I have always loved sweets. Who wouldn't love delightfully delicious treats such as cookies, chocolate, and ice cream!? Unfortunately, my simplistic joy of sweets was somewhat tarnished.
A few weeks ago the Hindu and Muslim Festivals were taking place here in Bangladesh. Roads throughout the villages were strewn with colorful banners, lights and decorative tunnels. Bengali people definitely know how celebrate. Each night Cassie and I were serenaded to sleep by the nonrhythmic beat of drums and atonal wailing. Individuals often use the notorious practice of counting sheep to fall asleep, instead we were graced with the opportunity of counting incessant drum beats. In light of the celebration, Mr. and Mrs Waid, a few administrative staff at Bangla Hope, Cassie and I were all invited to the home of one of the local doctors. He resides in Panchbibi, which is a small town about 30 minutes from the orphanage. Over the years, Mr. and Mrs. Waid have become good friends with the doctor. Bengali people are very hospitable, and hosting foreigners is something many consider an honor. During these festivals, the Bengali people have many decadent feasts. They cook abundant amounts of food and desserts. Therefore, the doctor's family invited us for a meal consisting specifically of sweets. When Cassie and I heard we were going to the doctor's home for a meal consisting solely of dessert, we were rightfully excited. Growing up, dessert was always served at the end of the meal. "Eat your vegetables, or you can't have any dessert," my parents always chimed. I thought this concept was askew. Dessert is usually the best part; we should eat it at the beginning to make sure we don't fill up the other, often less appealing, food first.
We entered the doctor's home and were warmly greeted then ushered into seats around a table full of every decadent, Bengali sweet. Sitting down at the table, Cassie and I glanced at each other with excited looks. Peering across the table, our eyes bulged at the sight in front of us. We were naive and foolishly believed we were more than ready for a meal solely revolving around the consumption of sugary treats. Our hosts had already piled our plates with sweets and were expectantly waiting for us to dig in. Instead of eating along side us, they hovered around us and watched as we ate.
This Bengali practice is slightly uncomfortable. I appreciate the hospitality and desire to serve, but having my every move analyzed becomes a bit unnerving. I knew my approval of the meal was being gauged on the amount I consumed, which added more discomfort to the stare down. With each daunting bite, the usually pleasant event of partaking in dessert was becoming more of a task and less of a pleasure. Quickly, Cassie and I discovered a whole new meaning to the words, "sweet" and "dessert". I believe it is safe for me to assume that I have now tasted the world's sugariest sweets. Bengali desserts are basically pure sugar that is then drenched in surgery syrup. Now, I must admit, there were some good desserts on my more than generously filled plate, but trying to stuff them all down my throat in one sitting erased any previously ensued joy I had about the whole event. Throughout the meal, Cassie and I would exchange worried glances and mumble quietly of our stomachs that were beginning to ache. All I wanted was some water to wash away the sugar. Instead we were given soda. Washing sugar down with liquid sugar seems fitting, right? As my stomach ache grew, so did the pounding in my head. I think I experienced a sugar high and crash in a rather unhealthy amount of time. Ironic that such a meal was taking place in the home of a doctor. Maybe this should have made the worry of our growing illness nil, but then again being in Bangladesh, maybe not.
Needless to say, our bumpy and jarring journey home was one of pensive concentration. See, Cassie and I were deeply focused on the task of not re-experiencing the meal we had just partaken in. They say, "A spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down." A word of advice, be careful with sugar in quantities of spoonfuls or else you may need a couple spoonfuls of medicine to make the sugar stay down.
Here we are, at an orphanage in Bangladesh. Loving the kids is an obvious requirement of the job, but Elise and I also find it to be the most fulfilling part of our days. In turn, the kids find their own ways of showing us their love: endless notes, pictures, gifts, smiles, hugs, and kisses are exchanged constantly. Within these exchanges, we also receive some less desirable gifts. For example, it appears to be customary here among the younger children to thoroughly coat their fingers with the snot dripping from their little noses, before rubbing said fingers on our faces. A few days after we arrived, we realized that we would rather enjoy the nightly goodnight kisses than try to avoid sickness. "If we're going to get it, we'll get it," we both said to each other. We've gotten used to our own constant runny noses and the occasional cough, knowing it's just a harmless cold.
However, a few weeks ago I woke up and knew that something was really wrong. I was awakened early in the morning with a fever, aching body, a stuffy/runny nose, and the worst sore throat of my life! When I looked into my throat I could see white spots beginning to form in the back. Tonsillitis. I spent almost 4 days in bed sleeping. Elise was a gem and took care of me in every way she could. I spent way more time than I should have googling things that got my mind racing about unusual symptoms and strange third world diseases. Some of the people here, at the orphanage, had wanted me to go visit the doctor in town, but I was more than hesitant to do so. Instead, I gathered some friendly medical advice from home, and decided I would need to start antibiotics. Conveniently, prescriptions aren't required at the pharmacies here, and the antibiotics were only about $2. After being on the antibiotic for a couple of days my fever nearly disappeared, the infection in my throat had cleared, and I was starting to regain my strength. I was beyond thankful, yet there's still something really terrifying about being sick in another country.
Since I had made somewhat of a self-diagnoses, I found myself second guessing everything! The day after I stared my antibiotic I woke up with tiny bumps all over my lips, there was blood in my mucus, and my chest was plagued with a rash. These could have been small allergic reactions to the antibiotic, lotion, or chapstick; the decrease of moisture in the air over the past few weeks; or any number of other things. But they all piled up at once, and after all, I AM in Bangladesh. I could be infected with any number of unknown sicknesses. I COULD BE DYING, or so I felt.
I laid in bed that Saturday night feeling so overwhelmed and unsafe. I was in a place without the people who I had always trusted to take care of me. I did have Elise and I knew that she would do anything for me, but our resources here are limited. We're also in a place where having a medical emergency has a whole new meaning. If something were really wrong with either of us, going to the doctor in town wouldn't come close to cutting it. I was laying in the dark, silently freaking out. I cried to God as I laid there praying. I knew He would take care of me, but I was scared. In that moment I just wanted to be home. Then, a letter that my sweet boyfriend had written to me came to my mind. He had reminded me to take time out of my crazy, kid-filled days to "be still". I started pondering this thought, and the meaning behind it. The Bible says more than "be still", it says, "be still and know that I am God." Something hit me hard as I laid curled up in our dark room. Being still is about so much more than our physical stance when we come to God. It's more than just sitting quietly in solitude. Those things are good, but being still is about knowing that He is God. For me, in that moment, being still meant bringing peace to my panic and knowing that God is God and that He has total and complete control. That obviously doesn't mean that things are always going to be perfect in my eyes. But for that moment, it meant that I could have peace, be still, and finally sleep.
Thankfully, all my strange symptoms soon left and I am now healthy again. The reminder to "Be still and know that [He] is God" is something that I embrace constantly. Being in such a corrupt country has shown us both a lot about how evil the world can be. There are times that we feel unsafe, but we know that God has put us here for His purposes and we are constantly learning to live in daily, fearless trust with Him.
-Cassie
