Monday Morning Faith (28 page)

Mary laughed. “My own fault; I must have left it out.”

“That doesn't bother you?” I was glad for the chance to ask these women about the thefts. I just couldn't fathom that it didn't frustrate them as much as it did me.

“We'd rather they didn't do it, of course — ” Eva looped her arms around her knees — “but I suspect that the villagers feel that what's ours is theirs. They don't seem to understand the meaning of personal possessions.”

“And sometimes we have to accept what we can't change.” Mary pursed her lips. “I don't think they mean to steal — not in our sense. I think they see something pretty and want it and feel we'd want them to have it.”

The subject changed directions when Eva mentioned a former village chief, Macu. “He's very old, maybe close to a hundred. I'm sure you've seen him in one of the men's public meetings.

“He's close to death.” Eva sounded so sad. “We've ministered to him for years, but I feel his time is near. We haven't been able to present the gospel to him, and it breaks my heart to think about it.”

A shout from the village caught our attention. The men were ready to come home and we had the boat. “I'll go get them.” Eva pushed to her feet and brushed the back of her slacks free of blanket lint.

I was more than happy to let her man the oars.

While Eva took the boat across to the village, I washed greens for dinner and set them to steam. Mary filleted fish and then put sweet potatoes in the oven to bake.

After dinner, everyone agreed to retire — all except Sam, who planned to study for a while.

I excused myself and went to my own cubicle and lay down on the cot, pulling the mosquito netting around the bed. Eva and Mary had no clue about styles or trends, and they were content, seemingly relieved not to have to worry about such things. As I lay there, thinking back over the conversation, I realized my tastes had begun to change as well.

Shell pink didn't sound half as appealing as it had, say … a month ago.

SEVENTEEN

I
t was too early to get up, but I couldn't take it any longer. A downpour had ended just a few minutes ago, and the heat and humidity were insufferable. I pushed back the netting and sat up. Anything would be better than lying in a pool of sweat. The treetops seen through my open window were motionless; not a hint of a breeze stirred the leaves or offered relief from the relentless smothering blanket of hot air. I put on my glasses and pulled the curtain aside. Eva sat at the table, Bible open in front of her. She looked up when I joined her.

“Too hot to sleep?”

I ran my hand across my forehead, realizing that I was dripping with sweat. “It's suffocating.”

She smiled. “Sometimes you'd give everything you own for an electric fan. Can you imagine people who go to the beach so they can lie around in the hot sun and sweat?”

“At the moment, I'd give a king's ransom for an ice cube.” But even as I spoke, I had to admit the reason for my lack of sleep was as much guilt as heat. Why had I sent Poo away yesterday? Why did I fight my growing feelings for the little imp? I needed to make amends. I would take Poo something — maybe my hairbrush. She would love that.

“Eva, could you row me to the village? I'm not that good with oars yet.”

“I'd be happy to take you. Would you like me to give you a rowing lesson?” This woman had to be approaching sainthood; she was always there when I needed her, always willing to help. I'd never seen either Eva or Mary irritated or angry — just a few hard looks sent my way. They were so easygoing and agreeable — maybe they were clones posing as missionaries! Even on my
best
behavior I'd never been this agreeable.

We left the hut as the dark clouds parted and a ray of sun broke across the water. Eva showed me the proper way to get into the boat, cast off, and row. By the time we reached the village, I actually felt confident I could make my way back and forth.

Eva spotted Mary with a group of women under one of the large trees at the edge of the village, so she left me at the shoreline. I watched her make her way up the incline, then went in search of Poo. I found the child sitting under a bush, headlight blinking, and bright scarf around her thin waist. My heart constricted. This child had so little; all she could offer was friendship, and I had rejected her gift.

She glanced up at my approach but didn't run to me. I sat down beside her and put my arm around her shoulders, pulling her close against me.

Eyes wide, she gazed up at me. More than ever I wanted us to understand each other. How do you say “I'm sorry” in sign language? I touched my heart then placed my hand on her shoulder.

Her brows arched.

Okay, that didn't work. Try something else. I took both her hands and held them in mine, smiling down at her.

She returned the gesture.

So far, so good. I slipped the hairbrush from my backpack and began to work the bristles through her hair. She looked startled but must have decided I didn't mean any harm. I pulled the brush through the ends of the child's tangled locks. Wiry, sweat-soaked hair that hadn't been washed in — well, I didn't care to guess.

When I finished, I pressed the brush into her hand and reached in my pocket and pulled out the mirror. I hoped the gifts convinced Poo that we were friends again.

She brought the brush up to her nose and smelled. She smiled. Reaching out, she touched my hand.

I was forgiven.

I got up from the ground and held out my hand to her. She looked up at me, a question forming in her eyes. After a moment she jumped up and grasped my hand, swinging it between us. Together, we walked to the clinic.

This morning's line stretched into the jungle. Word spread farther every day that the doctor was here, and those who could traveled long distances through the bush to seek medical help. Every village had a medicine man, but some villagers were so ill they sought a cure with white man's medicine.

I found Sam bent over a woman's foot, examining a nasty cut on top of the arch. There were so many hazards here that almost everywhere the villagers turned there was something to hurt them or make them sick. How could Sam ever hope to make a change in their lives? Similar to bailing water with a sieve — excruciating work and little in the way of results.

Sam didn't see me at first, so I waited, watching him. Maybe if I tried harder, worked beside him longer, then the Lord would move in my heart.

He looked up, a smile curving his mouth. That smile I loved so much. His eyes moved to Poo and back to me. She held to my hand, eyes shining with her old love of life, the joy I'd taken from her with my insufferable behavior.

“You ladies look like you're having a good day.”

“Wonderful! What can we do to help?”

“I need instruments cleaned. Can you handle it?”

“Put me to work.”

Sporadic bursts of hard rain had turned the clinic into a blistering swamp. I stood in water a half inch deep. I reached over and used my handkerchief to wipe sweat from Sam's forehead. He looked up and smiled. “Thanks.” Flies clung to my arms and buzzed around my face. Swatting was an exercise in futility.

Some of the waiting patients had huge goiters on the sides of their necks. Sam had explained that the mass compressed the person's windpipe and esophagus, which made the natives cough, feel as though food was getting stuck in the upper throat, or wake from sleep struggling for breath. Surgery was the required treatment; Sam would arrange for the worst cases to be transported to Port Moresby, but that could take months. In worst-case scenarios, he operated himself, despite the crude conditions, and prayed for the best.

Every time I looked up more men, women, and children emerged from the bush to join the line to see the doctor. The sights and the stench made me light-headed. Poo hovered as close as she could while still giving me room to maneuver. Every time I looked down she was there, gazing up at me with huge adoring eyes.

I started to hand Sam a needle and dropped it in the dirt. “I'm sorry! My hands are so slick with perspiration I can't hold on to anything.” My insides were about to blow from heat. The clinic's interior swam before me.

“Clean it with disinfectant. No harm done.”

By late afternoon we finally saw the end of the line. I looked up to find a teenage boy standing in front of me, sporting a nose bone rather than the usual extended straw. How could they force anything through the tender nose cartilage? It made my eyes tear up just thinking about it. Something about that bone looked familiar …

Oh, my. It wasn't a bone. I was looking at Mary's crochet hook.

My fingers itched to yank it free, but reason won out. I could hear Mary's understated tone: “It's a crochet hook, nothing to go to pieces about.” I forced myself to look away, vowing not to react. The hook didn't belong to me. I shouldn't get involved. Feeling rather proud of my objectivity, I handed Sam a bandage to place over a vicious-looking cut on a young girl's foot. Ah — sweet victory. I had to admit control was good. Nice. The hook was a possession, nothing more. Bright fuchsia poked through nose cartilage wasn't my idea of fashion sense, but to each his own.

I chuckled. Yes, I was improving.

Fifteen minutes later two women carrying three small children stood in front of me. Each woman had a large safety pin in her right ear.

I gaped — then looked again
. My pins.
The emergency pins I'd carried in my luggage all these years.

Instant rage struck, so hot I forgot all about my former progress. I moved Poo out of the way and confronted the women. Pushing my glasses on top of my nose, I screwed up my face and let them have it with both barrels.

“Those are
not
your pins!”

The women looked at me, then to each other. One shrugged.

I reached for their ears and they backed away, hands flying up to protect their new ornaments. My fingers curved into claws.

“Those are
my
pins. Give them to me at once!”

They might not understand my words, but we'd see if communication didn't improve when I
ripped
those pins out of their ears!

The women shook their heads, jabbering. One held me back with a self-protective hand, blocking my advance.

Sam grabbed my shoulder. “Johanna! Stop it! What's going on here?”

“Those pins belong to me!”

He glanced at the jabbering women, then grasped my shoulders and whirled me around to face him. “They're just
pins
. Safety pins, Johanna! You can buy them in any Wal-Mart! Why are you making such a fuss? I'll buy you three dozen if it'll make you happy.”

I glared up at him, hot, tired, and woozy. I was sick — sick — inside and out. “I don't want pins; I want
those
pins. They belong to me.”

“I'll buy you more!”

“I don't want more. I want
my
pins. They picked the lock on my suitcase!”

Then Sam did something so “un-Sam” I was appalled. He picked me up, threw me over his shoulder, and hauled me out of the clinic.

“You put me down!” I screeched. “You hear me? Put me down this minute!” I had not traveled halfway around the world to be manhandled by this — this insensitive baboon!

He dumped me on the ground, and I scrambled to my feet, livid. “How
dare
you manhandle me, Sam Littleton! Who do you think you are?”

“I am someone who is very tired of your attitude. All you care about is a couple of worthless safety pins.”

The cold contempt in his voice brought me up short. I straightened, pushing my glasses back in place. “You don't understand.” I wasn't sure I understood myself. “I cannot accept theft, Sam, and I don't see how you condone it simply because these people feel they are welcome to anything we own. You can be angry at me all you like. I'll never fit in, no matter how hard I try. I will
never
fit in here.”

“Try?” He snorted. “You haven't tried! You can't think of anything or anyone other than yourself.”

His words stung. “I
have
tried. I've worked beside you in the heat and dirt and flies. I'd even considered leaving, but I've stayed on — trying. For you. Trying my best to understand what
you
feel. How can you even
suggest
I haven't tried? It's unfair! You care more for these … these
villagers
than you do me.” By now I was weeping like an out-of-control twit. Sam took hold of my shoulders and sat me down on the ground. He crouched beside me, reaching out a gentle finger to adjust my glasses, which had slipped to the bridge of my nose again.

He lowered his voice. “You have never given of yourself. From the moment we got here you've held back, kept aloof, separated yourself. Why? Are you afraid if you let go and accept these people God will call you to serve? Are your fears driving you to be so selfish?”