It's a pretty wonderous thing to be greeted the way I've been since arriving yesterday morning in Accra. I was greeted at the airport (after my 5:00am arrival!) by my dear friend Yaw, who directed the Bridge Year Program in Ghana--and not by my request, but at his offer after learning that, after traveling from Saturday to Monday, I intended to make the journey 8 hours to Assam, where I'll be living for the next month, directly after arriving. I should rest first, Yaw insisted. So at Kotoka airport, we greeted--"Wo ho y3?" "Onyame adom, na wo nso 3?" "Me nso me ho y3." "Y3da Awurade ase; ei, mafe wo-o!"-- and he took my bag and led me through the parking lot, past the taxi drivers, and stopped in front of a van--"I got you a private one!", he laughed--into which he and the driver loaded my backpack and suitcase. During the ride from the airport to Yaw's home, we chatted, catching up on a few years' happenings, and I was back.
Arriving at his house, I have the privilege of meeting his wife and son. Yaw handed me a phone--"an extra one"--with a sim card already installed and told me it was mine to use while I'm in Ghana, then asked me what I would eat for breakfast and directed me to a room of my own where I'd spend two nights resting and catching up from my crazy flights. Wow, what an honor to be here! After waking up from a nap, finding a cold water bottle for me next to my bed, and eating breakfast, I bade Yaw goodbye as he went to town to run errands, including exchanging money for me, and called my friend Clara to let her know I'd arrived and ask what she was doing--"Meny3 hw3." "Nti memmra b3hyia wo?" "Aane, bra!"--to see if I could visit. Of course! Talking and laughing and just being back together; wow, thank you Jesus.
Today I spent the afternoon at my homestay family's house, which was incredible: seeing my two little host brothers, neither of whom is very little anymore; calling all the family members who were not home and hearing how they are doing; having my older host brother come home early from town to say hi; learning all the news from my host mother; and most of all being told, "Welcome home." My host mother, who has a car, graciously picked me up from Yaw's home and dropped me back off in the evening; it's the rainy season, see, and nsuo t)) saa!
So what I'll say is that I am overwhelmed with gratitude. Thank you, God, and thank you, Yaw, and thank you, Ma Adu Gyamfi, and obiara. It's so humbling to be welcomed like this. And I'm being reminded of gratitude, and what that looks like sometimes to receive hospitality: to offer to help wash the dishes, and mean it, and then to graciously sit in the living room when the offer is refused; to plan to sa my own bathing water, but instead to straighten up my room when I'm told that no, Nana Kwame will do it for me; to enjoy the pleasure and freedom of playing with Yaw's son Kofi, dangling him upside down as he laughs, while dinner is being made. Meda mo, mo nyinaa, ase--paa-o! Nyame nhyira mo bebr33; na mo ba US a, me nso mema mo akwaaba saa.
Tomorrow I'm off to Kumasi by bus; I'll meet up with Yaw's cousin, who will accompany me to Assam. And there, I'll meet Aunt Gladys, the midwife with whom I'll be working and whom Yaw knows.
I'd brought a few small gifts for Yaw and his family, and they accepted them graciously. And Yaw told me, "I'm grateful; thank you. But the real gift, the one I'd rather have, even if you hadn't brought a gift, is friendship." Woaka nokor3 no; he's spoken the truth. God, teach me gratitude as I'm learning to understand it, and even more teach me hospitality as I've been shown it.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Casablanca
Whenever I travel to a country where English is not the primary language, I feel a bit guilty, somehow, that I speak English but usually not the local language. I’m all too aware that some of my fellow Americans feel entitled to having their native language spoken wherever they go, and at times I wonder whether I partake in that sense of entitlement, or merely hold rational expectations, when I assume that—regardless of how embarrassed or guilty I may feel—English will probably be spoken in most places where I travel. Arriving in Casablanca this morning en route to Accra, I sensed acutely the Arabic and French words being tossed about around me, and yet when it came time to go through customs, obtain a voucher for free hotel accommodations for the day, or check in to the hotel, I found staff who correctly summed me up as American and addressed me, with a smile, in English. No one seemed even a little repulsed by my inability to communicate in either of the most common languages of Morocco. Which is funny, because I was—even if only a tiny bit.
I’m careful not to assume that people I encounter all speak English. When I approached a security guard to ask directions to the Office of Accomodations, I sidled up and smiled: Office d’Herbergement? He pointed me outside the terminal, and noticing my quizzical look, responded, “Do you have a voucher?” No, I didn’t; he sent me back inside to claim my free hotel voucher.
When, in the crowded hotel restaurant, a man sat across from me and began speaking in French, I just smiled. Je ne parlez Francais, I practiced in my head, trying to pull together at least a half-coherent response but with next to no knowledge of French. I stubbornly refused to reply in English. Anglais, I replied softly, shaking my head. The smile on my face was friendly but, beneath it all, betrayed frustration that I had studied Spanish in high school rather than French (a transient regret, to be sure; I’ve often been very grateful for my background with Spanish, and sometimes have wished to have studied German or Russian or whatever other language my peers were speaking instead). He quickly switched to English that, as he admitted, was “not very good,” but that surpassed my French by lightyears.
Ultimately, I think I’d prefer to meet people where they are, rather than force them to step into my court and accommodate me, and language is one of the most subtle but common and powerful ways in which to do this. So when I learned of the fistula hospital in Addis Ababa, I went online to see if I could find a good introductory Amharic book. Or when I considered broadening my travels in West Africa, I bought a basic French listening course. Or when I had the somewhat random idea of going to Pakistan at some time in the future, I sent my roommate an email asking her thoughts about studying Urdu in school. My feelings toward my language capacities are a bit extreme; I’m thankful to know English, and there a probably twinges of the linguistic version of white guilt mixed in with them. Obviously I cannot learn all languages, and it would be silly to try, but still I’d love to keep learning—and in the meantime, to fantasize about traveling back to before the tower of Babel.
So now I am in a room at the comfortable Atlas Airport Hotel in Casablanca, wishing I had studied Arabic instead of Spanish in high school so that I could understand the report of the Egyptian Electoral Commission on one of the Arabic language channels on the TV. I had intended to try catching a taxi to drive me around Casablanca for an hour or so, just so I could actually have been there in some way, instead of only having passed through, but I overslept the time by which I had planned to leave in order to be back to the hotel in time, and am feeling a little out of sorts: I’m a female, I’m traveling alone, I don’t know when sunset is, the shuttle to where I could catch a taxi only leaves every half an hour, I don’t really know the value of a dirham or how much to expect to pay, I’d almost certainly miss dinner, I was warned by my seatmate on the flight in that Casablanca is neither extremely unsafe nor particularly safe, etc. Plus I don’t speak Arabic or French, and when I asked a fellow passenger if many of the cab drivers spoke English, he chuckled.
Of course all these are just excuses, rationalizations, justifications; I could go if I were determined to go, and I don’t want to appear as though I’m complaining. I’m slightly disappointed, but not too much; I’ve made my decision not to venture out to a cab, which I like to think of as the decision to try to get safely to my actual destination of Asaam, Ghana, so that my real adventure can begin. And, of course, it doesn’t hurt that not only is Ghana an Anglophone country, but while I’m there I’ll also have the chance to get back into the groove of speaking Twi.
P.S. The coolest thing! Room card-activated lights!
P.P.S. I fly to Accra late tonight/tomorrow morning, then spend a day or two with a friend in Accra before making my way to Asaam. Pray for traveling mercies!
I’m careful not to assume that people I encounter all speak English. When I approached a security guard to ask directions to the Office of Accomodations, I sidled up and smiled: Office d’Herbergement? He pointed me outside the terminal, and noticing my quizzical look, responded, “Do you have a voucher?” No, I didn’t; he sent me back inside to claim my free hotel voucher.
When, in the crowded hotel restaurant, a man sat across from me and began speaking in French, I just smiled. Je ne parlez Francais, I practiced in my head, trying to pull together at least a half-coherent response but with next to no knowledge of French. I stubbornly refused to reply in English. Anglais, I replied softly, shaking my head. The smile on my face was friendly but, beneath it all, betrayed frustration that I had studied Spanish in high school rather than French (a transient regret, to be sure; I’ve often been very grateful for my background with Spanish, and sometimes have wished to have studied German or Russian or whatever other language my peers were speaking instead). He quickly switched to English that, as he admitted, was “not very good,” but that surpassed my French by lightyears.
Ultimately, I think I’d prefer to meet people where they are, rather than force them to step into my court and accommodate me, and language is one of the most subtle but common and powerful ways in which to do this. So when I learned of the fistula hospital in Addis Ababa, I went online to see if I could find a good introductory Amharic book. Or when I considered broadening my travels in West Africa, I bought a basic French listening course. Or when I had the somewhat random idea of going to Pakistan at some time in the future, I sent my roommate an email asking her thoughts about studying Urdu in school. My feelings toward my language capacities are a bit extreme; I’m thankful to know English, and there a probably twinges of the linguistic version of white guilt mixed in with them. Obviously I cannot learn all languages, and it would be silly to try, but still I’d love to keep learning—and in the meantime, to fantasize about traveling back to before the tower of Babel.
So now I am in a room at the comfortable Atlas Airport Hotel in Casablanca, wishing I had studied Arabic instead of Spanish in high school so that I could understand the report of the Egyptian Electoral Commission on one of the Arabic language channels on the TV. I had intended to try catching a taxi to drive me around Casablanca for an hour or so, just so I could actually have been there in some way, instead of only having passed through, but I overslept the time by which I had planned to leave in order to be back to the hotel in time, and am feeling a little out of sorts: I’m a female, I’m traveling alone, I don’t know when sunset is, the shuttle to where I could catch a taxi only leaves every half an hour, I don’t really know the value of a dirham or how much to expect to pay, I’d almost certainly miss dinner, I was warned by my seatmate on the flight in that Casablanca is neither extremely unsafe nor particularly safe, etc. Plus I don’t speak Arabic or French, and when I asked a fellow passenger if many of the cab drivers spoke English, he chuckled.
Of course all these are just excuses, rationalizations, justifications; I could go if I were determined to go, and I don’t want to appear as though I’m complaining. I’m slightly disappointed, but not too much; I’ve made my decision not to venture out to a cab, which I like to think of as the decision to try to get safely to my actual destination of Asaam, Ghana, so that my real adventure can begin. And, of course, it doesn’t hurt that not only is Ghana an Anglophone country, but while I’m there I’ll also have the chance to get back into the groove of speaking Twi.
P.S. The coolest thing! Room card-activated lights!
 |
| No card = no light, but wait... |
 |
| The lights on with the card in place! |
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Cooking
Not that everyone, or anyone, needs to be interested in what I ate for dinner tonight, but because a dear friend has been promised an overdue blog update, here goes...
For several years, I've wished to be among people who could list "cooking" among their hobbies, activities, interests, whatever, but I'd never had any justification to declare myself part of their club. I didn't cook much, and when I did it would be something like pasta or pancakes--and not to disparage these fine foods, but I always assumed "cooking" involved at least a little more creativity than boiling water or mixing batter. But I'm getting there! Starting tonight.
1) Scour the web to search for what one does with a large eggplant bought on impulse on an earlier shopping excursion.
It turns out, there are a lot of things to do, but a lot of them involve grilling (no grill!) or frying (really?). And with my very limited selection of ingredients, I get pretty particular; even on Princeton's dime, I'm on a budget. I made curried lentils with sauteed onions and spinach last week, so I have leftover curry power that I don't want to tote to Ghana, and I bought a lonely potato that looked like a sweet potato but which I deemed a normal potato after peeling back a little of its skin at the apartment. So I settle on something like this + this: aloo (potato) baingan (eggplant), a type of curry-ish Indian dish.
2) Go shopping!
I am almost out of food, so that is the first order of business. Among the many reasons I love being in the city in general and Manhattan in particular: corner groceries! I head down the street and return with the following:
3) Discover that the alleged non-sweet potato is, in fact, orange.
This is why even though I'm inching toward claiming cooking as an activity, I am far from assuming the title "cook." Thus the "aloo" part of my aloo baingan disappears, because I am planning to let that cunning sweet potato stand alone for another meal. (I really love orange foods.)
4) Wing it.
This means I use a little olive oil to fry/sautee/insert proper cooking term here the cubed eggplant, discover there's too much to fit into the pan, hastily transplant half of it into a nearby pot, try not to let it burn, add a little more oil to the original pan to sautee the sliced onions and figure I might as well throw in some tofu, cube the tofu, add it to the pan, madly switch spatula-ing between pan and pot so that things stick a little less than they already are sticking, dump a bunch of curry powder in, transfer the pan's contents into the pot, and add some diced canned tomatoes with garlic, turn down the flame; breathe a sigh of relief that I had already put the rice on so that everything would be ready sorta on time. Yeah. Me as a not-cook, cooking. In the end, since I didn't buy a bunch of different spices and herbs as the recipes request, it tasted a bit more like briami than something related to curry, but mostly I just love eggplant, whether it's Greek or Indian.
I think cooking is one of those things that's just sort of grown on me, the way doing laundry and cleaning the bathroom and washing dishes other domestic things have. Plus, there's just something about the smells and the freedom and the focus and the creation of cooking--and, as I friend once put so well, about looking at a pile of dirty dishes and seeing them clean after a lot of scrubbing; there's some shimmer of redemption there.
One of my roommates once teased me that it is a bit strange for me to be working so hard at Princeton if I want to end up married and doing these things day in and day out before too many years have gone by, but that's not a discussion to have tonight. Suffice it to say that I think it's a pretty amazing thing to be able to serve someone, whether a future husband or my gracious host for these weeks in New York or my family, by doing the small things that matter and make people comfortable. And whether or not I spend any of my life as a mostly-domestic-type (seeming less likely the deeper I get into this pre-med thing, but it's God, not me, who directs my footsteps, so how would I know?), I'll still need to cook and clean--even if I'm living alone. But here's to a life of more than domesticity--a life in service to God and His people, and a life that involves making dinner and washing clothes and dishes and sinks, and a whole lot more.
And on other fronts, perhaps to be expounded in future posts, or maybe just for me to ponder, I'll give you a few more mini-updates:
... Yesterday I had the incredible honor and privilege of watching a baby be born while shadowing on the labor and delivery floor of a local hospital! I had to wait from 8am til 9pm, but it was well worth it :) Congratulations on an adorable and healthy baby!
... I really, really enjoyed shadowing, and had a lot of freedom to ask questions and learn about a lot of procedures and patient care strategies; both shadowing days were a huge blessing.
... On Thursday, I leave for a day in Milwaukee, where I'll speak about the Bridge Year Program to the Princeton Club of Wisconsin--plus get to see my parents! I return to New York for Friday night, then take off for Ghana on Saturday evening, with a layover in Casablanca for all of Sunday and then an early morning arrival in Accra on Monday morning.
... Maybe parallel to this cooking thing, I'd like to become a runner. Again, the exact definition of a runner, like a cook, is elusive, but it doesn't fit me--yet. It will; I'm hoping to do a half-marathon this fall, and I started training last Thursday, from the ground up.
... I've been thinking about desperation, about how desperate someone would have to be to stand up in a subway pushing a stroller and announce that his ex had just dropped off their daughter with him, and he had no money to buy her formula or diapers, and would someone please help? Just thinking about when, if ever, I've been this desperate, and why. And why I'm not that desperate every day when I approach God.
... I still need clarity--on a lot of things. And discipline. Praying for that, most definitely.
Peace all!
For several years, I've wished to be among people who could list "cooking" among their hobbies, activities, interests, whatever, but I'd never had any justification to declare myself part of their club. I didn't cook much, and when I did it would be something like pasta or pancakes--and not to disparage these fine foods, but I always assumed "cooking" involved at least a little more creativity than boiling water or mixing batter. But I'm getting there! Starting tonight.
1) Scour the web to search for what one does with a large eggplant bought on impulse on an earlier shopping excursion.
It turns out, there are a lot of things to do, but a lot of them involve grilling (no grill!) or frying (really?). And with my very limited selection of ingredients, I get pretty particular; even on Princeton's dime, I'm on a budget. I made curried lentils with sauteed onions and spinach last week, so I have leftover curry power that I don't want to tote to Ghana, and I bought a lonely potato that looked like a sweet potato but which I deemed a normal potato after peeling back a little of its skin at the apartment. So I settle on something like this + this: aloo (potato) baingan (eggplant), a type of curry-ish Indian dish.
2) Go shopping!
I am almost out of food, so that is the first order of business. Among the many reasons I love being in the city in general and Manhattan in particular: corner groceries! I head down the street and return with the following:
Note the onion, canned tomatoes, tofu... Key for the evening's success! The rest (eggplant, brown rice, curry powder, Lawry's seasoned salt, olive oil) I already have at the apartment.
3) Discover that the alleged non-sweet potato is, in fact, orange.
This is why even though I'm inching toward claiming cooking as an activity, I am far from assuming the title "cook." Thus the "aloo" part of my aloo baingan disappears, because I am planning to let that cunning sweet potato stand alone for another meal. (I really love orange foods.)
4) Wing it.
This means I use a little olive oil to fry/sautee/insert proper cooking term here the cubed eggplant, discover there's too much to fit into the pan, hastily transplant half of it into a nearby pot, try not to let it burn, add a little more oil to the original pan to sautee the sliced onions and figure I might as well throw in some tofu, cube the tofu, add it to the pan, madly switch spatula-ing between pan and pot so that things stick a little less than they already are sticking, dump a bunch of curry powder in, transfer the pan's contents into the pot, and add some diced canned tomatoes with garlic, turn down the flame; breathe a sigh of relief that I had already put the rice on so that everything would be ready sorta on time. Yeah. Me as a not-cook, cooking. In the end, since I didn't buy a bunch of different spices and herbs as the recipes request, it tasted a bit more like briami than something related to curry, but mostly I just love eggplant, whether it's Greek or Indian.
Such a good dinner! Such a successful experiment! Such a surprising step toward being able to add cooking to my interests! Maybe when I eat the leftovers (best thing when you're cooking for one!), I'll try to spice it up with a little more curry and use the yogurt I bought as a side.
I think cooking is one of those things that's just sort of grown on me, the way doing laundry and cleaning the bathroom and washing dishes other domestic things have. Plus, there's just something about the smells and the freedom and the focus and the creation of cooking--and, as I friend once put so well, about looking at a pile of dirty dishes and seeing them clean after a lot of scrubbing; there's some shimmer of redemption there.
One of my roommates once teased me that it is a bit strange for me to be working so hard at Princeton if I want to end up married and doing these things day in and day out before too many years have gone by, but that's not a discussion to have tonight. Suffice it to say that I think it's a pretty amazing thing to be able to serve someone, whether a future husband or my gracious host for these weeks in New York or my family, by doing the small things that matter and make people comfortable. And whether or not I spend any of my life as a mostly-domestic-type (seeming less likely the deeper I get into this pre-med thing, but it's God, not me, who directs my footsteps, so how would I know?), I'll still need to cook and clean--even if I'm living alone. But here's to a life of more than domesticity--a life in service to God and His people, and a life that involves making dinner and washing clothes and dishes and sinks, and a whole lot more.
And on other fronts, perhaps to be expounded in future posts, or maybe just for me to ponder, I'll give you a few more mini-updates:
... Yesterday I had the incredible honor and privilege of watching a baby be born while shadowing on the labor and delivery floor of a local hospital! I had to wait from 8am til 9pm, but it was well worth it :) Congratulations on an adorable and healthy baby!
... I really, really enjoyed shadowing, and had a lot of freedom to ask questions and learn about a lot of procedures and patient care strategies; both shadowing days were a huge blessing.
... On Thursday, I leave for a day in Milwaukee, where I'll speak about the Bridge Year Program to the Princeton Club of Wisconsin--plus get to see my parents! I return to New York for Friday night, then take off for Ghana on Saturday evening, with a layover in Casablanca for all of Sunday and then an early morning arrival in Accra on Monday morning.
... Maybe parallel to this cooking thing, I'd like to become a runner. Again, the exact definition of a runner, like a cook, is elusive, but it doesn't fit me--yet. It will; I'm hoping to do a half-marathon this fall, and I started training last Thursday, from the ground up.
... I've been thinking about desperation, about how desperate someone would have to be to stand up in a subway pushing a stroller and announce that his ex had just dropped off their daughter with him, and he had no money to buy her formula or diapers, and would someone please help? Just thinking about when, if ever, I've been this desperate, and why. And why I'm not that desperate every day when I approach God.
... I still need clarity--on a lot of things. And discipline. Praying for that, most definitely.
Peace all!
Monday, June 4, 2012
New Hero: Catherine Hamlin
She's 88 years old and performs surgery every Thursday at the hospital she and her husband began, the Addis Ababa Fistula Hospital. From a series of interviews (well worth reading!) she gave in 2005 and 2006 with the co-producers of the wonderful and striking documentary "A Walk to Beautiful," which is all about the hospital and its patients, and can be found on Netflix:
This type of fistula is a hole, usually caused by obstructed childbirth, of varying size, depending on its severity, that causes continual urinary and, in some cases, fecal, incontinence: constant leaking. (Click "Obstetric Fistula" on the website for A Walk to Beautiful for more information and some figures.) Mrs. Hamlin estimates there may be 100,000 women in Ethiopia living with the condition--one that is often associated less with childbirth than with divine retribution, and that by destroying physical barriers made of tissue almost always erects stringent social barriers against women who have experienced a fistula. She doesn't judge, neither the community that separates the affected women from its daily practice of life nor the husbands who often exit the scene within days or weeks of discovering their wives' affliction. She and her team, in whose members she has such confidence that she reports she has no qualms about the hospital's continued service after she dies, just repair and stitch and love. Their surgical success rate for repairs is over 93%.
After my doula training the past several days, I've begun to entertain the idea of pursuing a career as a midwife--much less glorious than an obstetrician, see, and probably much less accepted in a biomedical paradigm, too, but so, so human. And not that obstetricians cannot be, or as a rule are not--there's just something different in the practice of midwifery versus the practice of obstetrics. I have a lot of respect for midwives. But to repair a fistula, you need the hands of a surgeon, and those are the hands of an obstetrician, not a midwife. So I'm excited for organic chemistry, and physics, and whatever else my next semester as a premed brings me--just more chances for God to prove He's awesome, since He'd have to be to use one like me for such a thing as to help repair the bruises and nicks His creatures suffer while we're clothed in our earthly dwelling.
P.S. A few more good resources, most of them from Nicholas Kristof of the NY Times:
http://www.nytimes.com/2005/06/12/opinion/12kristof.html
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/13/opinion/sunday/kristof-saving-the-lives-of-moms.html
http://www.engenderhealth.org/our-work/maternal/fistula.php
We had one sitting on the border with Kenya who arrived with a dirty envelope. Inside was a letter from her missionary doctor saying, "Would you please cure this girl's fistula?" The letter was dated six years before. My husband said, "Why did you wait so long?" She said, "I've been sitting at the bus stop for six years trying to get the money." It's $20.00 to get to Addis Ababa.Have you ever heard of an obstetric fistula? Perhaps not, particularly if you live in a place far from Ethiopia, a place where they have been almost completely eradicated for the past hundred years--a place like the United States. And no one would blame you, since even to most obstetricians they're more of an academic anomaly, something to hear of and mostly forget, since it would be a curious rarity if you ever came across one.
This type of fistula is a hole, usually caused by obstructed childbirth, of varying size, depending on its severity, that causes continual urinary and, in some cases, fecal, incontinence: constant leaking. (Click "Obstetric Fistula" on the website for A Walk to Beautiful for more information and some figures.) Mrs. Hamlin estimates there may be 100,000 women in Ethiopia living with the condition--one that is often associated less with childbirth than with divine retribution, and that by destroying physical barriers made of tissue almost always erects stringent social barriers against women who have experienced a fistula. She doesn't judge, neither the community that separates the affected women from its daily practice of life nor the husbands who often exit the scene within days or weeks of discovering their wives' affliction. She and her team, in whose members she has such confidence that she reports she has no qualms about the hospital's continued service after she dies, just repair and stitch and love. Their surgical success rate for repairs is over 93%.
After my doula training the past several days, I've begun to entertain the idea of pursuing a career as a midwife--much less glorious than an obstetrician, see, and probably much less accepted in a biomedical paradigm, too, but so, so human. And not that obstetricians cannot be, or as a rule are not--there's just something different in the practice of midwifery versus the practice of obstetrics. I have a lot of respect for midwives. But to repair a fistula, you need the hands of a surgeon, and those are the hands of an obstetrician, not a midwife. So I'm excited for organic chemistry, and physics, and whatever else my next semester as a premed brings me--just more chances for God to prove He's awesome, since He'd have to be to use one like me for such a thing as to help repair the bruises and nicks His creatures suffer while we're clothed in our earthly dwelling.
We know that God is behind this work. I want to say that specially, that He has helped us over the years. We believe in prayer, and we believe that He has answered our prayers for many individual patients. With the work in the hospital we've been blessed.If I had a record of heroes, Mrs. Hamlin would surely be near the top.
P.S. A few more good resources, most of them from Nicholas Kristof of the NY Times:
http://www.nytimes.com/2005/06/12/opinion/12kristof.html
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/13/opinion/sunday/kristof-saving-the-lives-of-moms.html
http://www.engenderhealth.org/our-work/maternal/fistula.php
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