“When it rains, it pours.” Such is the phrase that people often use to describe matters when they turn from bad to worse. A true sentiment, however one which I found inadequate to capture the many times working in emergency medicine when “worse” was superseded by the
incomprehensibly poor timing of multiple separate calamities arriving at our doorstep simultaneously. Low staffing? Thirty patients in the waiting room? Twenty five boarders? Two full arrests, a stroke and a drunken man running naked for the nearest exit, having snaked through several incredulous security guards? Here come two level one traumas from a motorcycle which could not successfully keep both wheels on the ground. Now that all of my ER friends are twitching with the thinly veiled PTSD that we all carry around like a trembling support chihuahua, I will tell you that the afore mentioned aphorism simply did not cut the mustard for times like these these. For such moments I employed the phrase, “When it rains, it’s a hurricane.”
I come from the midwest U.S. Besides boredom and its subsequent temptations, our biggest threat from the natural world may be tornados. Tornados are different than hurricanes. You can only say that “conditions are right” for a possible tornado to strike. Then, suddenly, it’s upon you and hopefully you have enough time to find shelter. Preparedness aside, this is a scary moment. Life in the ER is much like this. Perhaps you can see the storm front of a Monday morning after a holiday weekend looming as you arrive to work. But dotted throughout the barrage of such a day are the individual tornados of trauma, illness and tragedy which appear unannounced. The difference is we do not duck and run. These are the moments for which we prepare and for which, I dare say, we have chosen such a profession. We train, organize materials, streamline processes and delegate resources. We expect the unexpected to arrive at any time. Still, tornados are different than hurricanes.
I now live in rural Kenya. Threats from the natural world are myriad, sustained and as no nonsense deadly as the cold look in a black mamba’s eyes. Most hospitals and healthcare teams here do not have a fraction of the resources that I enjoyed and utilized working at the mothership of a vast medical system back home. A disclaimer to offer, now, so that you may appropriately weigh the coming sentences. My wife and I are still new here, having arrived with our family only two months ago. We are trying to understand the process of medical care in Litein, indeed in East Africa, and find a place to serve these efforts while spreading the fragrance of Christ in the midst. My thoughts are, by very nature, not supplied with the weight of many battle scarred years of medical missions work and should be taken as such. (For a full throated description of life in East African medical missions, read over some of the volumes of material at Dr Jennifer Myhre’s blog, which I will link to here.) Nevertheless, we are here, attempting to move into a condition of usefulness. We slipped into Kenya just before the bulk of the corona craze hit most of the world, bringing it to a screeching halt. We signed papers for the sale of our house in the states last week just as the strictest travel warning (ahem, ban) was issued. Providence is a deep well of irony from our vantage point. To be fair, we are not stuck, we are serving. As are the teammates with whom we live and the many others who have stayed, playing the long game.
Hurricanes are different from tornados. Instead of throwing around earth in a surprise attack of unencumbered fury and destruction, hurricanes take their time. They move along at their own pace, picking up steam and energy, carrying fury like a calling card, dropping it everywhere they go. Experts have time to monitor progress and issue endless streams of updated opinions on just how much catastrophe is on its way. Public officials warn people to prepare for the worst, board up their homes and, perhaps, get out of dodge. Some do, some don’t. Just ask a life long Florida resident what they will do before a hurricane and you’ll likely get a smirk as wide as a trauma nurse’s on St. Patty’s day.
People are asking us about the impact of coronavirus where we live and work. In short, while lagging behind in the world in the number of actual diagnosed cases, preparation to keep this number as low as possible has been ongoing since we arrived. In many places, this is akin to preparing for a hurricane with two leaky buckets, a rain poncho and, maybe, a hammer. Hospital leadership here, working with county officials and our teammates, have been scrambling to create isolation space, find appropriate PPE and create contingency plans that have hereto been unheard of. Many folks in East African healthcare learned from the ebola outbreaks of recent years. But memory and reality are oft discordant and don't always produce further readiness. All the while, we are keeping the pulse of the world and growing number of confirmed corona cases in Kenya (28 as of this writing). Government officials are shutting down offices, encouraging social distance, fumigating public transportation and the like. Grocery stores have guards at the doors with hand sanitizer, thermometers and check lists of questions to ask. It all feels like watching preparations for a hurricane. “It’s coming,” they say, “category 4 now, just offshore.”
Yes, hurricanes are different than tornados. But the effects, though sustained and prefilled with the suspense of waiting and preparation, are just as heavy. Sometimes all of the reports and weeks of watching a storm gather speed and strength come to an anticlimax as it suddenly rumbles away from inhabited spaces or simply dissipates as it makes landfall. We pray that, in God’s mercy, the same will be true of the corona storm looming over us now. Even still, “Ndoo iko wapi?” Where's the bucket?
The title of this post is taken from one of Switchfoot’s albums, a couple of recordings ago. I would like to commend to you the listening of a track from their new album. The lyrics weave through various experiences of suffering by the writer and crescendos with this chorus:
“Hallelujah, nevertheless. Was the song that pain couldn’t destroy.
Hallelujah, nevertheless. You’re my Joy Invincible.”
Have a listen. Whether you are reading this while stuck at home, after donning and doffing personal protective equipment a thousand times or preparing for what winds of unfolding struggle lie ahead, I pray it brings you encouragement to find Joy Invincible. Trust in God’s promises. Hope in God’s character. Rejoice in God’s steadfast love. Easier said than done. "If only life didn't need us to be this brave." But when it rains, it’s a hurricane. And Jesus is the only safe harbor.
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