had only been the men of her village to carry her to the nearest hospital. For her there had been hours, maybe days of pain. And maybe, like the baby Heather had held in Kenya, the woman was already beyond help.
A chill ran through Heather as she watched the men walk into the hospital, followed closely by the other man and the child, who began to cry for his mother.
13
Heather’s days quickly fell into a routine. Six days a week, she worked at the hospital. On Sunday, she joined everyone in the compound for church services, where Miguel’s guitar music was added to the African flute and drums. Sunday afternoon was free time, and Sunday evening, the entire camp came together for dinner and prayer.
She loved her work. She and Cynthia shared stories from the hospital with Ingrid and Debbie, who had their own stories about teaching in the school. “The children are bright,” Ingrid often said. “And so eager to learn. At the end of the day, I feel like a dried-out sponge.”
Under Bob Hoover’s direction, the construction project took shape, and by the middle of October, a concrete slab had been poured and cinder blocks had risen to form walls. Boyce, Miguel—all the kids working on the building had turned nut brown under the African sun, and their bodies bulged with well-toned muscles.
Ian spent long hours in the OR or sitting by the bedsides of critical patients, adjusting IVs and doling out pain medications, always in short supply. Once every two weeks, a Red Cross truck arrived with supplies, but the hospital never knew if it would be the supplies they desperately needed or an overabundance of something they didn’t. Every day was an adventure.
One Saturday evening, Paul and Jodene invited Dr. Henry, Bob, and Ian to the house for dinner. Ian asked Heather to join them, and she found herself frantically sorting through her duffel bags for something pretty to wear.
“Wear my silver hoops,” Ingrid offered, dangling the pretty earrings under Heather’s nose.
“How about my long skirt?” Cynthia said, shaking out a lovely aqua skirt with lace insets.
“I have one unstained white blouse,” Debbie said. “It’s yours for the night.”
“I love you all,” Heather said, tying up her hair with a white ribbon and dabbing a few drops of perfume behind her ears.
Just before she was to leave, Ingrid pulled her to one side. “You are very pretty. Ian will be moved.”
Heather blushed. Was it that obvious that she was dressing for him and not for dinner? She’d told no one except Amber, thousands of miles away, how she felt about Ian, and even then she hadn’t expressed the depth of her feelings. “He’s been nice to me,” Heather said to Ingrid. “But I know I shouldn’t read too much into it.”
Ingrid shrugged. “He is a fine person, and yes, handsome too. It is not hard to see why you care for him.”
“It’s not a dumb crush. It—It’s different.”
“
Ja
,” Ingrid said with a matter-of-fact nod. “This I can see by the look on your face.”
“Oh, great,” Heather moaned. “Don’t tell me that.”
“But it is true. And tonight you are beautiful for him.” Ingrid smiled and patted Heather’s arm. “He will be—how do you say it?—bowled over.”
When Ian arrived to fetch Heather, the look on his face told her that Ingrid had made a good call.
Jodene served dinner at a long, narrow table that had been hewn from a single log. The underside was still rough and curved, the top sanded smooth. Kerosene lamps and candles lit the room. “We have a gas generator,” Paul explained, “but we try and make do without it because gasoline is so expensive.”
Heather didn’t mind. She found the atmosphere charming.
Jodene served an egg “pizza,” the crust formed from crackers. There was a bowl of pilau—rice mixed with spices—and the ever-plentiful
matoke,
which Heather had never developed a taste for. But she found the conversation wonderful, surprised at how hungry her ears
A chill ran through Heather as she watched the men walk into the hospital, followed closely by the other man and the child, who began to cry for his mother.
13
Heather’s days quickly fell into a routine. Six days a week, she worked at the hospital. On Sunday, she joined everyone in the compound for church services, where Miguel’s guitar music was added to the African flute and drums. Sunday afternoon was free time, and Sunday evening, the entire camp came together for dinner and prayer.
She loved her work. She and Cynthia shared stories from the hospital with Ingrid and Debbie, who had their own stories about teaching in the school. “The children are bright,” Ingrid often said. “And so eager to learn. At the end of the day, I feel like a dried-out sponge.”
Under Bob Hoover’s direction, the construction project took shape, and by the middle of October, a concrete slab had been poured and cinder blocks had risen to form walls. Boyce, Miguel—all the kids working on the building had turned nut brown under the African sun, and their bodies bulged with well-toned muscles.
Ian spent long hours in the OR or sitting by the bedsides of critical patients, adjusting IVs and doling out pain medications, always in short supply. Once every two weeks, a Red Cross truck arrived with supplies, but the hospital never knew if it would be the supplies they desperately needed or an overabundance of something they didn’t. Every day was an adventure.
One Saturday evening, Paul and Jodene invited Dr. Henry, Bob, and Ian to the house for dinner. Ian asked Heather to join them, and she found herself frantically sorting through her duffel bags for something pretty to wear.
“Wear my silver hoops,” Ingrid offered, dangling the pretty earrings under Heather’s nose.
“How about my long skirt?” Cynthia said, shaking out a lovely aqua skirt with lace insets.
“I have one unstained white blouse,” Debbie said. “It’s yours for the night.”
“I love you all,” Heather said, tying up her hair with a white ribbon and dabbing a few drops of perfume behind her ears.
Just before she was to leave, Ingrid pulled her to one side. “You are very pretty. Ian will be moved.”
Heather blushed. Was it that obvious that she was dressing for him and not for dinner? She’d told no one except Amber, thousands of miles away, how she felt about Ian, and even then she hadn’t expressed the depth of her feelings. “He’s been nice to me,” Heather said to Ingrid. “But I know I shouldn’t read too much into it.”
Ingrid shrugged. “He is a fine person, and yes, handsome too. It is not hard to see why you care for him.”
“It’s not a dumb crush. It—It’s different.”
“
Ja
,” Ingrid said with a matter-of-fact nod. “This I can see by the look on your face.”
“Oh, great,” Heather moaned. “Don’t tell me that.”
“But it is true. And tonight you are beautiful for him.” Ingrid smiled and patted Heather’s arm. “He will be—how do you say it?—bowled over.”
When Ian arrived to fetch Heather, the look on his face told her that Ingrid had made a good call.
Jodene served dinner at a long, narrow table that had been hewn from a single log. The underside was still rough and curved, the top sanded smooth. Kerosene lamps and candles lit the room. “We have a gas generator,” Paul explained, “but we try and make do without it because gasoline is so expensive.”
Heather didn’t mind. She found the atmosphere charming.
Jodene served an egg “pizza,” the crust formed from crackers. There was a bowl of pilau—rice mixed with spices—and the ever-plentiful
matoke,
which Heather had never developed a taste for. But she found the conversation wonderful, surprised at how hungry her ears
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