Dear,
I love you. I’m going to leave it at that, because I want you to be able to forward this message to others.
I’m at a very nice hotel in Medan. I feel a little guilty, but Heather booked it for us because it was the only one she could find. It’s nice to have a real toilet again after drawing my own bucket from a well for showers and toilets.
I don’t know where to start. I couldn’t even comprehend my experience, much less communicate it. We got to Banda Ache, and met up with the first team who had just come in by Navy helicopter. They were really excited. They had stayed in a village called Tanou Anou. We all went together to a motel where several groups of believers were staying. It was like a hub of activity, and was really neat. They were out of room, so we slept in an army tent in the courtyard.
The first team debriefed us on their experience. They did a great job connecting with the people of the village. When we got there (by a non-military helicopter) the people were really glad to see us, and the first team’s tents were still up.
The helicopter flight was overwhelming. We flew about 70 kilometers up the coast and all the way there we could see the devastation. It was village after village just laid flat. I felt numb.
Then we landed at Tenoum. It had been a thriving village of about 20,000 people. It was nothing but rubble. We landed in a field that had been the village soccer field. I saw one house left standing about 150 yards away. There was a small row of storefronts nearby, and the mosque was still standing, like an island in the middle of all the destruction. All were damaged beyond usefulness. Everything else was just slabs of concrete and ruins. There were about 50 people there who swarmed around us and our baggage when we landed. I don’t know what they were doing there. (When we spent our last day back in that town waiting for a helicopter there were only about 20 people, and they didn’t do anything. They just sat there looking at us.)
From Tenoum we took about a 5 minute ride in the back of the truck to Tanou Anou, our village. All the way there it was destroyed. There were some homes left standing, but most were destroyed. Tanou Anou was at the place where the wave stopped. We could see the debris at the front of the town, and it stopped right in front of the mosque. Our tents were set on the volleyball court, just in front of the mosque and in front of the clinic. On both sides of us were piles of debris left from the tsunami.
The clinic had been flooded to about 18 inches, but was still very functional. I walked down the road several times, and the rest of the village was just a regular, rural tropical village. It was like God’s hand was raised, and we could see the line where he said, “Stop!”
Rusaini was the nurse. He was great. My favorite person in the village. He was small, pleasant, and kind. I think he knew more than I did about a lot of the things I was treating. My doctor bag with all my tools, and most of the medicine I packed was left in Waco, so I felt very hampered the entire week. I actually used Rusaini’s medications a lot of the time. He was actually quite well supplied with antibiotics and pain medication.
I had an Indonesian translator named Oan. She was a sweet, 24 year old believer from Java. Her congregation had brought a group to help, and they stayed at the hotel Kartika where we were in Banda Ache. We only had two translators, and we had 2 other Indonesian believers with us who helped us a lot with day to day functioning. They were great: Golden, May, and Saldy were the others.
But anyway, Oan was wonderful. Golden didn’t want to use the name Jesus, so he would translate it Lord. Initially Oan was doing that, but then I asked her to use His name, so she did. We prayed for every patient we saw. I didn’t see any miraculous healings, but Rusaini (who was translating from Indonesian to Achenese) sure heard a lot of prayers. He actually was the one who made sure everybody got prayed for.
Rusaini lived in a village that was basically a suburb of Tenoum. He worked in the hospital there. His house was completely destroyed. He has been volunteering with the Red Cross at the clinic in Tanou Anou since the Tsunami. He also works some at the temporary hospital about 20 minutes away. It’s run by the German Red Cross, and consists of about 15 big tents in a field. Rusaini now lives with some distant relatives. He invited 3 of us to his house on the last night. The whole village was completely without electricity since the Tsunami. His house was about as big as our office with a small room built into the corner of it. It had wood floors and a rice mat across part of it. There was no furniture. We asked if it had electricity before the tsunami, and he said “No, this is a house for poor people.” I gave him my inflatable mat on the last day, because I saw that they had not beds. Before I left I saw that he had given it to another man in the village.
I didn’t see a lot of tears. Probably half the people I talked to had lost people in the tsunami. Very few of them mentioned it unless I asked them. I wondered why they smiled so much. I think they had probably cried all their tears before I got there. It is not possible to feel the weight of this disaster. Nobody can. At some point you just have to say, “Enough! I can’t feel any more of this right now.” And you have to think about something else.
We spent the last day in Tenoum waiting for a helicopter ride back to Banda Ache. We were supposed to leave at 8am, but we didn’t get a ride back until 3:45pm. It’s a long story, but we did get to go on a Navy Nighthawk, and even got to land on an aircraft carrier for refueling. It was great fun.
But the day we spent in Teunom was surreal. At first I just stared. I looked out to the calmness of the ocean and imagined what it must have been like. It was early morning. I just started walking. I saw lots of concrete and rebar. The slabs of what were once homes. Concrete wells filled with sand. Toilets strewn randomly among sand and metal and trash. Then I saw children’s shoes. A baby seat. A mangled tricycle. Then I began imagining how many people’s bodies had been recovered. I pictured the screaming, the terror, the mothers’ hearts pounding, flailing to save their children. I saw scattered pieces of dishes and imagined families sharing breakfast together as the first waves crashed against their homes.
That was all I could take. I had to think about something else. I walked back and rejoined the group. We talked about our week. About new friends and strange experiences. We made plans for how the next groups could help. We told jokes. Then after awhile I would get up and walk to another area, and look, and pray. It was hard to cry, because I didn’t know if I would stop. We played stickball in the field. We went to find shade under the coconut trees. We took pictures with the Indonesian military who where there protecting us. We ate lots of granola bars. All day long we were surrounded by devastation, but most of the time we just pretended it wasn’t there.
At about 2:45 a family rode up on motorcycles. The older man looked about 70 years old. They were all dressed in their finest clothes because Friday was an important Muslim holiday. Everyone had been praying at their mosques. His wife, son, daughter-in-law and two grandchildren were there. Oan was with us, so she asked them what they were doing. They said they were coming back to see their home. They had huge smiles across their faces. (I didn’t know for sure, but I think part of why he was smiling was because he knew why we were there and he really, really appreciated our help.) We walked across 5-6 blocks worth of rubble and came to a large slab near the ocean. It was much bigger than most of the slabs, and was next to the 2 story house that was still standing (though completely destroyed.) They showed us where their living room was, and we pretended to knock on the front door as we stepped onto the slab. It was odd. They were smiling. I asked them where they were staying now. They said about 8 kilometers away, with family. Matt asked what they did. The son was a store owner. His store was destroyed. All the money he owned was in his house, and was washed away. They had lost everything. I asked what they would do next, and that’s when the old man’s wife teared up a little. They just said, “I don’t know.”
How could they know. Everyone is just sitting around. What can they do. The school is a slab. Twenty percent of the teachers died. They don’t have roads to get more than a few villages away from where they are. They are just living and waiting. When asked what they will do when the helicopters stop delivering food, people just say, “We don’t know.”
I could keep going for hours, but I’m paying by the ½ hour for this computer. We did make a difference. A little drop of water in a big, big ocean, but a difference nonetheless. Pray for Rusaini and his family. Pray that he will follow Jesus.
I miss you a lot, and I can’t wait to get home. (It’s about 6:30 Saturday night where I am, so I’ll be home in about 2 days.) Tell the kids I love them. Tell mom the camera batteries lasted until right before I landed on the aircraft carrier. (bummer) But I have lots of good pictures. God is at work in this place, and I feel very, very blessed to have been here.
Love,
Randy
