Miracles

Miracles start with small things and are often small themselves and go
unrecognized unless we have eyes to see and ears to hear.

I almost forgot to bring my pillow. Sarah held it out to me at the last
minute as I rushed out the door, hopped in the back of the van and took a
nap all the way to Kelo where we dropped off Andre and his adopted daughter.
They got on public transport for Lere while Levi and I went to the TEAM
mission station there in Kelo to find some Arabic new testaments. The rep
for the Gideons wasn't there but promised to meet me at noon at the Kelo
hospital.

I foolishly thought I'd be done in Moundou before then.

We arrive in Moundou and go directly to the construction site. Frederic,
the boss, isn't there. I call him and while waiting check out the progress.
The bricked up windows have been reopened letting in a ton of light. The
back two rooms have been converted into one large room with three huge
windows and a double door from the outside and a small door into the
hallway. This will be the operating room. The slab for the veranda has
been re poured, the trusses have been repaired, the roof replaced and the new
ceiling mostly done.

I go back outside and see Anatole, our head lab tech. Two days ago I received a message that his son had meningitis here in Moundou.

"Anatole, bonjour, ca va? I tried to call you but I couldn't get through."

"Yeah, my phone was stolen at the hospital."

"I wanted to contact you to have you bring your son back to Bere, how did you find me here?"

"I just happened to see the van drive by and followed it here."

Anatole then goes on to explain how his son was treated (or mal-treated) first at the health center with once a day IM Quinine and Penicilline and then referred to the only hospital here in Moundou, Chad's second largest city. No lab tests were done to confirm or deny meningitis or cerebral malaria but treatment was started. The antibiotic wasn't available and had to be purchased on the black market for 5 times the going price. Nurses came by once a day only for injections and once, the nurse came to give a shot with an empty seringe and didn't notice until Anatole pointed out he'd just injected air into his son's thigh! In a week at the hospital, he saw a doctor once. He finally decided last night to just take him home where at
least he himself could make sure the meds were given when they were supposed to!

Antoine, our church contact in Moundou shows up and we go to see the "Chef de Quartier" to find out about purchasing 1 or 2 of the empty lots next to our project. We bounce over the dirt streets of this industrial capital of Chad and turn down a small side street before pulling up in front of a brick wall.

Attached to the wall is a small lean two with low ceiling made of brick and tin roofing. I stoop through the narrow door into a dark room filled with old men. The dim light comes through cracks in the bricks and ceiling and through the door illuminating several low wood slat chairs and a rickety hand made coffee table with various documents spread across the top. The chief is a wizened man in his late 60's or 70's with short white curly hair, a traditional long pocketed shirt and trousers and a leg wrapped in an elastic bandage.

We are motioned to some of the low chairs, only a few inches off the ground. I find myself basically squatting with the slats digging into my bony butt. Antoine starts speaking in Ngambai. I catch a few words like "doctor" "hospital" "magistrate" etc. and after much dialogue Antoine gives me the resume that he knows the original owner of one lot and he'll ask who he sold it to so we can see if we can buy it and that the owner of the second property is an old magistrate who is too old and tired to build and has told the Chief to contact him if he finds a worthy buyer. He is very content that we're building a health institution in his neighborhood and will do all he can to help.

"It seems your sick," I speak to the chief in French, pointing to his leg. "Mind if I take a look?"

He motions for a young man outside who comes in and between the two of us we lift up and unwrap his leg revealing a bunch of crumbled up dry leaves wrapped around a single swollen ankle and foot in the traditional manner. The other leg isn't swollen at all so I suspect early elephantiasis and prescribe him medicines for filarial worms and tell him to elevate his leg at night.

Just then, the pudgy old man to his right starts hacking up a lung. He's been coughing for a while so I prescribe him two antibiotics and an inhaler to open up his airways.

They are very happy and the chief steps outside with us to wish us well and tell Antoine to check back tomorrow about the properties.

After a few other errands, we stop at one of this metropolis's two gas stations. A couple of Arabs are lounging on chairs between the three antique pumps in the sandy courtyard. They slowly rise up as we place our three gas cans open in front of them and unlock the gas tank. We place our airplane fuel filter in the opening as they "warm up" the pump. It slowly whirs into action and after a few minutes they start pumping. The gas spews out in spurts and little bursts of air spraying the gasoline into our tank. After 18 L (4 1/2 gallons) it stops running.

"Sorry, that's the last of it. We should have some more tomorrow!"

We drive off to the second and last gas station. As we pull up the two guys sitting out front just look at us when we ask if they have gas and shake their fingers "no".

We pick up Anatole and his son and lay him in the back, conviently there is a slightly used pillow waiting for him to rest his head on.

We arrive in Kelo without incident. The Post is closed. We go to the hospital. It's 2pm and Mathias, my contact for the Arab Bibles has gone home. We get his number from the nurse on night duty and he tells us to meet him at the Pili-Pili Hotel.

After picking him up and going back to the hospital to get the Bibles we return him directly to his house in the "suburbs". As we head back towards the main robe a tall, athletic man comes running after us in a green Arab robe barely covering his basketball shorts. He waves his hands and yells after us.

"You have a ton of packages at the Post Office. You need to pick them up tomorrow."

"We're heading back to Bere now and it's not easy to come. Can't you open up the office and let us take them with us now?"

"Ok. Ca va."

He hops in and we pick up 25 packages, most for the student missionaries but one from the AMALF in France containing 150 vials of Ceftriaxone, the exact medicine we need (and just ran out of) in order to treat Anatole's son's partially and poorly treated meningitis.

As I pray with Anatole later, after arriving in Bere I am convinced that God will heal his son since he went to some much effort in so many small ways to bring us in contact and get us the exact medicines we need. Seemingly insignificant details when seen alone, but miracles none the less.