced a thousand blessings upon my head. As I watched her painfully limp back inside the church, I felt – well, what I think Jesus intended us to feel after foot-washing.

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Shaunda, a good friend from college, recently left after a year of service to Gimbie. Our good-bye was short, and the moment of farewell was relatively painless. After the loaded Land Cruiser was out of sight, I headed home to the house we had shared. I found a note with my name printed in familiar handwriting; it was from Shaunda. While reading her reminiscent and encouraging words I heard her voice.

As I went about my morning routine, my mind drifted back to scrubbing walls with Shaunda at Green Lake clinic, to our rhythmic breathing during early morning runs, and human-wheel barrel stress relief exercises. The reality of Shaunda’s absence hit at various moments throughout the day: while choosing clothes from our now half empty closet, when I went to check the time on Shaunda’s now-missing alarm clock, and while sitting in the office we once shared. There was a hole, yet there is hope that we will cross paths in the States.

I wondered if Jesus’ disciples felt the same mix of emotions after He ascended to heaven. Did they walk along a certain path “remembering when,” or attend synagogue only to replay one of Jesus’ sermons in their head? I wonder if reading Matthew’s account of Jesus’ life triggered a mental sound clip of Jesus’ voice.

Wouldn’t it be great if miraculously an MP3 of Jesus giving the Sermon on the Mount was available?! What if we could hear each pause, or when his voice got shaky because of his passion, or spontaneous joy in a conversation? Although the inflection is unknown, we still have his powerful words.

Like Shaunda’s note, the meaning of the Gospels is amplified with relationship. So, explore nature, meditate on holy lyrics, read the Gospels, and remember the cadences of his words and the value of his message.

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Sena, Abde (Ayelech’s kids), and other children playing on the dirt road welcomed us. The bright green grass accentuated the orange-ish red mud house. The sheet metal roof reflected the bright sunshine. A pad lock kept the wood door securely shut.

As we entered, it took a couple seconds for our eyes to adjust to the darkness. Only the door and a window permitted sunshine to enter. We sat at a wooden table on wooden chairs; a bed shared the same room. The second room also had a bed and functioned as the “kitchen” too, I think. There wasn’t much to see. Ayelech offered us injera and wot but since we just ate lunch we did not eat.

While we sat, a hen and 6 little chicks pecked at the dirt near our feet. Their soprano voices reminded us not to step on them. Ayelech broke off a piece of injera and crumbled it and extended her hand to the hen. The mother chicken pecked one piece at a time, dropping each to the ground for her chicks. “She never takes for herself” Ayelech stated.

Ayelech makes a good wage working in a house of four farenjis. Like her chicken, Ayelch always gives, whether a place to sleep or money for clothes or school, to her family when in need. I’m thankful for Ayelech and her chicken who remind me to give to others.

“You are never poor when you live to give. You are never rich in the sight of God when you hoard things to yourself. There is a relationship between living generously and being entrusted by God. God searches for those individuals though whom He can bless the world.”
--pg 164, Uprising, by Erwin McMauns

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We stood outside the bus with packs on our backs and held each other’s hands, bowed our heads, and thanked God for his protection and asked for it to continue and wisdom to be given. Although no one was hurt, this was worse for Priscila and I; it was getting dark and we were in the middle of nowhere. I tried to call Girma, Seyoum, Paul, a taxi driver friend, but we had no service. “Help” I prayed again.

Not too long afterwards, a rickety old EMPTY bus slowly approached. Some people started to hop on so Priscila and I followed. They gave us seats in the front next to the driver. At first this was appreciated because we did not have to be squished like sardines in the back. However, it was the most dangerous spot. I sat sideways facing the driver with inches between my side and the windshield. If we stopped suddenly or hit anything, I knew I would go through the glass. Knowing our track record…I prayed again.

As more people than seats boarded, I better evaluated our mode of transportation. The bus was robustly shaking as we sat in neutral. The metal frame was rusty and in place of a speedometer and gas gauge were knotted wires. Adding to our seemingly hopeless situation was the horn that seemingly originated from circus clowns.

The driver drove cautiously, always beeping before turns. We chugged up hills and drifted down the other side. Most all vehicles past us, however, it was encouraging when we passed a bicycle and later a tractor.

That night we pulled into the Akso bus station just seconds before Girma, a hospital employee, who would take us to our hotel. We were so thankful to have safely arrived in Addis; hardly believing all day’s adventures. Our Sunday drive was not what we had expected.

Many expats and hospital employees have uneventfully traveled to and from Addis on public transportation and nothing like this had ever happened before. Thinking, I asked God “Why didn’t You intervene? After all, there were plenty of opportunities.” I know God could have kept the first bus running, the man crossing the street safe, and prevented the third accident as well. Each was an opportunity for God to step in and save the day.

God has his own timing, however. I was reminded of this via the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego, three young men from Babylon. They were mandated by the king to bow down and worship a recently constructed monument. Refusing, the three were sent to the king, providing a seemingly perfect opportunity for God to intervene. Under the influence of God, the king could recognize and commend their boldness, courage, and faith but that did not happen. Even after a compelling speech by the three young men, God’s protective hand seems absent.

The king’s fury surged and the three young men were sentenced to death; still God did not intervene. They were tossed into a blazing furnace. It was in the moment of death that God interceded. When the king looked in the fire he saw the three plus one more that looked like “a son of the gods.” The king called them out of the furnace. The raging fire had no effect on their bodies or clothes, and they didn’t even smell like smoke!

God’s involvement seemed late. It was clear, however, that God did the saving; it was nothing that the three said or did, it was not fate, or anyone or anything else. It was God. Just like the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego, Priscila and I did not understand the events happening to us. Nonetheless, it was clear that God was watching over us, intervening in his perfect timing.

“Blessed be the God of Shadrach, Meshack and Abed-nego, who has sent His angel and delivered His servants who put their trust in Him” Daniel 3:28 (NAS.

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Priscila and I met in the hospital foyer at 4:45am. Despite the rain, we quickly walked to the bus station, fought our way through ticketless petitioners at the bus door, and found seats in the back together. We sat down, adjusted our backpacks, took motion sickness meds, and prayed.

By 6 our bus was pulling out of Gimbie town. My damp overstuffed REI daypack functioned as a pillow in my lap. I slept shallowly, in and out of awareness, for four hours. Then, the bus stopped. One by one people became tired of waiting inside and soon all passengers had opted for space in the shade along the road. We waited; 15 minutes, 50 minutes, an hour and a half.

While sitting on a tree stump a few meters from the road, we vacillated between the options of waiting for the bus to become fixed and hailing a ride. We were going to Addis to renew Priscila’s visa which expired in three days and it took two days to process. We prayed for guidance.

As we were getting up from the stump, I saw an empty land cruiser. I stuck my hand straight out, signaling we need a ride. It pulled over in front of the bus. Others saw it and started to run toward it. I did to. Somehow I got there first. I opened the passenger side door and asked “Addis?” He nodded.
“Birri mecca?” (how much?) I inquired.
He didn’t say anything.
“Two farenjis” I said while holding up two fingers. “Lama farenji” (two foreigners).
He nodded.
“Vamos” I said to Priscila and we ran to the bus to get our bags.
I climbed into the bus and passed her my backpack, our water bottles and jacket. She ran to the cruiser while I unwedged her bag from under the seat.

Desperate passengers were swarming the cruiser when I arrived; the back seat already full with two men and Priscila. The driver was defending the front seat declaring “Farenji! Farenji!” I jumped in, closed the door and we were off!

The comfort, the speed, the seatbelt! It was so good. “Galaatomma” “Fayata” “Thank you” Priscila and I uttered again and again to our driver and to our God. Talk radio was on, something about the economy and the US dollar. I wondered what was being said about our currency. I wondered who was driving us, why he had such a nice car, why he stopped, and why he saved the seat for me. We traveled in silence since our driver did not know English or Oromifa.

With only two hours until Addis, we made a quick stop in Ambo to stretch our legs and grab a drink and we were back on the road again. Ten minutes past Ambo, there was a large Izuzu truck blocking the other lane. The road was straight and we could see for miles in front of us; no one was coming. Then, the passenger door of the truck opened into our lane and a man stepped out. He started to cross the road. We beeped. We breaked. He looked the other way and proceeded to cross. We beeped again and started to swerve to the right, away from the man and the truck. Simultaneously, he saw us. With wide eyes and an aghast expression on his face he tried to run across the street in the same direction that we were swerving.

We hit him—causing his body to spin vertically.
He hit us—leaving a mark on the driver’s side of the cruiser.

We quickly pulled to the side of the road and hopped out. His friend from the Izuzu truck had run to his side. “Malo! Malo!” (Please! Please!) he screamed. “Malo!” It was all he could utter. His twisted legs, exposed bone, and bloody clothes confirmed what we just saw. Priscila, a doctor from Argentina, was giving commands in Spanish. My job as translator has never been so stressful.

One of the guys from our car understood English. I communicated that Priscila was a doctor. “We shouldn’t move him” I translated but it was too late. Someone had sat him up. We had no stretcher, no medical supplies, no concrete form of communication, but shock and chaos were plentiful. One of the two doors was unable to be opened. Leaving a painful mystery of how they maneuvered to get him in.

The ten minute ride back to Ambo felt like an hour. We got to the hospital. Priscila went with the patient and I stayed with the vehicle and tried to call Paul, the hospital administrator and friend. A bit later Priscila came out and we met up with the others from our car and headed to the police station to report the accident. We gave our names and phone number incase witnesses were necessary.

We waited in front of the police station as a storm blew in. Priscila and I again listed the options: stay at a hotel in Ambo, contact Adventist orphanage just outside town and stay there, call Seyoum to see if he could pick us up, or continue in with our driver; we knew that the man would be transferred to a hospital in Addis and since the hospital didn’t have an ambulance we figured our driver would have to take him in. We prayed for guidance.

Finally, the driver told us we needed to find another ride to take us the rest of the way to Addis. In the rain we paid, thanked him for helping us, and wished him the best. Just then he pointed to a bus and said “Addis.” We saw the other two guys boarding so we ran and jumped on.

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It seems to be common knowledge that Gimbie has designated dumping sites for infants. Parents either strangle their children at these locations or simply abandon them to await death from the elements or from hyenas. The victims of late-term abortions seem to find there way here, as well.
It gave me the shivers to think about these things last night as I held a baby who narrowly escaped such a fate. He was born in our hospital on Thursday, and an intuitive Ethiopian nurse pulled Petra aside to apprise her of the mother’s desperate plans. Ansley and Monica agreed to take turns caring for the baby until the YWAM (Youth with a Mission) adoption agency could take custody. Last night I took a shift.

Last night, as I sat up bottle-feeding George (so named to discourage our attachment to him) and changing his diaper, I felt like the child in the story of the starfish on the beach. The child stood throwing the starfish back into the water one by one as thousands upon thousands lay drying out on the beach. When an older man accused him of wasting his time, he tossed one into the waves determinedly and said, “It mattered for that one.”

I suppose all of our work at the hospital is like that, and I don’t believe that helping individuals is a waste of time, especially since we’re talking about human beings rather than animals. Still, I think some prevention is within our reach. We need to try to turn off the clogged sink rather than spend all our energy mopping the floor.

We hope to soon expand our public health education efforts and especially target young girls. They need to know about birth control, the dangers of back-woods abortions, and the risk of STD transmission. They also need mentors and a place to turn for help. For many, unwanted pregnancy leads to two options: 1.) Hush it up with a risky abortion or infanticide or 2.) Risk disownment and lifelong destitution. These girls need a third option.

Monica has a vision to create a combined orphanage and single women’s home, where unmarried women who choose to keep their babies can live and work in safety. They would serve as caregivers to the other orphan children, and perhaps other industries could be opened, as well. Such a program would certainly not encourage promiscuous behavior, as these women would still face a stigma and have very slim marriage prospects. But their food and clothing would be sure, and they would be in a loving and supportive environment. Hopefully, if this third option existed, fewer babies would wind up in George’s situation.

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As you have already noticed from my emails, I question everything, especially my motives. So when Paul, our administrator at Gimbie Adventist Hospital, asked me to get together funding for 36 goiters surgeries to be done in the middle of June, I said yes, right way, but then started to doubt. We have only a couple of weeks before the surgeon gets here, and $7200 is a lot of money for a missionary in Ethiopia. And on top of that, I hate to ask for money, even for a great cause. But then I looked at the pictures of the women suffering with the goiters. Why wouldn’t God want them to be healed? Of course He would. So as each of these ladies goes to surgery, I will make sure they hear that God sees them as BEAUTIIFUL, and that He sent us to tell them that He loves them so much that He wants to heal their afflictions.

Okay, so now I know that we need to leap out in faith for the goiter patients. It takes my faith a while to get “warmed up”, but now it is HOPEFUL and CERTAIN in something that I cannot see. So let’s leap and jump, and even scream while we do so. For our God is REALLY good, and I think I don’t exercise His will in my life enough. If I did, everyone would know how great He is.

So here is the background on the Goiter Project, see what part God wants you to play in this:

About eight months ago, we started a list of patients needing goiter surgery here at Gimbie Adventist Hospital. To our surprise, the list grew to well over 100 women, with goiters ranging in size and severity of condition. We have found funds for six goiter surgeries, since the women are usually from extremely poor families, are unable to pay for a surgery costing 1800 to 2200 birr (about $180-$220). Here at Gimbie, we have donated funds for emergency surgeries, but goiters are not usually life-threatening, so these surgeries fall between the cracks. Yet if I had a goiter the size of a softball under my chin, I would definitely feel that it was not just a cosmetic surgery that was needed.

Unfortunately, the soil in Gimbie has eroded for thousands of years, washing the precious iodine down to the lower lands. Iodized salt is available, but it is more expensive and the taste is not comparable to the salt that the Oromo people regularly use. So when the girls of the town hit puberty, the goiters start. If caught early enough, treatments can start that can dramatically help these girls, but most of the time the patients do not come to the hospital until the goiters are very large.

Luckily for the hospital, a wonderful surgeon, Dr. Saunders, is volunteering for a short time in June. He is willing to help relieve the suffering of these women with goiters. We just need to raise funds to cover the hospital costs that these women could never afford to pay for. So here at Gimbie, we have decided to let God lead in this project. We feel that God wants to heal these women, so we are booking 36 surgeries for the time that Dr. Sanders will be here. We are leaping out in faith and prayer, that the funds will come in for these women. We have already received $2000 of the $7600 needed from volunteers at the hospital, but we are hoping that some of you will feel led to give to this very worthy cause, too. I know that there are many needing help around the world, so please give only if the Holy Spirit moves you to give.

We here at Gimbie are excited to be part of God’s work helping the poor of Ethiopia, and we are dedicated to doing all we can to promote good health in the people here. And we are excited to exercise our faith. Who knows, we might be pretty “buff”, faith-wise when we are done with this project.

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As you have already noticed from my emails, I question everything, especially my motives. So when Paul, our administrator at Gimbie Adventist Hospital, asked me to get together funding for 36 goiters surgeries to be done in the middle of June, I said yes, right way, but then started to doubt. We have only a couple of weeks before the surgeon gets here, and $7200 is a lot of money for a missionary in Ethiopia. And on top of that, I hate to ask for money, even for a great cause. But then I looked at the pictures of the women suffering with the goiters. Why wouldn’t God want them to be healed? Of course He would. So as each of these ladies goes to surgery, I will make sure they hear that God sees them as BEAUTIIFUL, and that He sent us to tell them that He loves them so much that He wants to heal their afflictions.

Okay, so now I know that we need to leap out in faith for the goiter patients. It takes my faith a while to get “warmed up”, but now it is HOPEFUL and CERTAIN in something that I cannot see. So let’s leap and jump, and even scream while we do so. For our God is REALLY good, and I think I don’t exercise His will in my life enough. If I did, everyone would know how great He is.

So here is the background on the Goiter Project, see what part God wants you to play in this:

About eight months ago, we started a list of patients needing goiter surgery here at Gimbie Adventist Hospital. To our surprise, the list grew to well over 100 women, with goiters ranging in size and severity of condition. We have found funds for six goiter surgeries, since the women are usually from extremely poor families, are unable to pay for a surgery costing 1800 to 2200 birr (about $180-$220). Here at Gimbie, we have donated funds for emergency surgeries, but goiters are not usually life-threatening, so these surgeries fall between the cracks. Yet if I had a goiter the size of a softball under my chin, I would definitely feel that it was not just a cosmetic surgery that was needed.

Unfortunately, the soil in Gimbie has eroded for thousands of years, washing the precious iodine down to the lower lands. Iodized salt is available, but it is more expensive and the taste is not comparable to the salt that the Oromo people regularly use. So when the girls of the town hit puberty, the goiters start. If caught early enough, treatments can start that can dramatically help these girls, but most of the time the patients do not come to the hospital until the goiters are very large.

Luckily for the hospital, a wonderful surgeon, Dr. Saunders, is volunteering for a short time in June. He is willing to help relieve the suffering of these women with goiters. We just need to raise funds to cover the hospital costs that these women could never afford to pay for. So here at Gimbie, we have decided to let God lead in this project. We feel that God wants to heal these women, so we are booking 36 surgeries for the time that Dr. Sanders will be here. We are leaping out in faith and prayer, that the funds will come in for these women. We have already received $2000 of the $7600 needed from volunteers at the hospital, but we are hoping that some of you will feel led to give to this very worthy cause, too. I know that there are many needing help around the world, so please give only if the Holy Spirit moves you to give.

We here at Gimbie are excited to be part of God’s work helping the poor of Ethiopia, and we are dedicated to doing all we can to promote good health in the people here. And we are excited to exercise our faith. Who knows, we might be pretty “buff”, faith-wise when we are done with this project.

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