Just Another Ordinary Moment

As I walked through the neighbourhood a man came up to me asking for help. I had just left a two hour worship service in the community, and in all honesty, had lunch on my mind. Not wanting to become separated from the group I was trailing, I told him that I needed to keep going. He paused, and asked if he could walk with me. “Sure” I replied. So we walked together, talking back in forth in dialects of English divided by a massive ocean. He asked if I was from Mercy Ships. I replied that I was indeed. He began to tell me about his eyes.

“I see things dimly” he said. He said that he cannot focus any longer and read smaller print. I made it clear that I was not a doctor (a common misperception) and then asked if he had tried glasses. He had, even really strong ones. He wanted to be able to see again so that he could go back to his job with the BBC.

Now, during this transition of the Anastasis leaving and the Africa Mercy arriving, there are no operations occurring. Every day, a long line appears down the gangway of one vessel and up to the top of the other carrying stuff, lots and lots of stuff in transition. We are rapidly preparing for the five operating theatres to be fully functional. And if all continues to go well, they will be in two short weeks. When this happens, I should become armed with little slips of paper, each providing the details of what kind of medical screening is taking place, at what location in the city, on what specific days. But right now, there are no precious pieces of paper to be had. So, I told the man that he would have to wait three or four weeks.

The man did not want to wait.

He had waited for a long time. One month was too much more to wait. When I said that the screenings might take place at JFK hospital, the local hospital, he replied that he didn’t want to go there. He wanted to see a doctor, a Mercy Ships doctor… now. He pleaded in a manner that was kind and respectful, yet passionate and desperate, like a man who longed to be able to see again, and to be able to have a job again to provide for the basics. He smiled and said that he had seen me coming from the church, and said that he wanted to be able to read his Bible again.

I am sure that he is used to waiting. It is what you do in times like these here. You wait for things to get better. You wait for water, for electricity, for the government, and for development. You wait, wait, wait. He didn’t want to wait for the government, and being as close as ever to getting help, didn’t want to let this opportunity go.

So, there on UN Drive we stood, together, trying to communicate back and forth.

In the end, we exchanged names, shook hands a few times, said goodbye. I then crossed the road, walked past the UN soldiers at the checkpoint, down the 200 meter road protected by ten foot cement walls capped with razor wire, and past two more UN security posts on my way to the dock, where the Africa Mercy rests, where my sack lunch was.

This is just another ordinary moment of being here, one that tugs at me on the inside in a host of directions. I am thankful to be here. I am thankful that Mercy Ships is here and will soon have twice the medical capacity than a short month ago. I hope that James will be able to be helped. Maybe he can be helped. Maybe not. Maybe he can be helped by the nurses and doctors that I serve food to here in my home. Maybe not.