Note: The content below contains spoilers. If you're cool with that, keep reading. Preface This marks the beginning of a new series of posts to be added to the blog in which I will attempt to interact with Marvel’s new Disney Plus show “Loki," giving thoughts and asking questions from a Christian perspective. My family and I have been enjoying this line of shows which they have created with their ability to tell the story across a longer arc than the movies can do in their inherent time limitations. We have been waiting for this one in particular as Loki endeared himself to us in Ragnarok, one of our favorite Marvel movies. But, as my children may tell you, I am never content to watch such spectacles as these without a critical eye towards the story behind the story, namely the worldview which produces them the questions which they provoke. I first attempted to interact with the Marvel universe in this post. I fully admit that this endeavor is far above my pay grade. Like a hapless builder of sand castles at high tide, I'm in over my head. In this prior post I argued that, in an essentially Godless universe one could not argue that the Avengers had no objective ground to support fighting against Thanos and his plan to kill half of all life in the universe. Without an ultimate standard giving to life its dignity, meaning and purpose, the team team could only complain about his conclusions from their point of view. Who was right and who was wrong? Without a good and ultimate God defining these things, it was simply one opinion against another. But I digress. Now, interacting with something like Marvel movies in this fashion may be a novel idea to you. Aren't they just for smash 'em up CGI excitement? Or you may be more atuned to asking such questions and can sniff out my approach, which may be called a presuppositional way of thinking. Simply put, I want to examine the baseline assumptions about the world that are presented to us by any story or set of ideas. Admittedly, I am just beginning to learn about thinking in this manner and there are people who have much more developed theologies and philosophies than I do. I would point you to them for a fuller understanding of the subject and simply invite you to walk along my path of learning by reading this blog. Here is a great place to start, which is a number of teachings by the late Dr Greg Bahnsen presented for free by Apologia Studios. I am not a seminarian, just a guy who wants to be consistent in his thinking and likes superhero movies. I don’t think that, as Christians, we can sit on our couches and let these stories wash over us like melted butter coating our fingers as we reach again and again into the popcorn bowl. Ideas have consequences. And stories are a vehicle for ideas. Hence, these stories have consequences and we must approach them with critical thought lest the ultimate story which we tell ourselves be unintentionally colored by them. In other words, for our worldview as Christians to be consistent, we cannot let the allure of an art form (take that how you want) to subtly affect the way in which we think, like a dog owner slipping its pills into peanut butter. If we mindlessly gobble down the MCU with all of its CGI wonders, we swallow along with it ideas which will eventually take root. And the fruit nearly always follows. Allow me to spend no more time on a justification for writing these posts and present my approach which, to me, feels somewhat mechanistic and not very poetic. One of my English teachers in college told me that my writing was more appropriate for technical manuals and not creative prose. His voice has, for some time, stifled the would be writer inside of me. The result of which is a pattern of starting and stopping numerous blogs over the years. Yet, having a career in medicine and having read many more textbooks than anything other than scripture, I suppose the pump is primed more towards such forms of literature. Hence, I will choose to embrace this estimation of my abilities, if only for a day until the sun sets once again on my hopes to create the next “Weight of Glory” and I muscle my way back to the keyboard in pursuit of simply presenting coherent thoughts for you, the reader, to consider. Method The approach which I am want to employ here comes from Greg Bahnsen and the lectures mentioned above. It was distilled from his teachings on one of Cornelius Van Til’s books, so credit whom you will with the particulars. But I think both would say it’s ultimately biblical thinking. Basically, I will apply a certain line of questioning to the ideas that strike me in this Loki series. There is a certain rhythm to it, a two step or seesaw feel that makes it accessible to those who, like me, need tangible and usable tools for clear thinking. I can imagine putting this in one of the many pockets found in the EMS pants of my mind, ready for easy access and frequent usage. So, here is type of questions we will ask: “On the Christian worldview, I can make sense of _______. But according to ______ view of the world, how can it make any sense?” Or, “As a Christian, I know why I believe ____, but as a _____, why do you believe it?” Hopefully, the question will make sense as it is used. For me, putting a thing into practice goes further than just stating it. Like cutting a piece of paper goes further than just showing me a pair of scissors with their funky X shape and weird loopy handles. Now, there is a context out of which these questions emerge. A context which I am neither overly qualified or prepared to offer here. But applying the questions to our subject at hand is the point, one which I hope will be at least useful in provoking some amount of thought. Clearly there is not a 1:1 ratio in examining ideas found in a work of fiction vs the worldview actually held by its creators. These characters such as Loki or Thor are not direct representations of their authors, rather more like almagums of different world views taken apart and pieced together again with different contours than perhaps their original. So, we will be taking the Marvel universe and its inhabitants at face value, asking how it intersects with our own universe in reality and what useful observations we can make. These movies have never shied away from questions of moral propriety with regard to the circumstances of its heroes and villains. From questions relating to the proper use of power to Ultron’s quoting Pinocchio as a statement of his independent thought, we are offered many different avenues to explore. With these caveats brought forward, let’s look at a few aspects of Loki episode one. The introductory episode to this series did not disappoint. I enjoyed the way that it has been woven into the MCU, answering the question we all asked when Loki picked up the tesseract in Avengers: Endgame. Its vintage analog feel is an intriguing and welcome contrast to the ultra sharp high def world of advanced technology we are used to seeing in many of these films. I am among those who used rotary phones and floppy disks so this tact pricked some amount of nostalgia. In addition, there are so many worldview questions entangled among the quippy dialogue and trippy visuals. As an additional point of preamble, there are many different ways to characterize the essential points of a person’s worldview, their way of looking at life and answering the ultimate questions faced by us all. Dr Ray Boeche offers one way of doing this by saying every worldview must answer questions in regards to origins, meaning, morality and destiny. I will be on the lookout throughout the series for claims and questions in regards to these areas, though not strictly constrained to these for headings. In this first installment there were many different takes to consider which I have whittled to three. One overarching question in regards to Loki’s character arc is whether or not people can actually change (including demigods). Youtube channel Screencrush did a good job of describing Loki’s story from actual Norse lore to the comics and the MCU. You can check it out here. As this is an ongoing question in relation to the story, I will not interact with it here but perhaps in a later post. For today’s consideration, we will look at the areas of morality, destiny and self knowledge in relation to reality. Morality I return to this theme and questions in regards to morality because they are central to any story of “good” vs “evil.” Heroes trying to do the right things are pitted against villains bent on doing the wrong things. Loki confesses that he has played the bad guy throughout much of his life. But, again, bad guy according to...who? In a Christian view of life in which a good God defines goodness such that actions which accord to this character can rightly be called good and those askew from him are called evil. There is a standard - the character of our Creator. We are told by Jesus “There is no one good but God.” But in a universe without an ultimate standard, what is a villain? He is simply someone with a different opinion about how things should go. If all things are the result of random chance acting through time on meaningless matter, how does one make sense of these categories? Now, most people agree that the actions of MCU “bad guys” are, indeed, bad. But “badness” is only consistent in a view of the world where there is an ultimate standard against which to measure the actions or people in question. Good vs evil is a foundational theme of superhero movies, even one which even gets questions from within a la Civil War or the Winter Soldier. Hence it is also a theme which I imagine will return throughout this series of posts. Destiny I cannot hear this word without George McFly’s voice ringing in my mind as he slaughters vocabulary. While it can be a term wrangled for different purposes in different contexts, it usually refers to future events and whether they are predetermined to have happened. Terminology gets dicy here, so I will try not to be overly obtuse. We learn through Lightning McQueen, I mean, Mobius’ dialogue with Loki that the TVA orders the “sacred timeline” in such a way that any deviation from it is met with a vigorous response and erasure. He uses phrases like “how it’s all meant to be” and “how it is supposed to be” to describe the gravity of their work to preserve the sanctity of the timeline. Now, people easily let thoughts like a thing being “meant to be” drip from undisciplined lips all the time. They likely never realize the debate that emerges as a result. Are all of our actions determined by our own nature? By an outside force? Are we completely free as autonomous creatures and the future is completely open? Substitute the God of the Bible for the “timekeepers” and his sovereign decree for the “sacred timeline” and we find reactions that mirror Loki’s own. “They will not dictate how my story will end...I live within whatever path I choose” was Loki’s response to the revelation of the timeline and its bearing on his life and future. You can almost feel a reciting of Invictus rising up with all the theatrics of his disposition. “I am the master of my fate, Mobius. I am the captain of my soul.” Ah, yes, now he sounds like a thoroughly modern man. There is a deep root in the heart of us all, the fruit of which blossoms and swells so as to burst with such sentiments. It’s a struggle, even for me and for some of those committed to the absolute sovereignty and lordship of Jesus. Now, let me sympathize with Loki for a moment. When he is told that his story is predetermined, he responds by asking, “According to whom?” Excellent question. Who died and made the timekeepers God? What we are talking about is a decree being made from a single source regarding “the fate of trillions across the galaxy.” Now, I make a similar claim about the Christian God (knowing full well there are disagreements here), albeit with some significant differences. It makes sense that an infinitely powerful and good Creator would have both the right and ability to direct all of his creation in the most righteous way possible. This is simplistic, I admit, and contentious to many. But any other claim as to the determinant of future outcomes, including the autonomous free choices of men, is somewhat arbitrary. To say all is open is to argue with God and his word. The psalmist David said in reference to God creating him and determining his path, “In your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me when as yet there was none of them.” Reality Well, after attempting to address these issues like prying open a bottle of wine with a sledgehammer, let’s finish with a bit of levity. I loved the scene as Loki is being processed into the TVA system and comes to what appears to be an airport metal detector. He is asked if he is, to his knowledge, not a robot with the promise of being melted if he were actually synthetic. “Do a lot of people not know if they are robots?” is a great line among a pantheon of other great lines. Indeed, how do any of us know that we are not what we think we are? The arguments echo from history. Am I just someone else’s dream? Am I just a head in a jar being kept alive? Am I real at all? “Absurdity,” you say. No one talks like that. You haven’t talked to enough people, then. What is the actual ground for knowing what we take for granted every day, namely, our own existence? Without the revelation of a Creator who gave credence to the very reality of his creation by entering into it in the form and full substance of a man minus sin, how can any one know for sure? “Malarky,” you say. Is it? Conclusion Loki episode one certainly gave much fodder for MCU fans in relation to the continuation of its main character’s story. I have submitted here that not only can we geek out on the seemingly contradictory retro/future stylings but also pick up some pretty heavy themes upon which to pontificate. What thoughts do you have in regards to these most perennial arguments? I obviously have particular views and will hopefully grown in my ability to articulate them as this series progresses. Cheers.
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It felt fitting to include this song as I stumble my way back into filling a blog with this and that. It somewhat captures the place along the highway of our marriage in which we currently find ourselves. One year into living abroad and we are in a search for a new team to join, a new area to serve, a new place to call home. I took little care in recording it (sorry to all my video savvy & audiophilic friends) but wanted to include video to show off the Rory Anderson custom guitar that my father sent off to Africa with me. I was separated from it for several months due to moving from Litein. When our friends brought it to us, this was the result. Cheers.
P.S. For an audio only version find the button for my playlist on Soundcloud to the right. Well, I see that an entire year has gone by since I posted to the blog. Good thing nothing interesting happened in 2020. Moving our family to a new country during a global pandemic? Old hat. Nothing to see here. These are not the experiences you are looking for. While 2021 already contains its own special blend of irrevocable complexities, it will never be 2020. So, I mourn a little for lost literary opportunities, kick myself in the shins for missing them and look ahead to what the road holds for us here in East Africa.
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I realize that this post will be sliding past a whole lot of back story and dropping any reader into a context which may be unfamiliar. In my world, it is enough sometimes just to tell a thing and, hopefully, the blurry edges will sharpen in the light of time and further words spilled in similar fashion. Perhaps a sentence to offset this hope. I am a registered nurse who spent the first ten years of his nursing career in a modern, resource laden American emergency department and who now finds himself in a hospital in rural Kenya, attempting to learn their routines and find a role in which to serve.
"I wish I had a white coat" was never once uttered during my time as a healthcare provider in the states. My typical uniform in the ER was a black or grey scrub top and pocket heavy cargo pants. For me, white coats were never associated with nursing, save those in advanced practice. I was repulsed by the white uniform mandated by my nursing school, having spent multiple years in the dark blues and boots of the EMS world. But many things are different here in Kenya and the dress code is but one of them. I knew this going into my first day in Casualty (aka the ER). However, I did not regard it as such an important factor. I did resist the urge to dress as I would at home and donned a collared button up shirt, feeling like I was going for a job interview and not preparing to care for any number of calamities that may occur. Not too casual for casualty, in other words. I quickly found that this was not enough as no one seemed to question why exactly I was there, a complete stranger from a strange land, barely even able to communicate in English at times (our English(es) are somewhat different). They wanted to know, "Where is your white coat?" Though said in jest, it served to further highlight the fact that I am not from 'round here. Thankfully, the welcome I received from the staff overcame their perception of my uniform deficiencies. My second day in casualty I was expecting the fun that would be poked in this arena. I was not prepared to so readily adopt, even mentally the code of conduct in this arena. Every morning begins with the nursing report from night shift, a hymn sung and a devotional read. This particular reading was from the gospel of John, the scene in which Jesus stooped to wash his disciples' feet. The portion of this story that stood out to me this day was John's words about Jesus from verse 1. "...Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end." A couple of hours later found us at the bedside of a young woman who was hypotensive and semi conscious from ongoing vaginal bleeding. Though no one knew the story when I inquired, her clothes, legs and feet were caked in mud. As resuscitation was being initiated, the nurse with whom I was working said, "She must be cleaned." He exited the curtained area around the bed and returned with a bucket of water and cloth rags. (The same we had used to clean beds earlier, just with clean water.) Though contrary to my instinct for a person with low blood pressure, we sat her up and swung her legs out over the bedside, positioning them over the makeshift wash basin. As we knelt to scrub her feet free of the caked on mud I was immediately taken back to the story of Jesus with his disciples. The Lord of glory, found in human flesh stooped to wash sinful men's feet. He did it not out of duty or obligation but out of love. "He loved them to the end." I was reminded of the realization that I experienced towards the end of my time in the ER before departing to prepare for our move to Kenya. Over 17 years in emergency medicine my care for patients and interaction with staff had often become transactional, born of my job description and not of my love for serving people who are made in the image of God. This was not across the board, but frequent enough for me to take note. It was as if my heart had become as crusted as this woman's feet, in need of a thorough washing with the water of God's grace to remind me why I am in this profession. The eternal Son of God became a human (and remains human) forever sealing the worth of mankind in the Creator's eyes. In their suffering and sickness people are worth the work, worth the grace, worth getting dirty. As I knelt beside my new colleague, dress shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, flecks of dirt and drops of muddy water dotted the green fabric. And I found myself thinking, "I wish I had a white coat." The interweaving of the sights and sounds of this video are, on the surface, quite unrelated. One is a video that I took from the back seat of an Uber ride as we traversed the barely comparable Kibera twice. The other is a song I revived after some languishing in the refuse pile for some years. There is a story to each.
We were trying to get to Sheldrick Elephant Orphanage in Nairobi a few days after we arrived in early February to visit Enkesha, the elephant that our family has adopted. There is a one hour window in which these visits can take place, deep into the afternoon. Nairobi traffic was particularly pernicious this day and our driver nonchalantly announced that he knew a shortcut. Which shortcut happened to be a drive through one of the biggest slums in Nairobi. While I am not averse to such suggestions, when I am traveling with my wife, children and our teammate who we just met, such an idea feels a little out of sorts. Not wanting to waste a good crisis, I covertly shot some intolerably bad footage from my vantage. These are not places that people where we are from get to see on the regular and it was a sobering reckoning of the depth of poverty in this part of the world. My intent is not to exploit it as a spectacle but share it with you. As an addendum to this introduction, after a solid two hours we arrived all too late and could not get in to see the elephant our daughter was so looking forward to meeting. One of the armed guards made an appeal for us which was shut down by his superior. Our Uber driver, well past the time that he typically stops driving graciously took us to to the other side of the city, another hour drive or so. In the end, I came to see that, though greatly disappointing, the whole affair was a gift from God for us to show us another part of the city. I have put you in my seat for a few minutes by way of video capture. I wish that I could, by way of more eloquent words, put you into the seat of my soul to experience it for a few minutes as well. Some time ago I wrote a song called "Plan B" and it has been lingering without much ado until now. With all of the social distancing and isolation that our friends, family and the world at large are experiencing, it kept creeping back into my subconscious. I have largely been hacking away at my Kala ukulele since arriving to Kenya, mostly because it lives on our couch and is so easy to pick up and put down (well, not so easy to put down). I have a beautifully hand crafted acoustic guitar fashioned by my father prior to our departure, but for expediency the uke has made the cut. It is the instrument that I play on the recording. At certain points in my life I have had to remind myself that, though I am quite like the social camel my friend describes, I need the people in my life - family, friends, church community, work mates, etc. Though often content on my own, it would be delusional to think it would be good for me to remain on my own. The lyrics were a jab at my own soul to work towards being physically, mentally and emotionally present. The writing of it was not a silver bullet and the long unravelling of my abiding independence is ongoing. (There is a further discussion to have about the balance to be found in relationships as well, but such is not the purview of this post.) Why now and why the co-mingling of these two stories? In a recent conversation with our family counselor, she reminded my wife and I not to be what she called "siloed." Not to divide and conquer. To stay on the same page. I'm a master silo-er and needed this reminder. Hence, a recording of this song to codify its importance to my own story. But further, I hope that it encourages you, the listener of the need for contact and community. This is the plan of our God in creating us in His image. God is a community, Father, Son, Spirit, the ultimate unity in diversity. We are communal creatures because we have a communal God. Let's step forward to a more difficult and timely observation to make. In Kibera, the roads are dusty and full of those who walk together and simply cannot stay home. "No work, no food," one woman was quoted as saying. Though I noted in a newspaper that there is some government intervention in terms of food rationing, Kibera houses hundreds of thousands (millions by some sources) of people who live on less per day than I used to throw at the Starbucks drive through for a single cup of black coffee. Here in Litein our neighbor who drives a motorbike for a living told me, "We live hand to mouth, day to day." No work, no food. There is no stocking up. There is no sheltering at home. There is community, for better or for worse. It's not Plan B. We're not born to walk alone. With corona creeping into Kenya and the notion of social distancing and sheltering in place a double edged dagger, the phrase "damned if you do, damned if you don't" comes to mind. The convergence of this song and the memory of traveling through Kibera only a few months ago is, for me, a poignant paradox playing itself out in time. Not quite three chords and the truth, but may it suffice in some fashion or another. The linking of these two items is a celebration of our need and love for community and an introduction to people who rely on their community in a way that is difficult for many of us to grasp. This is not a unity like the shallow "we are the world" pop star drizzled sentiments that are bandied about on the interwebs these days. This is street level community survival. As it should be. It's not Plan B. We're not born to walk alone. The last verse of the song claims, "Stand for me and I will stand for you or we will fall together." May it be true now and in the days to come. I could not pony up the excess brain power to produce a witty, thoughtful or even semi interesting blog post this week. Multiple streams of other thought and study relating to our life here in Litein prevailed. Next week I will branch out from the casualty department at the hospital where I have been working and make my way to the ICU (HDU as it is called here.) My overall goal is to be functional in casualty so that I can serve as a resource on days that I am there but to visit all the other wards, asking questions and searching for educational topics to present in the future. This presented some need for further preparation and thought as I have never worked as a nurse anywhere else but emergency. We have been working to improve our children's educational experience, figure out Tracy's future role in the hospital and keeping an ear to the ground in regards to all things corona. Hence, between study, work and life, I did not make time to write. (Note the confession of not making time. I don't want to make the excuses).
Here I sit now, on the most holy and celebrated day of the Christian calendar, Resurrection Sunday. Our inability to meet together as the body of Christ in the time of covid isolation pushes us to pursue other means of edification. Instead of sharing my own thoughts on the day, as many others can do it more effectively, I thought I would simply share the contents of my study this morning. I felt that they covered all spheres of my thinking, feeling and believing. If you choose to check them out, I hope that you will be blessed and strengthened with a greater faith and love for our risen Redeemer. -Derek Paul - The apostle's exposition on the bodily resurrection of Christ. https://www.esv.org/1+Corinthians+15/ John - Piper answering a 15 year old young man's question about the importance of the resurrection. https://www.desiringgod.org/interviews/why-do-we-celebrate-easter Greg - Bahnsen being Bahnsen. If this is your first exposure to his teaching, know that it's heavy sledding. Perseverance will pay great dividends. https://answersingenesis.org/apologetics/the-impropriety-of-evidentially-arguing-for-the-resurrection/ I once heard a wise person say, “Your life can either be an example...or a warning.” The fact that I cannot remember who said this may tip you off to the way this story will turn. After an intense ping pong match of opposing opinions, all housed within my soul, I have chosen to pull back the curtain of my own story a stitch and share an anecdote from my week that will illustrate this quote nicely. The reader is allowed freedom to decide which side of the sentiment it falls upon. In Tarantino fashion, let me start with the ending and reverse engineer the scenario.
Sitting in a plastic chair that looked like it was meant for a patio and not a place for the practice of emergency medicine (says who?), I found myself perhaps two feet from the place where this all started. I rolled up the sleeve of my right arm and placed it on the desk beside me, antecubital side up, for inspection and removal of blood samples. A collection of white coated staff members with whom I have been working stood in a row before me, saying any number of things to each other in languages I did not yet understand. Mocking? Sympathizing? I will never know. The last twenty four hours had seen the providence of God bring me and my pride full circle in spectacular fashion, with no less zeal than a Narobi roundabout. Glancing over my shoulder to the left, I recalled the split second that stutter stepped me to this position. I have not had a formal role in healthcare for several months since we left for our training in the states. Most days at work in the ER were very full and being a charge nurse presented many unique challenges to work through. All that to say, I’ve been a little restless just to do something since we got here, especially in light of ongoing preparations facing coronavirus. This, despite Tracy and our team leaders’ reminders that our worth does not come from what we do but from our identity in Christ. I am not a driven person, but I’m no slouch either. Our main goals for the first number of months have been to build relationships with the community, work on our Swahili and begin orienting in the hospital. Well, in due time, the corona pirates pillaged this perfectly reasonable plan. We have been going out only to the store for necessities and occasional exercise outside of the house. Our language helper wanted to take a covid break and see how things go after a while. We are each still going two days a week in the hospital, most of which are spent wandering around in a cloud of Kiswahili and Kipsigis dialects, just trying to figure out how things work. (I will tell of my attempts to function in triage another time. It is amusing.) Even this was put to a stop when we self quarantined for a week after traveling to Nairobi to sign and send papers for the sale of our home in Illinois. The Monday following our isolation found me quite eager to return to the Accident & Emergency Department. I was assigned to help in the casualty area, as opposed to triage, dressings or injections. Purposing to be more helpful today than prior times, I inserted myself into situations where I could get to work silently, without the need for much direct patient communication. I took vitals, helped situate and transport a trauma patient to xray and back, etc. Then, as I was noticing a gentleman sitting with greatly swollen eyes and upper lip, one of the nurses slid an IV catheter across the silver top of the med cart and asked, “Can you fix an IV line for me?” I had declined doing this the first couple shifts for various reasons, aiming to get my bearings before doing more invasive tasks. But today was different. I wanted to be of more use and so I readily agreed. I greeted the man with the toddlerish Swahili that I know and commenced to start the IV in his right hand. To my relief, it went in fine and I was already feeling a little satisfied, even though it was really a small thing. This feeling was to dissipate as quickly as morning mist in the East African sun. I removed the bare needle from the catheter, holding it with my left hand (no safety needles, here mind you) Because I had not yet placed the cap on the catheter, it began to bleed a little. The man, noticing that his hand was bleeding, jumped to avoid getting it on his pants. In eighteen years of starting IV’s on patients, I have never once been stuck by a dirty needle. But on my very first stick in Kenya, it happened. It could happen to anyone, anywhere in the world, and it happened to me. I’m often smart enough to know a thing but dumb enough not to admit a thing, so at first I wanted to ignore what had happened. After finishing the line, I went to work scrubbing my bleeding hand and internally running all of the scenarios that may now happen. I could not possibly deny that it had happened. But, and this is where my train began to careen off of its tracks, I decided to keep this little tidbit to myself. For one, I did not think they had an established process for this kind of thing. Wrong. Two, I am new here, attempting to prove myself, build rapport with staff and find a place on the team. I thought that fessing up would be an incalculable blow to this desire, and, more truthfully, my ego. I was angry that I had done it and worried about how the staff would look at me if I reported it. Wrong again. Instead, I would try to nonchalantly obtain this man’s medical history and talk to my team leader about the incident later that night. I turned around and he was gone, having received his medication and moved on. This is not unexpected as people pop in and out of casualty from the outpatient area in order to receive acute treatment and then leave to be re-evaluated, receive meds from the pharmacy and go home. “Where is the patient we just saw,” I asked the nurse who invited me to start his line. “He went home.” I quickly found out that he knew nothing of the man’s background, nor did he know his name or patient ID which could be used to find out his history. The nurse agreed to speak with the provider who saw the patient and find out his information. He did not ask why I wanted it and I did not tell him. Hope (not her real name), the casualty supervising nurse, was in and out but still I chose to wait and see, not telling her about the incident. Insert screeching train sound here. The day wore on, I started many more IV’s without incident. My concern continued to climb and after inquiring if any information could be found about the man, I was told “The provider who saw him has left. Maybe we can ask another day.” Not good. The reality of the situation fell hard upon me. I was in rural East Africa where HIV and hepatitis rates are mountainously higher than at home. I had stuck myself with a dirty needle that was just used on an unknown patient with an unknown history. Still, I said nothing about it and just slinked home feeling like the broad, blue African sky was about to fall down upon my head. Don’t worry, things get worse while they better. Understandably, I spent the day dejected, languishing in a pool of my own doing. Anger, concern, embarrassment, they all joined together in a game of red rover with my heart and mind. Of course I talked to Tracy about it and she was equally disconcerted. Ultimately, I landed on telling myself that God is sovereign and his story for me is good. I have learned that this is the only place to stand in moments such as these. The Rock of Ages, very true. But sometimes you find yourself on your face, on the Rock. You’re not going anywhere, but the ground is rough and jagged. The bitter providence of a good Father who disciplines his children for their own transformation. My thanks to the Walrus and Carpenter podcast for talking about Hebrews 12 on the day after this happened, helping me process it all (check it out here). I am happy that one of our team leaders here is an ER doc, as we speak very much the same language. But he is also very much a loving brother and brings a big heart in one hand to the information delivered with the other. After a brief discussion, we both decided that post exposure prophylaxis would be the way to go, taking meds to decrease the risk of developing a life altering disease. It was the only way to be absolutely careful in the face of unknown risk. While on board with this plan, my growing concern focused on the reality of returning to the hospital the next day and potentially facing the same staff that I had avoided the day before. The train of my prideful thinking was now fully on its side, half on fire and the other half letting loose its cargo for the hazmat teams of my mind to attempt containment. The next day, we set out early for the hospital with the idea that we would take care of this ordeal on the down low. Which is where things got considerably worse and better for me. Laughably so. Paradox is a fun idea. But not always a good time. We created a plan which looked like me signing in as a patient, getting my blood drawn for baseline labs and receiving the PEP meds from the outpatient clinic. Lower and lower my heart was sinking in the mud bath that I had created. Registration is the front door. Visibility is high. The lab is next to casualty. Equally high. But I would just slip in and out, right? This will be ok, I told myself. No better way to understand a healthcare process than to become part of the process, right? After returning with my passport for registration purposes, I ran into Hope, the casualty nurse supervisor I mentioned earlier. I had wrestled with whether or not to tell her about the incident, eventually convincing myself it was the right thing to do. When I was a charge nurse, I would have wanted to know if a similar incident happened. I would have expected it. At this point I was beginning to lean more on my identity as God’s child than on my reputation as a professional, resigned to absorbing whatever scorn was to come my way. I was beginning to see the punchline in this whole story and, thankfully, laughing at it’s ridiculous unfolding. It’s a good thing too, because I was about to be pummeled with the holy arm of irony. I wanted to make a joke about the incident as I presented the information to Hope but, alas, the barrier of language yielded multiple blank stares from her in the past with similar attempts at humor. So, as forthrightly as possible I told her of the exposure, being sure to mention it was my first in an eternity of emergency medicine. “Don’t worry, we have a plan and will take care of it.” “No, I will help you,” she said in a tone that gave no room for dissent, the tone of a concerned and professional leader. The same tone had come from my lips many times. She led me to registration, explaining why I was there, speaking in Swahili to those behind the counter and helping me get registered as a patient. The gloves were now off and the divine left hand made contact. My family and I are typically a spectacle wherever we go here. But this was another level of scrutiny and feeling exposed. “Come,” she motioned, “let’s get your samples.” She sped away and I knew immediately where she intended for this to take place, and it was not the lab. Sitting in a plastic chair that looked like it was meant for a patio and not a place for the practice of emergency medicine (says who?), I found myself perhaps two feet from the place where this all started. I rolled up the sleeve of my right arm and placed it on the desk beside me, antecubital side up, for inspection and removal of blood samples. A collection of white coated staff members with whom I have been working stood in a row before me, saying any number of things to each other in languages I did not yet understand. Mocking? Sympathizing? I will never know. The last twenty four hours had seen the providence of God bring me and my pride full circle in spectacular fashion, with no less zeal than a Narobi roundabout. Glancing over my shoulder to the left, I recalled the split second that stutter stepped me to this position. Nothing could have changed the fact that a dirty needle, dipped in the blood of myriad unknown risks was about to write a story fashioned to bring me low upon the rock of God’s steadfast love, mercy and grace. Nothing could have changed the outcome of that moment. I now carry anti nausea meds for the next 28 days to combat the effects of the prophylaxis meds and look forward a near future of serial HIV testing. What also does not change is the breadth of God’s steadfast love for us and commitment to inject His grace into the fray of our hearts to draw our eyes toward him and transform us into the image of his Son. Even if this means engineering a specific personal scenario spectacular in its potential embarrassment. I am thankful that the players in this story including my wife, teammates, Hope and other casualty staff members were kind and gracious about it all. They knew nothing of the work of the Spirit in my life in those hours, quarrying up some stony places in my heart so that I would trust in God rather than my reputation. In this is freedom from fear and freedom to serve in such a way that God is glorified, not myself. What other hope does one have but to know that this God who did not spare his own Son but gave him up to die for the undeserving is also relentless in pursuing what is good for them? Is this story an example or a warning? The reader is free to choose. For me it is a tangible testimony of severe kindness - undeserved and unexpected. But kindness nonetheless. “Rock of Ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in Thee.” “When it rains, it pours.” Such is the phrase that people often use to describe matters when they turn from bad to worse. A true sentiment, however one which I found inadequate to capture the many times working in emergency medicine when “worse” was superseded by the incomprehensibly poor timing of multiple separate calamities arriving at our doorstep simultaneously. Low staffing? Thirty patients in the waiting room? Twenty five boarders? Two full arrests, a stroke and a drunken man running naked for the nearest exit, having snaked through several incredulous security guards? Here come two level one traumas from a motorcycle which could not successfully keep both wheels on the ground. Now that all of my ER friends are twitching with the thinly veiled PTSD that we all carry around like a trembling support chihuahua, I will tell you that the afore mentioned aphorism simply did not cut the mustard for times like these these. For such moments I employed the phrase, “When it rains, it’s a hurricane.” I come from the midwest U.S. Besides boredom and its subsequent temptations, our biggest threat from the natural world may be tornados. Tornados are different than hurricanes. You can only say that “conditions are right” for a possible tornado to strike. Then, suddenly, it’s upon you and hopefully you have enough time to find shelter. Preparedness aside, this is a scary moment. Life in the ER is much like this. Perhaps you can see the storm front of a Monday morning after a holiday weekend looming as you arrive to work. But dotted throughout the barrage of such a day are the individual tornados of trauma, illness and tragedy which appear unannounced. The difference is we do not duck and run. These are the moments for which we prepare and for which, I dare say, we have chosen such a profession. We train, organize materials, streamline processes and delegate resources. We expect the unexpected to arrive at any time. Still, tornados are different than hurricanes. I now live in rural Kenya. Threats from the natural world are myriad, sustained and as no nonsense deadly as the cold look in a black mamba’s eyes. Most hospitals and healthcare teams here do not have a fraction of the resources that I enjoyed and utilized working at the mothership of a vast medical system back home. A disclaimer to offer, now, so that you may appropriately weigh the coming sentences. My wife and I are still new here, having arrived with our family only two months ago. We are trying to understand the process of medical care in Litein, indeed in East Africa, and find a place to serve these efforts while spreading the fragrance of Christ in the midst. My thoughts are, by very nature, not supplied with the weight of many battle scarred years of medical missions work and should be taken as such. (For a full throated description of life in East African medical missions, read over some of the volumes of material at Dr Jennifer Myhre’s blog, which I will link to here.) Nevertheless, we are here, attempting to move into a condition of usefulness. We slipped into Kenya just before the bulk of the corona craze hit most of the world, bringing it to a screeching halt. We signed papers for the sale of our house in the states last week just as the strictest travel warning (ahem, ban) was issued. Providence is a deep well of irony from our vantage point. To be fair, we are not stuck, we are serving. As are the teammates with whom we live and the many others who have stayed, playing the long game. Hurricanes are different from tornados. Instead of throwing around earth in a surprise attack of unencumbered fury and destruction, hurricanes take their time. They move along at their own pace, picking up steam and energy, carrying fury like a calling card, dropping it everywhere they go. Experts have time to monitor progress and issue endless streams of updated opinions on just how much catastrophe is on its way. Public officials warn people to prepare for the worst, board up their homes and, perhaps, get out of dodge. Some do, some don’t. Just ask a life long Florida resident what they will do before a hurricane and you’ll likely get a smirk as wide as a trauma nurse’s on St. Patty’s day. People are asking us about the impact of coronavirus where we live and work. In short, while lagging behind in the world in the number of actual diagnosed cases, preparation to keep this number as low as possible has been ongoing since we arrived. In many places, this is akin to preparing for a hurricane with two leaky buckets, a rain poncho and, maybe, a hammer. Hospital leadership here, working with county officials and our teammates, have been scrambling to create isolation space, find appropriate PPE and create contingency plans that have hereto been unheard of. Many folks in East African healthcare learned from the ebola outbreaks of recent years. But memory and reality are oft discordant and don't always produce further readiness. All the while, we are keeping the pulse of the world and growing number of confirmed corona cases in Kenya (28 as of this writing). Government officials are shutting down offices, encouraging social distance, fumigating public transportation and the like. Grocery stores have guards at the doors with hand sanitizer, thermometers and check lists of questions to ask. It all feels like watching preparations for a hurricane. “It’s coming,” they say, “category 4 now, just offshore.” Yes, hurricanes are different than tornados. But the effects, though sustained and prefilled with the suspense of waiting and preparation, are just as heavy. Sometimes all of the reports and weeks of watching a storm gather speed and strength come to an anticlimax as it suddenly rumbles away from inhabited spaces or simply dissipates as it makes landfall. We pray that, in God’s mercy, the same will be true of the corona storm looming over us now. Even still, “Ndoo iko wapi?” Where's the bucket? The title of this post is taken from one of Switchfoot’s albums, a couple of recordings ago. I would like to commend to you the listening of a track from their new album. The lyrics weave through various experiences of suffering by the writer and crescendos with this chorus: “Hallelujah, nevertheless. Was the song that pain couldn’t destroy. Hallelujah, nevertheless. You’re my Joy Invincible.” Have a listen. Whether you are reading this while stuck at home, after donning and doffing personal protective equipment a thousand times or preparing for what winds of unfolding struggle lie ahead, I pray it brings you encouragement to find Joy Invincible. Trust in God’s promises. Hope in God’s character. Rejoice in God’s steadfast love. Easier said than done. "If only life didn't need us to be this brave." But when it rains, it’s a hurricane. And Jesus is the only safe harbor.
I have been wanting to write this post for a while but have been waiting until I could record a song that I wrote a long time ago to accompany it. I did so today in a very cursory fashion, rough and imperfect music from a rough and imperfect creature. I will talk about that more later. The picture above is of the Missouri River. The view is from our favorite location in Hermann, Missouri. Tracy and I have spent many content days and nights in this small town which is surrounded by hills and vineyards. We have gone there just to relax and also for quiet moments in which to make important life decisions (perhaps not the wisest with the afore mentioned vineyards, ever present and oft visited). The right side of the picture captures the bluff where the cottages of Hermann Hill bed and breakfast are located. They are most excellent and highly recommended. On the left is a road that leads to town, small and quaint. What I did not know when I took this picture and throughout all of the many hours spent enjoying this view is that the Missouri River is one of the longest rivers in the United States. It begins somewhere in southwest Montanta as the convergence of three smaller rivers and snakes its way east and south in a zig zag manner until it dumps into the Mississippi on its way to the Gulf of Mexico. I know, you are thinking, "That's neat. But I'm reading this to hear about you moving to Africa, not the boring old Missouri River." And you would not be wrong in feeling such a way. I will thus bridge the two matters.
On our last trip to Hermann (three years ago?), Tracy and I were in conversation with a recruiter from Serge, seeking a place to serve. We knew that we loved the organization but at that time there was really only one opportunity that they had for medical work in Africa, and it was a new team. For our first time out we did not want to be part of a start up. (The irony is not lost on me, just keep reading.) Our hearts had quickly adopted the idea of serving Christ through international missions, specifically using our experience in medicine. But our situation was not moving quickly toward that desire. In fact, things felt stagnant. As we looked from the deck of our cottage, out over the Missouri River bluff, talking (undoubtedly drinking Stone Hill wine because it's the best) and planning, Tracy noted the way that the water was moving. Not so much the water itself, but our perspective of the current. When you looked up river (left in the picture) the water seemed to be quite lazy, complacent even. But looking right, it appeared to ramp up its nautical units of measurement and moved away from us rapidly. In remembering this, and noting the miles and miles that the Missouri River actually travels just to reach Hermann, I am led to make an analogy about our journey into missions and also the perception of our friends and families. Just out of high school and after her time in YWAM, Tracy started her education in dietetics. Her express goal was to utilize her skills, knowledge and experience to feed and minister to malnourished individuals throughout the world. At the risk of saying just how many years have passed, every one like a bend in a winding river, I will throw out something like twenty years have passed since her heart was first bent toward missions. In looking at such a trail of years behind us, it feels like the current is taking its sweet time. Many of you have just recently heard of our journey to Kenya to join others in starting a (ahem) new team in a rural part of the country. For you, being downstream, it is all quite sudden. There is much to be said, as well, about the sovereignty and wisdom of God in leading our family the way that he has. I will leave such a topic for another time and put the other oar of this post in the water. Several years ago I wrote a song in which the first line says, "This river bends in ways unforeseen." It is a song of looking back and forth between the twists of life that we did not plan and the hope of a solid, happy future. It has arisen in this time as one of the most poignant (probably kitsch and sappy) songs that I have written, matching circumstances and the current context of our lives. Here is a link for the song. https://soundcloud.com/derektaylor-4/this-river-bends Have a listen, share it or leave a remark if you wish. Above all, don't get your hopes up for a masterpiece. Thank you for reading and listening. Peace. -Derek |
AboutHere you may find ramblings on life, faith, music and whatever else hits the windshield that day. Archives
June 2021
Categories*The views expressed here are my own and not necessarily shared in their entirety by Serge, our sending missions organization.*
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