Confessions of a Missionary

Today I slept until 2pm. After that, a friend and I went to an air-conditioned coffee shop for a few hours. Later, I got together with friends and ate pizza, salad, and chocolate brownies, followed by coffee and good chats. I came home, watched two movies with another friend, and now I'm headed to bed.

I call myself a missionary.

So I could justify.... after all, I did stay up all night catching a baby and caring for a few other laboring women, so 2 pm isn't so outrageous. I did study at the coffee shop, so it wasn't wasted time or money. My host provided the American-style food, so that little pleasure wasn't my splurge. And the movies were a fulfilled promise to a friend.

But I call myself a missionary.

One day I ate an entire chocolate bar just because. Two days ago I got a pedicure. I have wifi in my house. Earlier this week I went out for ice cream. I own a computer and a camera. I have nice clothing. I own a bike.

And I call myself a missionary.

I haven't seen my family in 3 months. I recently spent 24 hours at the clinic with my patient who was in labor. My niece and nephews are growing up, and some of them won't remember me when I see them again. I have missed the weddings and funerals of several close friends. I get stared at everywhere I go because I'm white. It's been ages since I drove a car.

Yes, I call myself a missionary.

Sometimes I just want to speak English. Sometimes I stay home because going out requires so much effort. Sometimes I want to hug my sister, or exchange witticisms with my dad. Sometimes I miss snow and fall leaves. I get sick of sweating. I don't want to wait for absolutely everything anymore. I am tired of things scurrying away every time I turn a light switch on.

And I call myself a missionary?

More than all of these things I want to see souls saved. I want to accurately state, "And they praised God because of me." I want to see prisoners set free, broken healed, and light and life in the eyes of the hopeless. I want Heaven to have more occupants. I want the name of Jesus to be lifted. Lives saved. God's love spread abroad.

So I call myself a missionary.

I don't always know how to justify things. I don't find justice in the duplicity of life here. I don't know how to feel about days that are filled with things like laundry, coffee shops, movies, and wifi. I don't understand how to balance the mundane with the eternal. I don't understand why to half of my people I live a life of sacrifice, and to the other half, a life of luxury. After all these months, it's still a bit of a conundrum to me.

Still, I call myself a missionary.

Continuity.... Continued

Continued.
 

So, after my first weekend of continuity patients and my mid-week birthday celebration and catch, my schedule was full of baby checks. I figured, since both of my other patients had almost two weeks until their due dates, that I'd buckle down and get some learning done. But babies are really surprising creatures, and they tend to come at the most unpredictable and unexpected times.

 Complicated.

After a late night with a heartbroken friend on Friday, I expected to sleep in on Saturday. Carl Wesley (pictured above) had another idea. He was planning to show up before his mother expected him, and before his daddy could get off work.

Unexpected.

At about 9 am I got a text. Ma'am, the pains have started. I really think this is labor. That's the rough translation. Since Carl Wesley is Rosalie's fourth baby, I decided that it would behoove me to believe her. I packed up a bag, and continued to text Rosalie as I prepared some lunch and dinner. I figured it would be best to be prepared, as I had night shift Saturday, and I might be at the clinic for a LOOOOOONG time.

Hurried.

Rosalie showed up at the clinic, and it was pretty obvious there wouldn't be much time before we met baby. I put on gloves and assessed her. She wasn't quite ready, but her body was in a hurry. With the next contraction, her bag of waters broke, and the following contraction resulted in the birth of a screaming baby boy. All of the sudden, he was here, and the rush and hurry was over. About two hours later I biked home at warp speed to get in a quick shower before my night shift started in 20 minutes. A long night full of a beautiful family. And they named him for a friend of mine.


Surprised.

That's how I felt the next evening when I got another text from the clinic. Melissa, your patient is here, and she's active. I asked if I might get a ride, but they told me to hop on my bike and ride like mad. I arrived at the clinic just minutes before the birth of this little girl, Joylyn. I had taken her momma as my patient because she was so young, and so lost seeming. Yet even in my wildest imaginations I couldn't have guessed her whole story.






Grieved.

My heart was broken as more and more of the story unfolded. At just 14 years old my patient had become pregnant. Just a child herself. Worse, the father of the baby was 46.... and married. A series of poor choices, and several lives forever changed. A little girl, confused about her identity, choosing a lesbian lifestyle. A drunken evening. A fight. An 'understanding' neighbor man. And at the end of those choices, she was pregnant. Scared of the father of her baby.... and rightly so.

Crying.

It's what I felt like doing every time I walked into her room. Every time the father of the baby asked me creepy questions, and touched his daughter. Every time the mother of my patient looked at me with worried eyes and tried to understand what had happened to her little girl. It's what I did that night when I got home, and the next few days after every checkup.There are no words, no scalding, salt-water drops, no heaving sobs that could express the sort of heaviness and pain.

Amazed.

This describes me as I held Joylyn about 2 hours after she was born. She looked at me, and she was so alert. Suddenly, I wanted to protect her from all the ugly her life may hold. I told her how she will serve the Lord. I told her how it doesn't matter that she was conceived in rape, or that her father is dishonorable. It doesn't matter that her mother is still a child. It doesn't matter what her life may hold, all she is belongs to God. I spoke over her that she will be a strong woman of God, a prayer warrior, and a testimony of His grace. As I spoke, she just stared at me like in these two pictures. As though she UNDERSTOOD. And there was rest in my soul.

Tired.

It's how I felt after my whirlwind 8 days in which 4 babies were born into my waiting hands, 5 women were coached through labor, and countless hours were spent at the clinic. It's how I felt when I thought about the world and how many tragic stories it contains. It's how I felt when I curled into my bed in the wee hours of Monday morning. Tired, Fulfilled, Sad, Happy, Peaceful, and finally.... Relaxed.

(Pictures of Joylyn's mamma will not be posted due to the sensitive nature of her story. I would, however, love if you will continue to join me in prayer for her dear little heart.)