stories of travel, medical missions, and more
Pine boughs awaken from their timeless frozen sleep
While the decaying remains of dirty snow melt from a heap
Singing bids that bounce and flutter
Talk of Spring and how the Earth begins to muster
All her strength to change her gown of Winter
She dresses now in something less bitter
In trappings of sunshine—a Springtime gem
And the warmth of a new season begins again
anthony forrest
Years ago, my wife and I began making a list of 50 things we’d like to do before we turn 50. Some items are easy, some hard to accomplish. And then some of them are just plain weird.
For so long I’ve wanted to meet someone famous while traveling through and airport. To be walking along and see a popular TV or movie star would be incredible.
I would walk up and ask, “hey, are you [ENTER FAMOUS NAME HERE]?”
“Why yes,” they grin in their terrible disguise of ballcap and sunglasses. “Would you like a picture?”
I would get a selfie and have them sign something, then we’d go our separate ways.
The problem? I’m pretty sure that I could never recognize anybody. And I don’t keep track of who’s popular anymore. It’s a paradox. I want to meet somebody famous. But I never will.
That is, until I walked up to my gate in the Atlanta airport. The delay on our flight to Lima grew longer and longer. We’d boarded and deplaned after a mechanical problem. I stood toward the back of a line of tired passengers, ready to be at their destination. My attitude had faltered, but I was determined to recover it.
So I struck up a conversation with a lady in front of me.
“We’ll eventually get there,” I said, making small talk. She was a kind-looking lady of maybe 60, traveling with her son. Another son was getting married in Peru. We talked of Peru, our respective plans, and then our conversation turned to occupation.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a children’s book author. “
“That’s incredible!”
“Thank you. I write stories and poetry.”
And Joyce Sidman isn’t just any author. She is a multi-award-winning crafter of words. Her poetry and stories bring joy, provoke thought, and nurture souls. If you can find Dark Emperor and Other Poems of the Night, please pick it up (link below). This Newbery Honor winning collection of poetic animal tales and night reflections is breathtaking for kids and adults alike.
As I found my seat and tucked into our six-hour flight, it hit me. I had just met somebody famous in the airport. It hadn’t been the latest action star or big-name in music. Joyce was so much more than that. Her work is actually important. Her work inspires, educates, nurtures hearts, and downright delights.
And it delighted me to meet her.
anthony forrest
About Joyce:
Joyce Sidman is the author of many award-winning children’s poetry books, including the Newbery Honor-winning Dark Emperor and Other Poems of the Night, and two Caldecott Honor books. Her recent book The Girl Who Drew Butterflies: How Maria Merian’s Art Changed Science won the 2019 Robert F. Sibert Medal. She also received the NCTE Award for Excellence in Children’s Poetry, in recognition of her body of work. In her home state of Minnesota, she teaches poetry writing to school children and walks through the woods with her dog Watson.
An ocean’s length from here to there
Fighting rages beyond repair.
Scores of children—hungry, dying
Getting better? I would be lying
And every day—a money scare
all in a broken world.
A thousand miles away our leaders fright
In evil do these men delight
Money and power, money and power
Getting worse by the hour
Our country improve?
No, try they might.
all in a broken world.
Work now scarce and money too
Struggle comes with each day new
The cost of breathing rising, rising
This depressing world we are despising
So with each day that comes
Do I color it blue,
all in a broken world?
Apart from it all, here I sit
Admiring the morning, God’s sacred gift
A timber’s branch quivers when lands a bird
Then my fluffy friend jumps, leaving the branch undisturbed.
Misty fog gathers dripping from pines
All of these things sooth my mind.
My Creator comforts, loves, and cares
And cries, “Be still, My love I share!”
Comforting peace beyond understanding
His Holy Spirit forever now granting.
A simple life of loving God,
and God loving us is all we must do, live and trust
all in a broken world.
anthony forrest
On a sudden, the motor coughed, sputtered, and gave up the ghost. The rapid river was now in control. The small crew at the back of the boat fought with the motor to try and get it started, to no avail. Soon the boat lazily turned and turned until this motley little band of river rats were nearly perpendicular to the oncoming river currents. With the river so high due to the frequent rains this time of year, it can be difficult to see semi-submerged logs protruding from the surface.
But directly in our path lay just that. A dead tree, about 10 inches in diameter jutted out from the river surface, and straight ahead. We all saw it. Some of us climbed onto the edge of the boat, hoping to push away from the branch when it approached. Others continued to try and get the motor started.
Everybody grabbed onto something.
But it was far too late. The boat heaved and rocked onto the side closest to where the branch just hit us. A loud banging noise came from the metal vessel. Then, like a pendulum, the boat rocked back, overcorrecting and tossing the passengers to the other side. Thankfully, nobody fell into the water. The branch scraped along the bottom of the boat and disappeared behind us.
Troubleshooting began.
“That’s what we call a near miss.”
“I’ll say.”
Eye’s wide all around.
“We’ve got to tie this boat off if we can’t get the motor started.”
“Where? Nothing here but rocks.”
“Over there—see, the beach. Plenty of trees.”
The boat now turned freely in the fast-moving river.
Shoes off.
Rope in hand.
Into the river.
Another into the river. Both swam to the beach.
Success.
We avoided catastrophe narrowly. And it kind of sounds adventurous. If the river had flipped the boat, it would not have been its first victim. All of our medical supplies and gear would have been lost.
Some dream of adventure; find it, they may. But our goal was not to find adventure. Our goal was to bring care and love to a people in need along the Las Piedras river in Peru. God’s guiding hand protected us along the way.
anthony forrest
Related Tales:
Prologue to Field Notes, Peru: Return to South America
Part 1 of Field Notes, Peru: Medical Nomads
Part 2 of Field Notes, Peru: A Bird Who Brings Bad News and Good News
Warmth that caresses my soul
when troubles come
then slowly go
a gentle breeze
through the leaves
that are my soul
My Father’s hand is in control.
How calm the hand,
my Father’s hand
and scars I see
on these palms
of Jesus, Saviour
I see He bled for me.
That same hand
so tender, caring
holds me lovingly
but firmly, quietly
in true peace that teaches skillfully
…and quietness I finally learn.
anthony forrest
Wednesday: It’s not worth it, save for the love of people—fed by an intense love for God.
He decidido seguir a Cristo. No vuelvo atras, no vuelvo atras…
Each day, our team’s routine varied little. Pack the boat. Go to the next village. Unpack the boat. Set up camp. Host clinic. Eat dinner. Try to sleep in the insanity-inducing heat. But somewhere in that itinerary of jungle travel we always hosted a service of singing, Bible reading, and a telling of the greatest tale of all time.
Our boat eventually made it to the furthest village up the Las Piedras river. It’s the furthest that we traveled. It’s the furthest village up that river. And it’s the furthest up the river anybody is allowed by the Peruvian government. It took us 18 hours by boat to get here. On the map, it’s just a large space of green.
The Brazilian border lies up the river a mere 30 minutes by boat. And the village of Monte Salvado is the last outpost, bordering on a kind of refuge. Here begins an area of land which encompasses a mass of Peru set aside for indigenous peoples who have yet to be contacted—tribal people who want to be left alone. Last October, a group of these people attacked Monte Salvado and stole food, shooting somebody in the head with an arrow in the process. That was October, not 100 years ago.
But the Yine people live here nonetheless. And they thrive. But not without need.
Yes, the people that live along the Las Piedras river need medical care. And we gave it. But they need something else so much more.
When the missionary who led us on the trip first ventured into that part of Peru, the people there gave him a name in the Yine language. It’s unpronounceable for the American tongue, but roughly translated it means A Bird Who Brings Bad News and Good News. And when he traveled up the Las Piedras river, he did bring both bad news and good news.
The bad news was that each and every person in God’s creation is flawed, and completely misses the mark. Humankind is rebellious against God who demands justice. And from our conception, our veins course with sin. We have no chance of fixing this problem, because the price is too great.
But he also brought good news. God’s own Son payed the price. He was perfect and died to pay that price. He died in our place and made it possible to have a relationship with the perfect Creator. We now have only to turn to Him in belief.
This week of hosting clinics and services is far too much work. Long days, and hard work make it seem like it’s not worth the trouble. But these people need care for both body and soul.
They need to hear. And how will they hear without a preacher?
It’s not worth it, save for the love of people—fed by an intense love for God.
I have decided to follow Jesus. No turning back, no turning back…
anthony forrest
Related Tales:
River days end in Peruvian rains
Look overhead and see the sky stained
Parting clouds reveal the sun
Whose rays bring the forever heat of Amazon
Life doesn’t stop for rains unrelenting
Rivers rise high and strange birds sing
In harmony
Of boat-song, motor-drone
Of long canoes bringing dark souls home
anthony forrest
Monday—Arrived 1715 at Santa Alicia. Long climb to village. Set up tents and ate supper. Held service. Early clinic in the morning.
A dozen or so stilted, open-air houses sat at the top of the tall, muddy hill. Their thatched roofs jutting out on all sides. After 10 hours (more?) on our boat, the village was a welcome sight. Even after climbing the monstrosity of a hill leading to the village half a dozen times, I was glad to be off the boat. I can only sit for so long. Our 80’ long stretched-limo-like canoe moved quickly that day, cutting up the Las Piedras river like the ever-present mosquito. Our team carried boxes and totes and crates full of camping gear, medical supplies, and food to last us the week. Soon, this tribe of American medical nomads set up tents. Our home for the next week would be a movable clinic along this muddy river in the south of Peru.
Little kids ran about in their bare feet and all smiles. Kind-hearted nationals helped with the totes of supplies. Local women-folk talked of a breakfast for us the next day. To say that our arrival was a big deal would be an understatement. For many, this mobile clinic is the only chance for medical care. The nearest hospital lies more than 10 hours by boat in Puerto Maldonado. And some may never go there. Poor medical care, terrifically hard labor, appalling nutrition, and rampant disease and parasites contribute to a discouraging quality of life, and a short one at that.
We slept comfortably in our tents that night.
The next morning, our team popped open plastic yard-sale tables. Then we lined up boxes of Amoxicillin, Mebendazole, anti-diarrheal, paracetamol, bag after bag of vitamins, and dozens more medications. And even though some may not currently have pain, discomfort, illness, or injury, they may still want medication. For most of these people, this is their only chance to treat any ailments they may have, now or later.
Before the clinic starts, the women of the village bring us breakfast of rice and chicken soup. A bowl of boiled plantain makes its way around the table. And, after final preparations and trips down to the boat to retrieve forgotten items, we pass the word around Santa Lisia that the clinic is open.
Some came quietly, some eagerly, some came dragging screaming children, but all came. That clinic was better attended than any midwestern yard-sale. But instead of used flatware and old Christmas ornaments, our tables were filled with medication. And our hands filled with care.
This was the first clinic of many.
anthony forrest
Related Tales:
Long-winding watery way
Rain-swollen and muddy-tan
With tall, tall greens on display
On banks of bush and vines like strands
Of tinsel
In a winter-less land
And overhead, flocking hordes of colorful birds
Which, with training, speak words
On the ground, creatures and snakes
Truly a strange land, make no mistake
anthony forrest
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