The Great Physician

He said that his compound was close. Just on the other side of the three distant acacia trees. Deborah grabbed her labor and delivery kit and we set off after him. Forty-five minutes later, we stepped into the dark chet in which his wife was attempting to deliver twins.

The first level of the hut was filled with women smoking, drinking Methe, the local brew, and awaiting the arrival of the second baby. Labor had started early the day before. More than 24 hours later, at 7 am, the older twin, a baby boy, was delivered. However, by the time Deborah and I arrived nearly five hours had elapsed and still there were no cries heard from baby number two.

Once our eyes adjusted to the blinding darkness, we found the mother squatting on a small rock, cradled from behind by another Didinga woman. The ornamental scaring of her youth was distorted on her naked belly, swollen and hard with contractions. She was calm, silent and obedient - child-like in her dependence upon those surrounding her. Without taking the effort to think, she followed the instructions given and seemed to trust those around her with not only her life, but that of her unborn child.

The labor was discussed with the two midwives and five other nursing mothers present. Not being trained in labor and delivery, Deborah did the best she could in assessing the situation. The group was amused, if not slightly disappointed, that both Deborah and I, two boogeches, or women without children, had been sent for. We couldn’t help but agree with their assessment, acknowledging the wealth of knowledge and experience these women possessed.

Eventually, a jug of Methe was given to the younger of the two midwives/witch doctors. She passed the container around the mother’s head three times in a clockwise circle. Small sips of the local beer were then taken by the mid-wife and spit on each side of the mother. In between contractions, taking her turn, the mother rhythmically spit the brew around the room. When she was done drinking the local beer, she was handed a long tobacco filled pipe. Deborah’s warnings of imminent danger to the baby were overlooked and only when the pain’s intensity grew too strong for smoking, did she pass it on.

With few options, no medicine and the closest clinic a day’s walk away, Deborah encouraged the mother to breast-feed the new little boy in hopes of increasing her contraction’s strength and frequency. However, this suggestion was also vetoed as the newborn had already been fed by one of the other new mothers present and would not be allowed to “steal” the milk from the unborn child.

In the end, we encouraged the father and, more importantly, the crowd of women gathered, to take the woman to the closest clinic in Nagishot. We prayed with the group and realized our complete dependence on the Great Physician, our Lord Jesus Christ.

After more than 48 hours of hard labor this mother died in Nagishot. Her unborn child was cut out of her, and lived. A week after my initial visit, I returned to this compound. I found the twins, Dowdie and Tabon (Hard Labor), strapped to the backs of their older sisters. Their bodies were decorated with the witch doctor’s charms, their bellies full with a wet nurse’s milk.

They asked me to take the children home and…I wished that I could.

A Friendship Bracelet

Martha and her daughter Nakong making my "cabennie" - beads.

Martha designed and beaded this bracelet for me a couple of weeks ago. Most days, at least one person will ask me who made my bracelet. If Martha is around when the question is asked, a school girl smile will cross her lips as she proudly claims her spot, on my wrist. It's sweet.

A Sight to Behold

In Elly's words: A mere two months ago the Didinga landscape was barren hillside left after harvest and parched from an absence of rain. However, the hills have now been transformed as the Earth has yielded fresh fields of corn, reaching two to three feet tall. Since the first rain, the Didinga have been diligently working the soil. They have approached the labor and momentous task with vigor and a sense of pride. They work together scattering seeds and breaking earth. The work seems light as they sing or whistle to keep themselves hoeing in rhythmic unison. It is a sight to behold.



In need of a bucket bath after a long and DIRTY day in the field.
Some of my favorite moments in the Hills are spent in the field working alongside my Homestay family and Didinga friends.

The Clinic

In May, the clinic opened meeting the Didinga's strong desire to have a clinic of their own. With the next closest clinic a day's walk away, the medical need is at times great. However, we can already see how God is using the clinic as a viable means of sharing the Gospel and His love with the people of Didinga. We pray with each and every patient and, in the future, plan to story the Bible with those who are waiting on the grounds.

We only have one trained nurse on our team, but almost everyone is responsible for helping to keep the clinic running. While I have diagnosed and treated patients on occasion, my main role are the "agooshies" or wounds.

I'm still not sure how I got this job, as I am a horrible nurse. I'm usually more squeamish than my "patients", often weak in the knees and known to, on occasion, dry heave while cleaning out the super disgusting or infected wounds.

Yet, God is good. He is there when the babies, who have fallen into the fire, sometimes burnt so badly they are missing limbs, are carried in. He sees the weak, the elderly, the perpetually hungover. He sees, he knows and he cares.

Gathering Wood

June 14th - 8 Months in Africa

Lowerhouse (Elly, Tianne, Janette and I) celebrating 6 months in Didinga!!!
June 14th will mark our 8th month in Sudan.

Baby Thabon

My ten year old neighbor Regina and I were planting basil in my garden when two women approached the fence. I didn’t recognize either of them and, to be honest, was more interested in the beautiful beads adorning the one woman’s neck then her complaints of what I interpreted to be a child’s stomachache. As the clinic was already closed for the day, I instructed the women to take the child to the clinic the following day. Not taking their complaints seriously, I turned and started to walk with Regina back to our neatly hoed rows.

However, Bead Woman was not satisfied with my response and continued to patiently repeat what I initially misunderstood. Eventually, I realized that Bead Woman’s daughter was not a small child with a stomachache, but a grown woman experiencing complications in child labor.

On the walk to her house, Bead Woman repeatedly asked if I was a nurse in America and each time she did, I assured her that I was not. We were almost to the house before I finally realized Bead Woman’s real expectations of medical assistance and my lack there of. I begged God for help.

I walked into the hut, blinded by the darkness, greeted by the crowd gathered. They all seemed excited to see me, even the mother-to-be. I couldn’t help but wonder what exactly they expected me to do.

After greeting the crowd, I proceeded to ask Regina, the witchdoctor/mid-wife, my repertoire of labor and delivery questions. Exhausting all of my Didinga child labor phrases and still unsure as to the actual problem, I felt the Mother’s taunt stomach, bulging here and there with baby’s sprawling body parts, not really knowing what I was looking for.

I walked outside and attempted to call Deborah, my fellow Timo teammate and trained American nurse. I found the walkie-talkie dead. After explaining to the group, I ran home. Tianne had just walked in and after a brief conversation, she offered to accompany me back up to the labor and delivery chet.

After quickly discussing the situation with Deborah over the radio and convincing Regina that I did not have a stethoscope, Tianne and I settled in for what I anticipated to be a long evening of waiting. We sat on an old feed-sack, little Nacarre nestled in Tianne’s lap and my constant shadow, Regina, hanging on my shoulders. The mother was sitting on a rock, directly across from us. Our view of her was partially obstructed by the seven women who encircled and cradled her from behind. Although the mother only moaned twice, the women surrounding her, literally pushing the baby into the world, screamed and coaxed the newborn to “EJAH!!!” - "COME HERE!!!"

Tianne saw it first, exclaiming that the baby had been born. I couldn’t believe it, after all, only ten or so minutes had passed since I had radioed Deborah. Not wanting to intrude (as if sitting in on a stranger’s labor isn’t an intrusion), I crouched behind the group, spying witch doctor Regina kneeling down beside the mother’s legs, holding the newborn. A little boy.

After seeing the baby, I stepped back, allowing the huge crowd gathered a chance for a peak of theiir own. There was a great deal of talking and confusion, but I was unable to decipher the cause of the commotion. Peering through the gathered women and children, I saw Regina, covering the infant’s mouth and nose with her own mouth, attempting to clear the baby’s airway by sucking out any remaining mucus.

As I watched Regina, eagerly anticipating the baby’s first cries, Bead Woman turned to me, blurting out words that I had never heard. She continually moved her hands up and down her nose. I was confused and, for a moment, thought that she wanted me to take my turn sucking the afterbirth from this baby’s mouth. I wondered if this was some sort of Didinga tradition, and quickly made up my mind that I would refuse to let my mouth be a part of it.

Tianne caught on before I did, exclaiming, “The baby isn’t breathing!” Confident in Regina’s mid-wifery skills and aware that baby’s don’t usually come out screaming, I wasn’t convinced there was a problem.

Everyone was talking. Bead Woman turned to me, begging that I do something. A few in the crowd yelled for me to come. My Homestay Mom, Pia, pregnant with her fifth child, demanding that I do something. I turned to Tianne and we both agreed that she needed to go out and call for “real” help. Holding the blue and completely lifeless infant in her hands Regina turned to me and demanded that I come. The crowd parted, pushing me down beside the mother. They were all telling me to do something. With my head spinning, I pulled on one glove, inadvertently jamming my middle and index fingers into the same finger hole. Before I could fix the first glove or pull on the second, the baby was passed into my arms. So much for standard procaustions.

Checking the airway with my index finger, I found it clear. Women were splashing the infant with cold water, taping rocks above its head and banging hoe blades loudly together. My mind was reeling, my prayers were desperately simple, “Oh God!”, “Oh God he’s not breathing!”, “Help me God, please help!”

Tianne returned, and I, staring at the baby, couldn’t see her, but her quick words, “Turn the baby upside down and smack it on the bottom!” were reassuring. Taking the baby once again from Regina, I did as I was told. Nothing. We repeated this process again and again. I looked up at the mother sitting silently beside me, no longer physically attached to her new lifeless son, as her placenta now lay on the ground. Her face was blank. Glancing again at the baby’s little arms, limp over mine, the reality of the situation filled my eyes with tears. Feeling totally helpless, I turned to Tianne and demanded that she radio again for help.

Time passed and still the baby was not breathing. I hesitated for just a moment, considering all the training I had received on blood born illnesses. My thoughts of self-preservation, for a moment battled my heart for the baby, dead in my arms. Desperate now, I covered the baby’s mouth and nose and passed tiny little breaths into his lifeless body. His tiny chest rose and fell, his left hand moved just once. Working together, Regina and I repeated this process of holding the baby upside down, dousing it with water and breathing into his mouth.

Then, all of a sudden, he opened his eyes, took a few little breaths and moved those tiny little feet!!! I couldn’t believe it and neither could the crowd gathered. Most of us gasped and then broke into laughter. Tianne yelled out, “Praise GOD!!!” My eyes were once again filled with tears and I just kept saying, “Aubunah God! – Good God! It was the single most amazing moment of my life. A miracle!!!

I squatted, sandwiched between the exhausted mother and Regina, who was still holding the little guy. With a broad smile Regina looked into my eyes and said, “Aubunah Jesus Christo – Aubunah Kim!” – Good Jesus Christ – Good Kim! Regina held the baby while Bead Woman, his grandmother, sang to him softly, tying off his umbilical cord with a wood pealing. They let me cut the umbilical cord!

When Thabon Lokong (Hard Labor, First Born Son) finally found the arms of his mother, we prayed together. Witch-doctor Regina knelt next to me with her arm resting on my shoulder. We thanked God for the gift of life and his amazing work not only in this baby’s life, but in the lives of all who were gathered there that afternoon.

Our God is a BIG God. A capable, loving Father. Sovereign and in control. As Tianne and I walked home, giddy with God’s blessings, we couldn’t help but acknowledge the work our Lord is doing in these Hills.

When our teammates Anne and Dustin were forced to return to Canada, due to Dustin’s severe back pain, witch doctor Regina sadly asked, “Abathee Jesus Christo?” – "Bad Jesus Christ?" Or, in other words, is your God incapable of healing Dustin’s pain? Yet, after Thabon took those first, long awaited breaths, even Regina recognized our Lord’s infinite love and power, “Aubunah Jesus Christo!”

The following day, Deborah heard a few Didinga women discussing Thabon’s birth. They said, “The baby was dead and then Kim prayed to her God and the baby lived!”

Yes, God is revealing his mighty power to move the mountains in these here Didinga Hills!

Tabon and My Wide-Legged Jeans

Last year, looking for a hot pink, three tiered party dress for an upcoming 80’s dance, I stumbled upon a pair of wide-legged jeans for $9.00 at Value Village. It was a steal! Now, imagine that same pair of dark blue, wide-legged jeans on my 6 foot 2, maybe, on a good day, 110 pound male Didinga neighbor, Thabon.
As a new, trusting and totally naïve missionary in Didinga I was robbed almost weekly. Shirts, gourmet, handpicked teabags, our clothesline, the infamous blanket and my wide-legged jeans were swiped in those initial months in Sudan.
Although, Carley’s stolen hat was spotted and recovered from the head of a nearby chief and a pair of turquoise underpants were returned, my goods seemed to be lost to the world. Until…one day, while greeting Thabon I couldn’t help but notice his dirty, but quite fashionable, wide-legged jeans.
Awkwardly, and with the most limited of language skills, I said something like, “You’re wearing my pants Thabon.” Not surprisingly, that in this land that has yet to be introduced to the female pant-leg, he was a bit confused by my statement.
Hearing about what was lost and now found, my teammate Bill had only one question, “Well, how did he look in ‘em?”
Our team leader approached Thabon, yet he refused to return what was not rightly his.
Months passed without word from Thabon, it seemed that the jeans had caused a “breech” in our relationship. Then one Sunday, arriving sweaty and late (some things never change) for church, I spied my wide-legged jeans hanging on the line.
Thabon joined us for church that day. The message was on the Parable of the Prodigical Son. “But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.” Luke 15:20
In this land in which sons steal from mothers and youth are trained to kill for cattle, Thabon chose to go against the grain, he chose to right his wrong, he chose to give me back my jeans.