Screening day: one girl's perspective.

mir·a·cle

ˈmirikəl/

: An extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs.

August 28th was the "Patient Selection Day" for Mercy Ships in Pointe-Noire, Congo. This is the day where we screen thousands of patients to select the ones who will be able to receive surgery and treatment on the ship during this field service (August 2013-May 2014). Needless to say, it is a big day; I don't think it is too bold of me to conjecture that we had people from every continent (Antarctica excluded... or maybe not?) praying for us. And we were expecting big things. I was expecting big things. Miracles, even. 

After the first few hours of the day I found myself reeling and spent. A glance at my watch revealed it was not even 11am. How could this be? I fought discouragement with a peanut butter and is-this-really-jelly? sandwich and some pleading prayers. I had just spent 3 hours with people who had been waiting in line (since far before the sun or I woke) only to be told, "We are so sorry, but we cannot help you." I cried with mothers, and prayed with fathers, and cuddled with children whom I wished I could whisk back home with me to Duke University Hospital, to anywhere!, where the answer would not have to be "no". Being a 'surgery ship', we do not take patients needing chronic medical management, and there are only specific types of surgeries performed on the ship. It makes sense that we cannot help everyone, but that doesn't mean it is an easy pill to swallow. In fact, it is a bitter-tasting horse pill. I remember thinking, "This is not how it is supposed to be! I am supposed to be HELPING people!" and "So many are praying for us all over the world; why am I not seeing evidence of that? Where are the miracles? Where are You, God?" And the line outside just kept getting longer...

Yet then, as I was walking back to my assigned station, looking around at my friends and fellow Mercy Ships crew working tirelessly, my blindness subsided. God was/is everywhere. And because I was so focused on my current circumstances and seeing Him in the BIG picture, I was missing Him in the little things... in these little things:

The night before the screening there were around twenty of us making 1700 sandwiches for the next day. I remember looking up at one point and seeing the our ship captain saran-wrapping away, as much a part of 'Operation Sandwich' as anyone else.

Screening day morning, the dining room crew were up at 3am to have breakfast prepared extra early and at 9pm there they remained, serving a late dinner of burrito goodness and cleaning up after us. 

Nurses and security officers who had worked at the screening site since 10pm the night before greeted us with smiles as we arrived on site that morning, and I later learned that some even stayed all the way through the afternoon. 

The man whose 7-month-old son's head is growing larger by the day due to hydrocephalus asked me, "Will it go back to the way it used to be?". I couldn't give him the answer he wanted, in fact, I could barely speak at all. Such strength was demonstrated as he gently grabbed his elder son's hand and his wife's elbow and walked away, loving and guiding and protecting in the midst of pain and disappointment.

The ship's hair stylist (and one of my dear friends), cooks, housekeepers, deck hands, etc. were all an integral part of the day. They boldly walked out of their "areas of expertise" and put in long hours at the screening site. They helped with registration and entertained the kids and adults alike as they waited all day in the ever-winding line of patients. And they did it all with a smile. 

The mother whose right arm and leg are disfigured and atrophied. She couldn't get the help she wanted (the help we so desperately wished to give her!) from us... and so for the thousandth+ time she balanced on her one able leg and with her sole functioning arm, skillfully tied up her baby in his papoose on her back, and limped off. Yet, limped is not the right word because it carries the connotation of defeat. She carried resilience.

The media and PR team juggled so many different things throughout the day with such poise. In the midst of chaos, they are able to see the individual with a beautifully artistic eye, and they take in stride the arduous task of being the spokespeople of Mercy Ships. Without them, I wouldn't have many of the incredible photos I have posted on here (look for the Mercy Ships logo in the corner), nor would our stories be shared with a worldwide audience.

The woman whose son has cerebral palsy and cannot walk. There are no fancy automated wheelchairs here, and it was apparent they had no wheelchair at all. What courage and fortitude I saw in her, in her every step as she carries her boy. Day, after day, after day. In a beautiful act of tender service and compassion, our finance director gave that Mama and her strong, tired back a break, as he carried him out to the gate of the screening site.

Mercy Ships' teachers (yes, there is a school on board!) work as hard, if not harder, as any teacher you know. And yet there several of them were on screening day, their day "off" from the classroom, working late into the night helping move over a hundred cumbersome desks back into rooms at the screening site (a local Congolese school). 

Those who were needed to stay back on the ship-- engineers, parents of small children, kitchen staff, etc. to ensure everything ran properly in our absence, sacrificed being at the screening site for the greater good of the organization and of the people we are seeking to help. And I did not hear one complaint uttered.

I don't know about you, but I see all of those people and instances as extraordinary, and as the manifestation of divine intervention in human affairs. You could say they were each small miracles. Could we really do all that on our own-- on our own volition and our own strength?

Taking a break on screening day with the incredible woman (my first roomie here on the ship!) who always reminded me that God is enough-- no matter what we are facing!