Knowing me, some friends were surprised to hear I was headed to the jungles of Nicaragua. Who could blame them? While it’s true I’m a seven-year veteran of the Cub Scouts, the mother of three Eagle Scouts and I once spent 9.5 straight weeks camping (hey, it was Europe), I’m not known for my fondness for hot weather, insects or cold showers.
If that wasn’t bad enough, I AM known for my inability to work machines and tools, and my arthritic thumbs often cause problems. I’m not a nurse, engineer, strong young man, cute young woman, physical therapist or experienced eye care volunteer. I’ve already detailed my foibles with foreign languages here. What good was I?
And, worse, what if I fell apart completely and turned into a total memsahib?
Sahib means “friend” in Arabic and commonly has been used as a courteous term in India for “Mister,” usually directed at Europeans. Under the British Raj, the word used for female Europeans was adapted to memsahib, a corruption of the English word “ma’am” when added to the word sahib. Rightly or wrongly, to my mind it speaks of an indolent woman lounging in a cool dress sipping tea and clapping her hands as she orders her servants around.
I can’t bear to be thought of as a useless decoration. But I seemed to lack some of the necessary abilities for this trip. Why sign up?
My daughter asked me. I had to go.
So I, in turn, invited my husband–an engineer.
I took great solace from the Scriptures that remind us that the body of Christ needs its many members, skills, talents, abilities and, well, failures. Or, perhaps it’s more correct to remember God has called us to be faithful, not successful.
My husband the skilled engineer and I, along with Stephanie who trained on the auto-refractor, were the only novice missionaries on this trip. The first thing my husband did upon arrival at the clinic, was pull out his steel wool and cork grease (contributed by my clarinet) and set to work preparing the pliers and eyeglass fitting tools for this year’s work. By the time the first person arrived at the fitting desks needing glasses, the tools were working perfectly and he began to twist and turn the frames to fit the person needing them. He also fixed the battery-operated fans.
(Our team included another engineer and, better yet, the son of an engineer. They were able to make repairs on glasses in addition to fitting them properly).
I observed for awhile and felt very uncertain about my technical abilities–those awkward thumbs and that history of breakage. Six people happily settled into the happy room–the place where people put on spectacles, often for the first time, and could actually see. The look of wonder, the slowly spreading smile of joy, the mouth dropping marvel of lines on a hand or birds on a tree. It’s a great job to share in that happiness.
“Just put yourself into the missionary mindset,” encouraged Rachel Kent, my colleague who has made this trip twice.
Missionary mindset? I usually write a check . . .
I hung around feeling useless until I saw the Peace Corps translators were running back and forth as they tried to determine dominant eye. I could help there. I stood about 20 feet away and waved at the nervous patient holding up a piece of a paper with a hole cut out.
I put a big smile on my face and called out the answers as they peered through the box at me. “Izquierda!” (Left) for someone who looked at me with their left eye. “Derecha,” for a right-eye dominant individual. I waved again, they laughed and the young women doing all the translating didn’t have to run up and down the room.
On day two, I wrote down the auto-refractor readings and joshed with the folks awaiting their turn. My Spanglish was sufficient to order them around, saying things like “abra sus ojos mas,” (open your eyes more) and direct them over to John “vaya ala esta linea espera,” to hear the results.
On day three, my daughter and her teenage cohorts thought I should try my fumbling hands at fitting. I worked on six pair of glasses, confidently twisting the pliers and making the frames square. Chatting about technical details in Spanish, however, defeated me and I ran off to the eye dominant chart shortly thereafter. It was hard to manipulate the tools and clean the lenses when my thumbs didn’t want to work.
Besides, two people returned with their glasses and my husband had to fit them properly. Two-third success isn’t that bad is it?
Handling the distance tests, eye dominance chart and running the lines. Waving at the kids, chatting with the old ladies and smiling, smiling, smiling and laughing. Did it help?
I hope so. My team told me it did. The real translators could talk. 1079 people moved through effortlessly.
And I didn’t have to clap my hands once.
“Estoy una senora, nada mas.”
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