I look out on the sun kissed beach this morning to see brightly clad women having a tug of war. Next to them are three men lying in the sand doing rapid situps, another group pushing enormous tires. It is much like I was doing 16 years ago today as I gave birth to my youngest boy, Joe.
He is here in Zanzibar with me and as always, he delights me with his capacity to love the children and come alonside the adults as equals.
His birthday, pronounced bathday with a swahili accent, is actually a bath day at Pastor Johana’s church. On your birthday they dump a bucket of water on your head. Since most don’t bathe, they get a ‘bath’ on their birthday. Joe has made friends with the worship band drummer and he has promised a ‘Bath’ day for Joe. Because of this, Joe and I part ways for the day as he goes to Pastor Johana’s church and I to the country one of Pastor Lucas.
Already there is a long line of colorful head covered women waiting for us as we arrive at 8am sharp. They sit with unreadable faces until I call out a loud ‘Jambo’ with a smile and a wave. At this, their faces break into beaming joy. It is good to be seen, I think.
There is an equal number of purple uniformed children in the school play yard. The swing set is bent in half though this deters no one. They find a way to swing and climb anyway. The slide with platform on top is crowded with little ones who hang through the railing and swing. When they see I am watching, one boy slides head first down and hides at it’s base as if I would not see him. I call to him and to the others and try to get them to pose for a photo. There is a chaotic scrambling before I am able to succeed.
Farther down the way are an army of little ones jumping in the back of a small white truck. Its bed bounces with them as they chant, sing and dance. When they see me, others join, flinging themselves onto back of the truck like a zombie apocalypse. I fear for their safety yet their dexterity is unparalleled and the dancers, in their exuberance, continue unharmed.
Clinic begins with Dr. Salma at my side. She calls over a older woman and after some animated conversation, Dr. S tells me she prefers to see me. “Ha! What in the world?!” I exclaim as she moves her chair in front of me.
Pascal and I get in a sort of a rhythm. We still have our creative differences when it comes to understanding each other but we’ve got the #1 and #2 thing worked out. He chats easily with every patient and I sit back and let him do his magic. When it seems they have come to the end of their usually spirited conversation, I listen to his report and respond. I feel like I’m in slow motion today as I lean back and consider his words. It must seem like I am gazing off in space as I mentally work through each complaint, ruling out, ruling in…I wonder sometimes what it must be like to watch me.
As I wait for my next patient, I watch two little ones. The older girl (~3years) has the younger boy (~1 year) by the hand as they follow a small red balloon as it floats irregularly across the floor. When they come near it, they both try to kick it and then chase it gleefully with the precious vigor of children. Cheering and giggling, they are a delight to my heart and I marvel at the sweet rightness of this moment.
Nadia, their sister, is my next patient. She has come with her mama and her two siblings whom I have been watching. She is a shy 6 year old dressed in the vibrant purple uniform of the school.
As I am about to exam her, Steve comes over to insure that I have seen her Community Safety form. It tells me that her uncle has boasted that he wants to harm her though he has not yet. This makes me want to vomit and crushes my heart as I become acutely plugged into to my own struggles with powerlessness. This beautiful child so kind, so gentle, so innocent in beauty… I pray Ps 91 over her and myself:
“May she dwell in the shelter of the Almighty and abide in His shadow…for it is He Who delivers her from the snare of the trapper and from the deadly pestilence … give her Your angels charge over her, to guard her in all her ways…so that she will not strike her foot against a stone.” (my paraphrase)
Holy One, You are our only hope.
I end the day with a terrified 9 year old boy who had cut his finger yesterday. I have only to glance his way to illicit shrill unnerving sounds of terror. It does nothing to calm him when I pull out saline syringes to fill a cup for wound cleaning. He is quite undeniably sure I am going to give him a shot. In retrospect, it was a poor choice of carrier for my saline though I had little choice.
I wash his finger and put his hand in a bag of cleaner to soak. This calms him ever so slightly as he allows it, albeit grudgingly.
Dr. Ahmed comes over to inspect and decides debridement is warranted. In other words, he needs to cut off a piece of skin. This sends my little friend inti decibel defying torment though we are only holding his hand. The procedure itself is quick and easy but there is no convincing my friend. We try to shield his eyes but he keeps screaming, in Swahili, that he needs to see. He at last calms down to a ragged sobbing as we wrap his finger in gauze and coban, the ordeal over. He does need to come back Friday for a recheck. I wonder if he’ll make it to the door…
My feelings of powerlessness linger and I once again feel like I am in slow motion, staring off in space. I can’t quite wrap my mind around the feelings so I relish the distraction from the stories of Joe’s ‘bathday’.
He was surrounded and loved by team members and locals alike and he ‘soaked’ it all in with a depth that he will carry with him a long time. It is beautiful to see the team rally to his aid. This is the essence of clinic for all who come, teammate and local alike. The gift of being seen, heard and loved.
Blessed,
Z-Anne-zibar
September 6, 2022
Tripping with God: Stories of Faith and Inspiration 