Overflow

I started unpacking today. There’s a sense of finality to it, but also the same kind of nascent hope that comes with the Spring—the changing of a season and another beginning. I am not in Africa anymore. I am in Nashville. I am here, at Belmont University, in this beautiful city, a full week into my senior year. I’m a wee bit closer to mastering the art of loving two places but only being able to physically be present in one. Ichitenge (large pieces of African fabric) hang like tapestries over my sterile dorm room walls. Pictures of my kids decorate the outside of my door, arranged around a note card that gives my reason: “Because I believe in a free Narnia.” My nights are filled with coffee shops and long walks and emergency trips to Kroger to get mozzarella sticks and ice cream, because I’m a girl and sometimes I crave them. Both of them. At the same time.  I chat with Jasmine or Troy or Zeger on facebook and flip through photos that I forgot I had taken while David fields phone calls from the village kids who just keep calling to say hi. Then we curl up and watch Hulu while the face of the Mwata stares down at us from the ichitenge that hangs on his wall, and I cannot help but smile, because my two words seem to be colliding in a beautiful dance that I don’t quite understand.

Surely my cup overflows.

I’m an RA in Kennedy again this year. Twenty-three girls call my floor home. I don’t know them very well yet, but sometimes really late at night, when I can’t sleep because my body is still relatively convinced that I’m still on the other side of the planet, I walk up and down the hall. I read their nametags and try to put a face to them, and I pray for each one of them. My thoughts drift to other girls who have come into my life under similar circumstances.  Some of my residents from last year are now my dearest friends. My sophomore year, I worked with University Ministries in a girl’s dorm. Some of those girls later became my residents in Kennedy. Others came in and out of my life as they needed me. I was there through judicial sanctions, the passing of grandparents, changes of major, cheating boyfriends, anaphylaxis, and just about every other conceivable catastrophe that could possibly happen on a college campus. I prayed for them too. I still do. All of those girls are juniors now, and so many of them have grown so much. I cannot describe the privilege it has been to watch them come into a deeper understanding of who Christ is and how much He loves them. Reconnecting with them in the past two weeks-- praying for them, guiding them, loving them-- has been pure joy, and I thank my sweet Savior for whatever small role I was allowed to play in their journeys of redemption. They are beautiful.

Surely my cup overflows.

Today I met with a professor that I first connected with last Spring. We talked about the future—about the possibility of grad school, about what the needs of the Kazembe community are and who might be able to help. People like her—people who believe that life can become better for these people but recognize that it may not be fully realized in their lifetime or mine, and yet still believe anyway—fill my soul with hope. It’s hard to find that balance between optimism and realism, and many people either never try in the first place or give it everything they’ve got before sinking into pessimistic despair. I think she believes I’ll make it. I think I needed to hear that.

Surely, truly, my cup overflows.

I found something in that first bag I unpacked today. It’s a tired looking little popsicle stick, partially wrapped in masking tape, ribbon, and yarn. I haven’t the faintest idea what it’s supposed to be. Johnny gave it to me the day that we left. “This is so you can keep it forever,” he said seriously, gazing at me sternly from beneath raised eyebrows.  I pocketed it and haven’t thought about it since. As I turned it over in my hands today, I found a dirty little fingerprint on the back.  I think he left one on my heart too.

This is my overflow.

Teem-o-tee

He is three years old. His name is Timothy (or as his sister Agnes says, “Teem-o-tee”), and he lives down the road.  I love him dearly.  He doesn’t run up to me the way some of the other village kids do.  He’s not very talkative.  But if I sit still for more than 5 seconds on the front porch, he crawls up in my lap and buries himself in my chest. His little head settles into the hollow below my collarbone.  I tuck my face down by his and hum softly, and the vibration seems to soothe him.  He wraps one arm around my shoulder and tangles his fingers in my hair. I wear it down for him, so he can play with it.  His other arm finds a secure hold around my waist.  His little nervous fingers work constantly, scratching at the back of my shirt as if to assure himself that I am still there.
 

His forehead bears a pear-shaped mark—maybe a birthmark, maybe a scar; I’m not sure.  Agnes reacts in sheer delight when I pick him up.  Her trilling laughter rings out across the harsh landscape like a tiny bell.  I wonder what she’s thinking. I wonder if anyone ever held her the way I’m holding him.  I wonder where they sleep at night—Agnes, Timothy, and their brother Vincent.  I wonder what will happen to them, and who will protect them, and I wonder if they know that I love them, or if I’m still mostly just the musungu novelty.  But no one has called me musungu in a really long time.  They call me Meghani.  Teem-o-tee calls me Meghani.
 

This night there are more kids around than usual.  Zeger’s parents are passing through, and the appearance of more outsiders has drawn an adoring crowd of elementary school kids. Teem-o-tee wraps his arms around my thigh and smothers his face into my leg. I absentmindedly run my hand across his head—and stop short. There are several large raised spots on his scalp, each the diameter of a golf ball. I place a little pressure on one, and it bursts. Blood and pus pour out. I can’t think. I can’t consider. I just react. A million thoughts rush through my suddenly mechanical mind as I dart to my room to grab my first aid kit. Could be staph, could be boils, probably needs an antibiotic… I return with my personal first aid kit. It takes several alcohol swabs to open the boils and wipe away the drainage. I know it hurts. His whole body is shaking, but he just stands there. Not a sound. Not a whimper. A single tear. Agnes holds his shoulder with one hand and my elbow with another. I’m not sure how to read her face, but I think she trusts me.  The last spot is stubborn. As I try to clean it out, a quarter-sized piece of dead flesh sloughs off into my hand. That image would replay in my mind for weeks.
 

Finally, it’s done. I slather a thick layer of triple antibiotic ointment on. Someone had sent me with a couple hundred little sample-sized single use packets of the stuff, so I send a handful of those and of alcohol swabs home with Agnes. I try to explain to her how to care for him, and my heart breaks. She’s just a kid. Nine years old, maybe? Perhaps a bit older?  Just a kid. She listens and nods, but her brow furrows together. Normally she would just say “yes” to everything she doesn’t understand, because that’s what they’re taught to do in school here. I think she’s scared, though. She looks scared.
Gideon, one of the older boys that was playing soccer, must have seen part of what happened. He comes over and says he will take her home. I’m partially afraid he’ll pocket the medicine, but I have to trust him to do the right thing. I watch them walk all the way back to her house. Agnes is holding the medicine. He doesn’t try to take it from her. When they get there, an older woman meets him in the yard. I see him gesture to Teem-o-tee, and they talk for a minute. Then he comes back up the road and joins in the game as if he had never left.

**********************
I’m a long way from Teem-o-tee now. I thought about him this morning as I sat down on the hard concrete steps in front of the nursing building. I think I half expected him to make his way into my lap. I wonder if his wounds healed. I wonder if they’ll get worse. And if they do get worse, I wonder… and I fear…
 

It is remarkable and fascinating how isolated their world is. In the States, tragic illnesses can make the evening news.  The nature of a technological society is that family circles become extended. You can watch your cousins on the other side of the continent grow up via facebook. You can travel to see them over Christmas, because we have airplanes and the money to use them. If a child dies here, they are mourned—or at least pitied—by so very many people. Not in all cases… but most. But there, in the bush… if a child dies, the family will probably mourn. Sometimes the families are so intermarried and massive that it seems like the whole village mourns. But that’s all. On the outside, no one knows. No one cares. It’s as if that kid never existed. Life can just… slip away…

Some days, I think that’s why I tell their stories. Life should matter more than that. Every life. Every life should be treasured. Every child should be fought for. Every kid should be loved. And is much as every lost life should be mourned, so too every living life should be celebrated. That’s what this post is about. This is a celebration of Teem-o-tee.

Let us celebrate his smile.
Let us celebrate his courage.
Let us celebrate his innocence.
Let us celebrate, and let us pray that as his beautiful little eyelashes flutter open in the morning, a daybreak breeze will envelop him in a hug to let him know that he’s not forgotten.
He is celebrated.

The In-Between

Much has transpired since my last post. Many soul-wrenching goodbyes were exchanged; many spirit-filling laughs were shared; many heart-issues were either emboldened or laid to rest in my own life. Those stories will come, with time, as I am able to tell them, for to commit them to paper is to consent to sharing them, and some memories-- some thoughts-- seem too fragile and precious to share. Maybe time will strengthen them, or maybe I will simply treasure them up in my heart. Suffice it to say that things have a curious way of working out in the end, and that the tears of goodbye are made sweet by the promise of reunion. God willing, we will walk those winding village roads again. We certainly intend to.


The last few weeks in Kazembe were… an adventure, to say the least.  Without some seriously sick babies to distract me this summer, I was left with an excess of time to study, reflect, and react. Circumstances both pushed and pulled me out into the beautiful community surrounding the orphanage.  I was able not only to spend time pouring into those six precious first graders that have claimed so much of my affection but also to venture out onto those dusty dirt roads that the rest of Kazembe calls home—and then, I was privileged beyond compare to watch those two worlds begin to collide. The day I left, I told Johnny it was time for me to go home. “That’s okay Auntie Meghan. But will you be back by tonight? Because I want to play with the kids outside.”

Tears flowed unchecked, running off my cheeks and dripping onto the thirsty earth. I know, sweetheart. I can’t come back tonight. I’m so sorry… And I gasp in deep breaths of the African Narnian air, as if filling my lungs with it might somehow keep a part of it with me, or a part of me there… I don’t know how to say goodbye. I’m not sure which is worse—the kids who cry, because they know that goodbye can be for such a long time, or the ones who are too young or to calloused to show emotion at the departure. So I just hug them all in turn. And one of the nannies says, “Auntie Meghan, Maike is calling for you.” And I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can pick up another baby, another tiny baby boy, and tell him goodbye. Because when I fall in love with a kid, I fall all in. I love them like they’re mine. I love them with everything I’ve got. David says I mother everything I touch. I don’t know what to do with that love. But I scoop up baby Michael, and I hug him so tight that he squirms in protest, and I sit in the corner with him and tell him that he is wanted.  I tell him that his family couldn’t be there for him, and I don’t know why. Some of them died, and some of them just couldn’t, or wouldn’t. But he is wanted. And loved. And a treasure.  And I will pray for him often. It will be easy, because his face will be in my dreams. I know that. I always dream about them. The nannies just watch, and I wonder what they’re thinking. I wonder what they think about the emotional white girl whose tears are dripping all over these kids. Majory promises me she will watch out for him.  Peter leans against the wall and watches it all. He is expressionless. I go to shake his hand goodbye. He takes my hand and envelopes it in both of his.  He holds on a little firmer and a little longer than normal. “You will not forget us.” It is not a question.

And then it’s time to go. I round the corner of the main house to see half a dozen guys standing at the front gate. They’re the kids we play soccer with at night. I remember our fractured goodbye of the night before—standing there as the sun retreated over the rim of the valley and feeling my entire soul wince and recoil as that farewell was cut short.  None of them are smiling now. David speaks with them for a moment and then comes back cradling a photograph in his hands as though it is the most precious thing he has ever held. It’s a picture of Albert and Nicholas standing in front of the statue of the Mwata in the Boma. I know how highly coveted photographs are here, especially among the children. I know the value of what they have given us. He packs it carefully into a bag, and we walk towards the gate. Peter is waiting for us. “These kids,” he says, gesturing at the soccer boys, “they will wait for you. They will still be waiting when you come back to us.” David keeps walking. I look at the boys again. It’s as if they’re escorting us to a funeral, rather than a bus. David gets out the door ahead of me, and the boys take off with him. I watch them walk down that dusty road together, fifteen yards ahead of me, shoulder to shoulder as if they are best friends and brothers.

“It isn't Narnia, you know," sobbed Lucy. "It's you. We shan't meet you there. And how can we live, never meeting you?"
"But you shall meet me, dear one," said Aslan.
"Are -are you there too, Sir?" said Edmund.
"I am," said Aslan. "But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name. This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there.”

Ah, sweet Lucy. I think we would have been dear friends. Though I feel that it’s a bit of both things for me. I shall indeed miss Narnia. In so many ways, it is Narnia, because that is where He called me, and that is where I promised to follow him, and one doesn't break a promise to Aslan. But I know that Aslan is everywhere. I have called on him by many names and in many places, and I have certainly known him better by knowing Him in Narnia. But just as surely as He called me through the wardrobe, so too has He called me back for a time of preparation and learning.  

He brought me to this place—to this forsaken little village, where the things of eternity hang so heavily in the air that every joyful breath brings with it a hallelujah…

and he has taken me home again...

and He will bring me back…

and He will sustain me in the in-between.

Merry Christmas!

Heaven knows I dance to the beat of my own drum.

I hear a different drum today—one that would be out of place this time of year if it could actually be confined to a time of year. Thankfully, blessedly, mercifully, this drum is timeless. It beats just as clearly in the dead of July as it does during wicked Illinois Decembers.

Can you hear it?

It’s a little drummer boy’s drum, and he is playing for a newborn King.

A few weeks ago, David and I were rehashing a familiar conversation about all the movies I haven’t seen that he wants me to watch someday. Among them was “A Christmas Story.” That turned to conversation to Christmas movies in general, one of the best of which is “White Christmas.” We had intended to watch it right before Christmas break last December, but that was just another plan that got lost in the chaos of exams and end-of-semester work.  Jasmine piped in and said that we have that movie here.

It was as though the air itself got excited. The room seemed a little bit lighter. We had no choice. Christmas in July had to be celebrated.

July 25^th would have made the most sense, but we knew that the orphanage would be in full swing preparation for Mutomboko by then.  And since the whole point of Christmas in July is that Christmas can be celebrated at any time, we decided to bump it up to this weekend. Which means that today is Christmas, figuratively speaking…

There shall be hotdogs roasting on an open fire and termites nipping on your nose. There shall be chocolate cake and chocolate fondue and Belgian chocolate and hopefully some chocolate. There shall be singing and rejoicing, and there shall be a reminder that Hope has come, and we have Something to celebrate.

We tried to keep it amongst the volunteers, but the Christmas spirit just cannot be stifled. Johnny caught a whiff of it and has been leading his little compatriots in their favorite Christmas song all morning. Choruses of “Ding dong ding, everybody sing, to the newborn King!” are ringing across the courtyard at this very moment.
 
Last night we decorated the Christmas tree, and someone (I think Jasmine and Mary) moved it into the living room. This morning there were several small presents beneath it, to each of us from "Santa." All silly festivities and light-hearted white elephant gifts aside, at its heart this has been an opportunity to celebrate the coming of Christ, and in that the essence of Christianity. Wake up, little town of Bethlehem! Hope has arrived, Redemption is here, and Joy has come to dwell among us, and that is something to celebrate.

I do love Christmas.  In many ways, I love the time leading up to Christmas the most of all. I cherish the promise of the Advent. A pastor from a Nashville church family I dearly love describes the whisper of Advent as, “The Not-Yet will be worth it.” Such words have given me great strength and comfort many times in the past. They carry an element of mystery with them, for in so many ways, none of us really knows what the Not-Yet holds any more than the residents of Bethlehem understood or felt the weight of glory that was born among them that night. God painted a literary picture through the Old Testament prophets, and then He was silent. For centuries. Not a whisper; not a sign. And all they had was the promise of Advent:

“The Not-Yet will be worth it.”

They didn’t know what the Not-Yet was. They didn’t recognize Him when He came.  They were mostly confused for the duration of His ministry, and even when the stone rolled away, the remaining mystery of how wide, how long, how high, and how deep deep is His love keeps the believer in awe.  I can only echo the words of the blind man in John 9, whose response to the many questions and accusations from the religious leaders concerning Christ was a sure and simple, “One thing I know: I once was blind, but now I see.”

I bounce between those two mantras. Sometimes I’m waiting for the Not-Yet to show up, and I wonder what the arrival will look like, and He’s been silent for so long...

Sometimes my eyes are opened as if for the very first time, and I struggle for words at all, and all I know is that I once was blind, but now I see. That’s all. And it’s enough.

Peace on earth and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled.

Glory to the newborn King.

Merry Christmas, my friends—and God bless us, every one.

In Your Reflection

Some children are parrots.

Take Henry, for example. Whatever I say, he is absolutely sure to repeat it. His new favorite pastime is running up to me and reminding me of what I like to say. For the reader’s personal amusement, I’ll spell the words how he says them.

“You like to say, ‘Hey beh-bee!’”
“You like to say, ‘Yis beh-bee!”
“You like to say, ‘Oh-kee beh-bee!”
“You like to say, ‘Gootnight suhweet-hot!”

All butcherings of the phrases “hey baby,” “yes baby,” “okay baby” and “goodnight sweetheart” aside, it’s basically the cutest thing ever.

 

 Some children are little mimics.

The first week that we arrived, David kissed Moriah’s hand and told her goodnight. Johnny and Elias asked me why. I told them that’s how you greet a princess.  News must have spread, because yesterday as I was walking to my room I stopped to observe Ernest interacting with baby Ana. He smoothed her hair back, took her hand to help her down the steps, then kissed her hand.

 

 Some children are sticky.

David and Zeger went to the Catholic church this morning. David was sitting at the table eating breakfast before they left. Theresa, Janet, and Moriah surrounded him.

“What is dis?” they queried, gesturing at the dirty plates still on the table.

“Oh. That’s someone’s leftover cake from last night,” David replied.

Moments later, the girls had graciously cleaned the plate off for him.

Then they all climbed into his lap. Fortunately, they were all covered in peanut butter (and now vestiges of chocolate cake), which decorated his church clothes nicely. 

 

Some children are Johnny.

A couple of days ago, one of the other volunteers brought him to me. “I caught Johnny playing with a marker and the whiteboard eraser liquid at the school table, and now he says his ear hurts,” she said. I looked at his ear briefly then dismissed the complaint as an escape attempt. He knows he’s not allowed to play at the table.

Later he came to me again on his own. I took his temperature, and he was running a pretty decent fever. Feeling mildly guilty for ignoring him earlier, I gave him a glass of water and a dose of Tylenol and settled him down on the couch to watch Lion King 2. In the opening scenes, Mufasa looks down from the heavens upon the presentation of his granddaughter, Princess Kiara, to the subjects of the kingdom.

“Simba’s dad is still watching?” asked Johnny, ever the investigator.

“Yes sweetheart. Just listen to the song.”

Johnny tilted his head to the side and stared at the ceiling, listening intently to the words of the song. He lives in you. He lives in me. He watches over everything we see.

“Oh, I see,” said Johnny. “He lives in Simba’s heart. Like Jesus.”

Yes sweetheart. Like Jesus. Just like that.

The plot thickened as Simba must confront his own pride and extend mercy at the risk of his kingdom. His actions are motivated by his love and desire to protect his family, but in doing so he oppressed and alienated some outsiders of society. Mufasa guides him along the way, ever so gently prodding him towards reconciliation, redemption, and forgiveness.

“Simba was wrong, but he listened to his daddy in the end,” Johnny noted.

I smiled at his words and hummed that song to myself. And a voice with the fear of a child answers, “Listen.” Hear the words and have faith. He lives in you.”








He Lives in You

Night
And the spirit of life
Calling

Oh, oh, iyo
Mamela [Listen]
Oh, oh, iyo

And a voice
With the fear of a child
Answers

Oh, oh, iyo
Oh, mamela [Listen]
Oh, oh, iyo

Wait
There's no mountain too great
Hear the words and have faith
Have faith

Hela hey mamela [Hey, listen]

He lives in you
He lives in me
He watches over
Everything we see
Into the water
Into the truth
In your reflection
He lives in you

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sBX-nTBoV78

Daddy

My last blog entry-- "The Smoke That Thunders"-- and this one were never meant to be blog entries at all. They were simply Memories that began as quickly scrawled notes in my prayer journal. I wrote them as something to cling to a few months from now, when I know I will need them most. After much contemplation, I decided maybe I should share them. The following heading starts that section of my journal...Memories
Tiny little moments of hope and promise—moments when I am reminded that this is a journey worth taking, that missions is an invitation to perpetual heartbreak, that to love is to be vulnerable, and that no other option is left to us.

Daddy

When Jesus taught his disciples to pray, I wonder if his heart rejoiced in his foreknowledge of a first grader named Elias—an unlikely disciple from the Zambian bush.

As often as scheduling allows, I escape down to the kindergartener’s bedroom to read a bedtime story at night.  Amy just brought back a new children’s Bible called the Jesus Storybook Bible—I highly recommend it. We’ve been reading a story or two every day during Circle Time, and sometimes the kids ask to hear another one at night. That evening, we read the story of the Lord’s prayer and Jesus teaching his disciples to pray. Then, like always, we all folded our hands and bowed our heads for bedtime prayer. Elias was first.

“Dear Daddy, thank you for being our Daddy and for saving us, and for taking the chains off of our hearts so we don’t have to be afraid. I love you so much, Daddy.” Has any prayer ever rung more beautifully in the heart of my King? Certainly none that I have uttered possibly could.

And in that moment, as Elias whispered “daddy,” and Queenie prayed for the health of Grace and Naomi and Ana, and Henry prayed for help to obey his Aunties (because believe me, that kid needs all the help he can get), heaven reached down and breathed into the room.

Some of those prayers were echoes of questions asked weeks ago during Bible story time. We read the story of the Fall and talked about how sinful man can never free himself from sin, the “wages of sin is death,” and nothing sinful can ever enter heaven.  Johnny’s eyes seemed to fill with all the sorrow of world. “But Auntie Meghan, how will God save us? How will He take the chains off our hearts?” I closed my eyes and listened for the sound of Aslan’s paws treading down the corridor. Elias patted Johnny’s shoulder sympathetically. “Johnny,” he said, “just wait. The story isn’t over yet.” Then we kept reading—from that first Passover where Punishment turned away from the doors painted with blood because a lamb had been slain in their stead; to an unlikely Savior King who touched lepers, welcomed village kids, loved the least of these, and gave himself as the final Sacrificial Lamb.  Six little faces whose eyes generally wander this way and that and under the table and onto other people’s papers during school time were suddenly trained motionlessly in my direction. And as I read the story of hope to those six precious souls, I knew in my heart of hearts that Aslan was on the move.

Smoke That Thunders

Mosi is a Zambian beer. It’s named after Victoria Falls, one of Africa’s greatest wonders. The locals call the massive falls "Mosi-oa-tunya," which means "the smoke that thunders." It’s odd to be here in Kazembe, where I spend most of my day hanging out with a couple dozen orphans and an hour here or there whacking a “foot-bolla” around with the village kids—including Nicholas, a 10 year old who has had a deep wet cough and vomiting spells for four weeks now; Calvin, the “diver” (goalie) with a ringworm infection covering most of his head and face;  and Albert, the 12-year-old neighbor kid who keeps one eye on the ball and the other on his two-year-old orphaned niece Wyness who moved here from Lusaka last week (more on that story later)—and such a paradise seems only to epitomize the harsh contradictions of life in Africa. Every rose has it’s thorns. Sometimes I’m just not sure which part of the rose I’m holding onto.

Mbita, the medical officer from the village, was at the orphanage taking care of under-5 requirements for the kids. Some needed vaccinations, de-worming, etc. As I was running back and forth bringing him whichever kid he wanted to poke next, Peter—one of the guys who works here—rattled off something to me.  I had a screaming baby in my arms and only caught part of what he said, but I caught that he was asking for a Mosi. I told him to find David and ask him.

It wasn’t until two or three screaming kids later that I actually stopped to listen to what Peter wanted.  His 17-month-old son had gotten his hands on some “methylated spirits” (methylated alcohol) and drank an unknown but significant amount. Methylated spirits is highly nephrotoxic and hepatotoxic. It also causes blindness. In short, this little boy drank a poison capable of frying his liver, his kidneys, and his eyes. Two of those three things are necessary for survival, and the third is pretty vital in this environment. Mbita told Peter to give the child a few sips of Mosi, saying that the “good” alcohol would neutralize the “bad” alcohol.

I thought that sounded a little sketchy.

We tried to make an international call to Poison Control, but David’s phone wouldn’t dial out. We borrowed Jasmine’s phone and called her mom, who was in Mansa getting groceries. Amy didn’t know what to do for the kid either but said she would try to get Poison Control on the phone. The nice man who answered the phone was exceptionally unhelpful. He refused to give her any information and kept saying that she had to take the boy to an emergency room.

“But we’re in the African bush! There is no emergency room!”

He refused to answer any of her questions about what might help—Should we give him milk? Make him vomit?

“NO! You have to take him to an emergency room!”

Well isn’t that helpful.

David was able to get a text through to his father, who called Poison Control to try again. By this time, David and I had filled a sippy cup full of milk and sugar (milk because it neutralizes some poisons, and sugar because methanol can cause severe hypoglycemia) and sprinted down the hill to the clinic.  David made a short detour to the chapel; we figured we needed all the Help we could get.  Peter was sitting on a rickety wooden bench, his tiny son sprawled limp across his lap. The child’s eyes were glazed over. He was listless and moaning slightly, and his abdomen was rigid. Peter said he had just vomited. All of the “medical personnel” at the clinic were off on lunch break (you don’t even want to know how I responded to that little gem of information…), so Peter was just sitting there helplessly with that sick baby boy in his arms…

David’s phone rang. By the grace of merciful heaven, his father was able to conference call us in with Poison Control. He had already explained the situation to the Poison Control lady, Sheri, and she had put him on hold to try and find some information.  A few seconds later she came back on the line.
“I just looked up the methylated spirits, and it is incredibly toxic. You need to take the child to an emergency care center immediately.”

Resisting the urge to simply implode out of frustration, I explained that Lusaka was 16 hours away by bus and South Africa was three countries away. I didn’t mention that the Mbereshi Mission Hospital is just a few kilometers down the road, because they would probably just give the kid a nice dose of Tylenol and send him on his way.  I told her there were simply no doctors or decent medical care available; whatever I had to offer was all the care this child was going to get. (Later I realized that David’s poor dad had to hear my rant about the dangerous unavailability of healthcare here; while everything I said was true, the sad and simple truth of the matter is that emergency healthcare would be significantly more available to us than it was to that child because we would be more able to get to Ndola, or Lusaka, or Cape Town, or wherever we needed to, but it is financially impossible and impractical to do that for every sick village kid… All that to say that I felt a little guilty later for causing David’s father any worry.)

There was a long pause on the other side of the line as Sheri wrapped her head around everything. Then she launched into action. She quickly explained the mechanism of methanol metabolism in the body. She said that Stateside, a child who consumed a significant amount of methanol would be ICU hospitalized on dialysis for several days and kept on a constant ethanol drip. The ethanol (or “good” alcohol) basically distracts the body. The enzyme that breaks down alcohol in the body targets ethanol first before methanol, and so if the amount of ethanol in the blood is greater than the amount of methanol, then the body won’t process the poison.

But we didn’t have an ICU.

Or a dialysis machine.

Or the capability to run an IV ethanol drip.

Or blood tests to track the serum levels of ethanol and methanol.

So we did the next best thing: we got the baby drunk.

I was a bit humbled at this point. Mbita had been right—the kid did need “good” alcohol—but now I understood why. It was going to take more than a little though. A few sips of beer certainly wasn’t enough to keep the methanol from destroying this little boy’s system. In retrospect, I am so deeply thankful that Mbita was there at all, and that his knowledge surpassed my own even if my pride would not allow me to see that at the time.

Sheri said to keep him drunk for the next several days until the poison had time to clear his system.  We climbed back up the hill with him. Just the day before, David and I had bought a bottle of cheap white wine in Mansa. After whispering a prayer of thanks for that impulse buy, I asked Peter what the child’s name was. Peter smiled.

“His name is Miracle.”