Heaven and Hell, life and death are in a constant juxtaposition before me, and strangely I feel not sorrow, rather I feel alive. Life is being lived amongst the harsh reality of Africa. Children come in starving, unable to walk or even sit up, without the energy to even cry. In the OR a baby turns pink with his first breath of life, his father shakes my hand when I tell him he has a son. Today a baby died, 3 months old, a little girl, chubby with springy black curls. She died while I was giving her compressions, feeling with hopes for a pulse, listing for a beating heart. She died, I knew we where going to lose her.

In the next room a nine year old boy, “Jordan” who had been in coma for three days came back. Mamma, again his first words. He opened his eyes, he is back. Life and death before me, the only way to describe how I feel, is alive. I love this hospital, these people, and this work. I love it, I feel as if I am thriving, breathing in and out with purpose and passion. The work here is so far beyond me; the needs have me scrambling for time, ability, love and joy that I don’t have. I find myself waking each morning with the need to beg for His joy, strength and love to pour through me. He answers prayer, and although its not effortless, I find love and ability to pour through me in measures far beyond what could ever be found in me alone. To Him be the glory.