Sunday, May 4, 2014

My Guatemala story, part 1. hit me like a ton of bricks today.  I was sitting, talking to a coworker at 2 am, chatting about how I'm going to Guatemala this summer; wait a minute...that's next month!

Holy hot mess!

This week has been tough, y'all.  I'm already CRAZY nervous about going on this trip.  Not because I've never been before, not because it's an unknown adventure, but because I'm a mama.  It's as simple as that.  I feel like I've upped my ante.  How ridiculous is that?!  Is my life worth more simply because God used my meager body to house another human being?

I had some tough conversations this week.  Conversations that made me pull my hair with frustration.  Conversations that made me weep.  Conversations that made me put pen to paper and really got the cogs in my head turning.

But to really understand my story now, I have to rewind to the original story.

This is a story about a shy, naive 16 year old girl, venturing to Guatemala on spring break for a mission trip, honestly because that was what all of her friends were doing.  Truth.  This girl always knew she wanted to be a health care provider, so when an opportunity presented itself to take care of a sick 3 year old girl, she jumped at the chance.  With the help of a doctor, she sat with this sweet child while she vomited, while she sweated from fever, while she desperately tried to drink water, juice, Pedialyte, while knowing that it would make her sick.  After a day of trying to nurse her poor patient back to health, this teenage girl had to let go and pray for a miracle.

God didn't deliver a miracle that day.  The little girl died.  And a part of the teenage girl died too.

That teenage girl was me....I know, shocker.  Even as I sit here, that story brings tears to my eyes.  I can still picture her sweet face and tiny hands.  I still remember her red and yellow plaid shirt that was probably meant for a little boy, but it was all she had.  This story is what propelled me through tough undergraduate studies and the grueling torture chamber that is PA school.

I always promised myself I would go back when I could do something about these problems.  So I eagerly signed up for the chance to go to Guatemala this summer on a medical mission trip.  This time, I told myself, this time, I can save that little girl.

WRONG.  Can I just tell y'all how wrong this thinking is.  I admit, I am proud.  I am proud of my accomplishments, I am proud of my profession.  But seriously, who am I joking?  I'm no savior.

But I know Who is.

And I forgot.

I forgot that even though our goal may be physical healing, we are merely representatives of the One who heals our deepest, darkest wounds.

So while I sit here worrying that my skills, my knowledge, my supplies won't be adequate, I sense Jesus is practically shouting at me that I'm right.  Only by faith can I ever hope to be a tool in His miracles.

I don't have answers.  I don't have answers to the big question of why life isn't fair.  I don't know why Jesus decided to collect that sweet Guatemalan child early.  I don't know how we are ever going to collect enough medical supplies to treat all of our patients.  I don't know which medications we'll need.

But I know that He is Sovereign, and that He will provide.

I titled this post, "My Guatemala story, part 1" because I am so eager to share part 2 when I return.  I'm expecting big things.  I'm expecting miracles.  I'm expecting Jesus.  Please join me in fervent expectation by praying as I travel with my team in mid-June.

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