“…Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice, and to
hearken than the fat of rams.”—1 Samuel 15:22
It was in 1987 that we were headed back to Ivory
Coast from the United States. Another missionaryfamily was due for furlough, and arrangements
had been made for us to go to Grand Bassam,
about forty-five minutes from the church in Aboisso
to take care of their church while they were gone
for a year. While taking care of this church, I could
also keep an eye on the church in Aboisso and help
there if needed. I agreed to this arrangement, but I
would soon discover that I should have gone back
to Abengourou and continued ministering there.
Upon arriving in Grand Bassam, we helped the
missionary family get to the airport and watched
them head for home. Back in Grand Bassam, our
container of belongings arrived, and we set up
house. I thought all was well; we would take care
of the church in Grand Bassam for a year and then
return to Abengourou, where I believed the Lord
wanted us; However, all was not to be well.
A few weeks later I came down with a bad earache,
Having never experienced one before. I was
trying to deal with the pain the best I could. While
suffering with that earache, one of our children
came running into the house one day screaming
that Jr. had cut his foot. We ran outside, and sure
enough, there he sat on the porch, blood gushing
from his foot. We wrapped a towel around it to slow
the bleeding and headed for the capital city, about
thirty minutes away.
The pediatrician examined Jr. and said he would
need stitches. When she instructed us to hold him
down, I suggested she give him something to numb
the pain. However, she refused, saying, “The boy
must be strong.” She began stitching, and Jr. started
screaming. The more he screamed, the less he
sounded like a small boy. I could practically feel
every stitch myself. Before the ordeal was over,
we were all crying, except the doctor, who insisted
it was not really that bad. After Jr. finally stopped
crying, the doctor told us to take out the stitches in
about two weeks.
I hesitated to say anything else, but I reluctantly
mentioned my earache to the doctor. She ordered me
to lie down on the table and lay my head to one side.
I closed my eyes and felt something cold go into
my ear and touch my eardrum! She warned, “Hang
on now,” and then—wham!—she pierced a hole in
my eardrum. I almost had a fit but soon regained
control and started to get up. My head began spinning
and the doctor ordered, “Lie down until I tell
you to get up.” She returned in about thirty minutes
and instructed me to rise slowly. I did, and surprisingly,
I have never had another earache to this day.
At first I thought this doctor was a quack, but I later
admitted that she did know a little something.
As we headed home, we were discussing the
events of the day, and I pondered to myself, What
else can happen? The answer came sooner than I
liked. I was working on screening the porch to keep
out the mosquitoes when suddenly the electricity
went off. “No problem,” I said. I brought out the
generator, fired it off, and had all the power I needed.
Chris was a small tot then and as cute as a button as
he toddled around. As I continued working, a heart
wrenching scream filled the air. Turning around, I
saw Chris standing by the generator. Linda came
running out of the house, screaming, “What happened?”
and there was Chris holding his little hand
as it turned red. He had grabbed hold of the hot muffler
of the generator.
We rushed to the car and raced to the doctor
again; she said Chris had suffered a rather serious
burn. She gave us some cream for the burn and told
us to keep his hand wrapped, assuring us the burn
would soon heal. After two weeks, however, the
hand had not healed; we took Chris to the pharmacy
and asked a woman working there what we could do
to facilitate healing. She said, “Let me take a look at
it to see what I can do.”
First, she cut the dead skin off and cleaned the
area well, then sprayed Chris’s hand with white
powder. She told us to keep the hand clean (difficult
with a two-year old!) to leave it unwrapped
and spray it twice a day with the powder. In about
a week Chris’s hand was looking much better. To
prevent this from ever happening again, I enclosed
the generator in a safety cage and was praying that
all would go smoothly now, but that was not to be.
Soon after, Linda, Angie, Joy, and I were traveling
to the capital city for the day. A lady in the
church was babysitting Jr. and Chris. As we were
riding along, Linda fretted, “Honey, did you tell Jr.
not to play with the slingshot while we were away?”
I assured her that even though I had not specifically
told him that, he would not play with it while we
were gone. There was nothing to worry about, I
insisted.
Oh, but I was so wrong! We had a great day in
Abidjan and headed home, oblivious to the nightmare
that awaited us. Sure enough, Jr. had played
with the slingshot, and it flew out of his left hand
and backward into his left eye. When we arrived, he
had an ice pack on it, and it did not look good. Lord,
what are you trying to tell us?
We piled into the car and headed straight to the
Canadian hospital in Abidjan. They took one look
at Jr.’s eye and immediately admitted him. The doctors
wanted to give him a shot in the eye and then
operate on it. Twice I refused, but they kept insisting
it was necessary to save the eye.
Thinking that perhaps I did not understand,
they asked me to call someone who spoke better
French. I called another missionary who had been
speaking the language for twenty-five years. When
he arrived; the staff explained to him what they had
already told me. I again refused to let them operate
but finally agreed to the shot in the eye, which, they
said, would keep the retina from detaching.
It was now evening, Linda stayed with Jr. while
I headed home with the other children. The doctors
wanted to keep Jr. for a few days for observation
and also in hopes that I would give them permission
to operate. What don’t these people understand
about the word “No?” I thought.
On Saturday night another missionary came by
the hospital to check on Jr. He happened to mention
that a Flying Eye Hospital out of New York had
arrived that day and told me the name of the motel
where the doctors were staying. The next morning I
went to the motel, but while I was trying to find out
their room number, they left for the day. I sat down
in front of their room, waiting for them to return. It
was hot enough to fry an egg, Nevertheless, I was
determined. When they returned in late afternoon, I
told them of my son’s accident, and they instructed
me to bring him to see them in the morning.
Rejoicing, I returned to the hospital, and the next
morning, with French siren blaring, we were off to
the Flying Eye Hospital.
When we arrived, the doctors examined Jr. right
away. The American physician said it was good we
had not let the doctors at the hospital operate on Jr.’s
eye, since there was too much blood for them to
be able to see anything. The eye specialist gave us
drops for Jr.’s eye and advised us to take him back
to the United States for six months. I thanked the
doctors for their help and started making plans for
our return home. Within three days, we were back
in the States. We immediately took our son to an eye
specialist who advised us to continue with the drops
and to wait for healing. In six months the eye was
healed enough for us to return to Africa, but this
time we went back to Abengourou to continue the
church there.
(Copyright by Jay B Ayers)
No comments:
Post a Comment