Healing Hands
6 Minute Read
As I mentioned in my first blog, this is something I have thought about starting for quite some time, since 2019 in fact. So a lot of the stories you will hear are from 2019 and on. I feel as though I am playing a little bit of catchup in order to get up to date with my stories and recordings of things that have happened since then. Anyways, as I was sifting through the memories in my mind, I was looking for one in particular and I finally landed on it. In fact, the origination of our name, Healing Hands of the Highlands, was birthed out of this story.
August 10, 2019 about 8:55am. We headed down a bumpy, dirt road on our way to a far out village, about an hour or so from our hometown. Our friend, Jonathan, volunteered to drive us that morning to help out with a medical team who was visiting from the United States. Rose was scheduled to interpret that day and I was to be there to offer advice or treatment for any orthopedic needs that may have arisen. We piled in the back of our friend’s pickup truck, still wiping the sleep from our eyes. This was the final day of mobile clinics for the week and our bodies and minds were feeling fatigued. About halfway there, Jonathan remembered he had the key to his water business, which meant his employees would not be able to access the building. He frantically pulled off to the side of the road, dropped us off and said he would be back ASAP!
As any good Guatemalan would do, we ran with the punches and patiently waited for his return. However, we made use of our time by seeking out some coffee at one of the local food stands. The gentleman working the stand was pleased to see so many customers. He pulled out a few pieces of sweetbread from the glass display case and ran inside his home to fix the coffee we had requested. As we waited, I walked to a local tienda to purchase a small, plastic ball. There had been some young boys gathering around us, so I figured a pickup game of soccer would keep them and myself entertained. The coffee came and our spirits and energy were lifted, ready to take on another long day of clinic.
As we continued waiting, another gentleman approached me. An older, indigenous man who spoke Pokomchi. Only knowing a few words of the language, I greeted him. He returned my greeting with a smile and asked if I was a doctor. Fortunately Rose was there to interpret for me and we gathered that he knew of a medical team who was visiting one of the local villages. Being the only foreigners around, he supposed that was us, and he was right! He began asking for help regarding his hands. They were old hands, rugged and well-worked like a fine piece of worn leather. Thin fingers he had with calloused knuckles from a lifetime of hard work. He complained that they ached and was seeking treatment. I didn’t have much to offer him and I felt kind of clueless. Well, what of his past medical history? Has he seen a doctor before for this problem? Did he have a diagnosis? An x-ray may be useful, but that was out of the question. I thought for a second and then it popped into my head…”Christian, you have your hands. Use them.” I dug through my backpack and pulled out a tub of emollient I had with me. I applied a small dollop of Palmer’s Cocoa Butter to his hand and began to massage. One hand at a time, gently applying some pressure as my fingers glided past his. As I began my work, the group of young boys paused their soccer game to watch. It didn’t seem like much and I wasn’t sure if it even helped at all. I have come to learn that Pokomchis are very agreeable and aren’t always honest about whether or not a treatment helped, so it takes a little prying to get an honest assessment. Nonetheless, it’s just part of the culture and something I’ve learned to work around.
We didn’t have any medication on us at the time, as it was all in Jonathan’s truck. Even if we did, I wasn’t totally sure it would help him. The man thanked me and carried on his way. He must of been at least 70 years old or so. It was probably just a case of arthritis. I tried not to overthink it and just be grateful for the opportunity to serve. It was amazing how he put his trust in me to handle his complaints and surrender his hands to be manually manipulated, right there on the side of the road. No exam table, no license, no forms to fill out, nothing but myself and my hands. In that moment, I knew there was something to all this. I thanked God that He had given me the knowledge and skillset that involved very little outside help to apply treatment to aid in the aches and pains of those around me. The only resource or tool I really needed was my hands. I was grateful.
Jonathan finally arrived about an hour and a half later. We jumped into the bed of the truck and continued on down the road. About 45 minutes later, we arrived at our destination. But that was just the place to leave the truck. We unpacked the supplies and started making our way onto another dirt path, but this time by foot. 45 minutes we hiked up and down the mountain until we came to a school. The chairs and tables were all pushed to one side of the two-room schoolhouse. The medical team started prepping the area for triage, treatment and women’s health. A sheet was hung in one of the rooms to separate out the treatment areas. A line of people had already formed and were anxiously awaiting the care they would receive. For many of these people, this was the first time they would be seen by a doctor. Others, the second time, the first time was when the last medical mission team had visited. If they were lucky, one team would visit a year. Hours went by and patients of all ages were evaluated and treated. Many of them just seeking treatment for an upset stomach, headache or cold. Some complicated cases made their way into the mix but nothing that required anything too radical or invasive.
The time was now four in the afternoon, which meant it was time to start packing up and to finish with the last of the patients in line. As I was making my rounds and seeing if anyone else needed my help, I was called over to evaluate a patient whose hands had been hurting. In front of me stood the same older man I had treated that very morning. He had walked all the way to the schoolhouse. It had to have been at least 10 miles or so. He knew we had medication and that was his motivation for getting there. He was given a little baggie of probably a week’s worth or so of ibuprofen. He thanked us once more and began the arduous trek home to wherever it was he came from.
This medical team took place about two weeks before Rose and I’s wedding. I now had glimpse into what life would be like in Guatemala. During this time, I had been praying about everything I was seeing and experiencing. The need for physical therapy was overwhelming. I would have no problems opening a small clinic in town and in fact, being the only physical therapist there, it would make for a very profitable clinic as well. But God was really showing me something else. I never went to Guatemala with the anticipation that I would become a missionary or that the work I would be doing full-time would be pro bono. I always knew that I would help others, after all, isn’t that what healthcare is all about? God revealed to me that I would open a clinic and that we would serve the underserved but it would be for His glory and His benefit. That was great and all but “how was I going to provide for my soon-to-be wife and future family?” That was the question that kept ringing in my head. Well, I took it before the Lord…
Here we are, 3 years later with our ministry Healing Hands of the Highlands. God has provided every step of way and then some! He continues to be so faithful and I am encouraged when I look back over the last 3 years to see all that God has done in and through us. I never have been able to remember that old man’s name but I will never forget his hands.