Short Stories of Women Around the World – Global Woman

When I was a fourth year medical student, I traveled to Bangalore in southern India to rotate at a Baptist hospital there. I had been fascinated by India for awhile, hearing my Indian roommate speak Malayalam, sampling their exciting curry dishes, and especially hearing about the work of God amongst the poor and disregarded people of the slums. I had the opportunity to meet Violet, a cheerful middle aged lady who served as a chaplain for the hospital patients. She inspired me with many stories of people turning to Christ and even receiving healing after prayer.

She asked me if I would like to come with her to the slums of Bangalore, to meet some of those she had committed to minister to.

We boarded a rickshaw and off we went, from the cramped commercial district around the hospital, past lush golf courses and then into the less developed poor district. I followed her into the homes of people dying of tuberculosis. I observed their emaciated bodies, and saw them point to a gilded photograph of a loved one who had already succumbed to some infectious disease. In other circumstances I would have feared for my own exposure, but I was moved by Violet’s concern for them, and when she asked me to pray I implored God’s help for these people.

We walked by a small strip mall, in which a local met to serve the people in this neighborhood. Here prayer and worship meetings were held, and hope was offered for those who had so little. We found ourselves in a dilapidated building constructed near a highway overpass. Trash and sewage filled the nearby ditch. Inside this building, which was more the juxtaposition of several jagged concrete walls, lived a family of orphans. These children, led by a child in his young teens, eked out a living begging or working odd jobs. They had no one to really look after them, but they cared for each other, and Violet checked in on them from time to time to see if she could help from her own meager resources. Violet asked me to pray for them, and I struggled, asking God where to start. What should I ask for them? A family? Enough food? A way out of this poverty? I felt overwhelmed.

Along the roads I saw “trash houses”, living quarters constructed out of leftover wire, wood, concrete and overlaid with the plastic trash bags that litter every street. I would catch myself staring with my mouth hanging open in horror. People really lived here? Even families lived in these, I was told.

We visited a tiny home in another tenement, belonging to a lady who was blind. She was young and beautiful; her name was Lakshmi. She had developed glaucoma, and her condition was not treated in time. Her face bore a peaceful acceptance as she turned her glazed eyes towards us. She had found Christ and was a part of a Christian community. We prayed for her, even for her healing. She said she could feel the presence of God in that room, even though her sight was unchanged. Next to her sat her aunt, a lady with a very different countenance. Her eyes were wild and disturbed. Her appearance was unkempt, though she conversed with Violet. There was a darkness around her that contrasted with the light we saw in Lakshmi. When we left I was told that this woman had been given to the Hindu temple as a child. She had spent her life as a “bride of the gods”. She was detached, as if her very soul was inaccessible. We prayed for her. The irony was apparent. One woman could see but was shrouded in darkness. The other was blind yet had an inner light.

The last stop was the most heartening one. Violet’s brother had opened an orphanage in a two story apartment. He took in street children, or any child needing a home. I toured the small facility, in which children slept in beds stacked on top of each other. They gathered them together and they sang for us. This was perhaps the most powerful and moving moment I spent in India. These children were not puppets, indoctrinated in the religion of their benefactors. They were spiritually awake, as they sang their praise songs wholeheartedly. Then they prayed for us, lifting up their hands and voices in urgency to God. They seemed to know that He had chosen them- that He had rescued them from a life of destitution through the ministry of His servants.

I returned to the hospital with a full heart and deep in thought. I had not understood the profound faith and suffering of the Indian people before. But I saw that God was working here. He was working through his servants like Violet and her brother. He was working through the staff at this hospital. But even more important, I sensed that God WAS here. He was here in the strip mall church in the slums. He was here in the tiny home of Lakshmi who worshipped Him. He was here in the overcrowded orphanage, with His purpose for these little ones. He was here in the orphan shack, though they had no earthly father. I knew that many of my prayers for these people would not be answered in the way I wanted. But through my experience my eyes were opened to the greatness of God, who despite injustice and suffering sustains those despised by the world. He sustains them with hope through the ministry of His servants, and with His own presence in the midst of despair.

Hello Friends, I am Arleen, a nurse, wife and mom of 2 wonderful children. I have served as a nurse in many countries like India, Saudi Arabia, Israel and UK. I haven been a nurse all my life. That was my first and the only profession I was always interested in.

Years ago I got an opportunity to work in a hospital in SA when my 1st child was three years old. It was a tough decision but because my husband is extremely supportive and committed to our family we both mutually decided to take up this offer.

I always wanted the best for my family and I always dreamt of settling my family abroad so this experience was crucial for me. I was able to come back every year but that was not easy. The struggle was hard and those days were still long.

This one time I left my husband and son to fly to SA from India, we kissed each other good byes, cried in each others arms and then they left. I was also ready to board the flight and at the last moment the flight officials told us that the flight was filled up (It seems crazy but that is exactly what had happened) and I had to wait till the morning to board the next flight. I was so outraged, I argued with the airline officers but it was in vain. I felt if I knew this before I could spend 1 night with my family at home than waiting at the airport but I was helpless. I called my husband when he reached home and he came back again early morning. (In those days there were no cell phones). The next day I took my flight and resumed my duty as a nurse.

The next time I was again going to SA from India. It was the time of the Gulf war when Kuwait was invaded. There was suddenly an overwhelming turbulence in the flight. The flight was trembling as a car running over a bumpy country road. All the passengers in the flight cried out and prayed. All the differences were gone it was just the prayers which sustained us. It felt as if that was the last day for us on earth. But we made it through. We landed safely and reached the hospital, once again to resume my duty as a nurse.

Today, my whole family is settled in UK, my kids have grown up. When I look back I have faced many struggles and had many experiences in life to share with you all in the coming days. But, for now I want to end my story with a note: Nurses can take the pressure.

Arleen Christopherson
United Kingdom

“Wait until you go to Malawi”, my friend Anne told me. “My mom is going to make sure you have a real village experience”. We stood talking outside of my medical school campus, on the eve of my departure for this southeast African country, the homeland of my friend. We had spent many nights talking about her childhood in Africa, as she spoke of her family of 8 living in two rooms at the back of a church. She watched many of her school friends die of cholera, and when times were hard she ate the same porridge for every meal. She spent most of her life in a village, which she said is the heart of Africa, where most of the living and suffering occurs.

To understand Africa, you have to go to the village. After all these conversations I was curious to experience Africa for myself. Not just because of its tragedy, but also because of the warmth and spirit I perceived in my friend.

On arrival in Lilongwe, I was greeted by the pleasant breezes that accompany July in the southern hemisphere. I marveled at the giant golden and fuscia blossoms on the abundant trees. We were met by Emma, my friend’s mother, who took us to her home. One day we accompanied a medical team to a rural area where we learned how to immunize babies while they did malnutrition training. Children with bulging bellies and ragged clothes ran up to us wide eyed. When we moved towards them they ran away giggling and screaming. We blew bubbles we had brought, and they jumped and swung at them, chasing the breezes that carried them across the maize fields. Another day we bought rice and clothing, and distributed it in a village that had been particularly hard hit by a recent drought. I heard of two women who had collapsed and died in a field while scavenging for pumpkin leaves to eat. The people were restrained;there was no stampede like one might expect with a hungry mob. They seemed to understand that a community must stick together, and if one suffers they all do. They only expected enough to survive that day. One little girl of around 8 had no clothing- she had wrapped a piece of cloth around her waist for a skirt. We gave her a yellow dress. She was transformed from grimy waif to princess. She ran home to show her parents.

We attended a wedding in the village, which was unique from any nuptial I have attended before or after. It began with the dancing. Men and women formed lines outside the church. The music began, and feet moved up and down, side to side to the powerful rhythm. The procession moved into the church, the men and women side by side, harmonizing, swaying, stomping. Some of the women were moving their tongues rapidly- ululating, it is called. Even the young children were stomping and bobbing in time with everyone else. The whole congregation joined in a glorious intertwining of melody, harmony and dance. The crude brick building with the dirt floors and splintered wooden benches was transformed into a cathedral of celebration for this occasion.It was marvelous. Truly, I thought, the Africans have music in their blood. The bride came last, in her borrowed white dress- the village dress that is worn by every bride that marries here. Her hair was adorned by a sprig of fuscia blossom taken from a tree outside. I expected her face to be uplifted, her eyes bright, caught up in this ecstatic moment. But she did not see this as “her” day, as most American women would. She had been sternly instructed by her elders that marriage is a serious business, and it is not appropriate to be giddy and light. She must have been honored by their serenade, but she lowered her head humbly, and her face remained serious throughout the ceremony. The groom, waiting at the front, also looked sober and frightened. After they were pronounced we filed out of the church to more jubilant singing. Seventeen of us piled into the back of a pickup along with the sound equipment and several hundred kilos of rice as we made our way to the reception. One could have spent a lot of money and not attained the atmosphere we experienced there. As we arrive women surrounded our vehicle, their colorful chitenji skirts swirling in rhythm and they sang and chanted. We made our way to the fires where huge pots of rice bubled, and skewers of goat meat roasted enticingly. A fragrant cloud of smoke hung in the air. We saw women coming in and out of their mud houses with thatched straw roofs. In the village was a circle of singers, and inside the circle drummers pounded violently on their instruments while old men in tribal costumes gyrated in the center. I didn’t notice the newlyweds much at the reception. I think the main reason for the occasion was for the community to enjoy a big party.

Our penultimate trip was our overnight trek into Thonje, a small village accessible only by hiking 40 minutes up a dirt trail. We arrived at the local church, and were greeted by a bouncing, giggling crowd of Malawian children. With bubbles, a Frisbee, and some songs sung by both sides the language barrier was quickly broken. We were welcomed into a hut and sat on the floor. Nseema, a cornmeal based dish with the consistency of cold mashed potatoes, was offered. We ate with our hands, mixing in goat meat and vegetables. We saw them cook over the fire, and tried to stir the stubborn porridge ourselves, realizing why these women have such defined arm muscles. Emma took us through many of the daily village chores. We carried a large bucket of water on our heads (thankfully only half full), sifted rice from the hulls (with too much rice ending up on the ground), and smoothed out the mud floor of the church on our hands and knees with the other women. In all these activities, I noted a spirit of cooperation and real community between the villagers. When it was time for bed, we laid our blankets on the floor of the church, and the women of the church came out to sing for us. Their strong beautiful voices carried through the night air, their chitenjis swaying to the rhythm of their African hymns.

I found myself reflecting on the different villages I had visited, the many nameless faces impressed into my mind. I felt that I had truly seen the heart of Africa. My eyes were opened to their suffering; poverty, hunger and sickness. But I also saw the triumph of life and hope in the African people; it came through their music, their smiles and their communal strength. I was especially touched by their simple faith in God that perseveres through agonizing loss and cruel deprivation. Without feeling entitled to an easy or happy life, and without a drive to be better than one’s neighbor, they bore many hardships and worked cooperatively in a way many westerners would find impossible. Though there are many material things they could receive from us, I realized there was also much we could learn from them.

More than a year ago I started working in a school named “Tulsa Hope Academy”. It is an alternative Christian school for “at risk youth”. It has been my privilege and challenge to work in a place like this.  Here I was introduced to the director of this school Debra  (Debbie), an amazing lady with a burning passion and zeal to bring change in the lives of the ‘at risk youth’ students who come here.

As I was working as a teacher, I got to see Debbie’s life personally.  I could see her dedication and commitment to these students who gets a second chance at Tulsa hope Academy (THA) to mold their career and life. For some of them it is their last chance to prove themselves, graduate from high school. The students who come here have been through a lot of life’s struggles and faced many vivid challenges than a regular teenager. And that is one of the reasons they are here at THA.

Gradually as time went by, I came to know Debbie intimately and how she embarked on this journey of starting a school like this. Just 4 years ago, she wanted to help his son and two of his friends who had dropped out of high school.  These were wonderful kids who were struggling in a regular school to cope with their studies with emotional and social wounds in their life. Debbie has this gift from the Almighty to recognize such feelings and understand their struggles. She started teaching and counseling them right in her home. She worked hard with them and “home schooled” them. And as a result of their hard work and the nurturing of a parent, they got all the credits they needed to earn a high school diploma. She helped them to graduate from high school. This was a radical change in those young lives who were getting ready to face the real world with already having a lot of life’s issues.

But then, this was not the end but a beginning of a new chapter in which many more troubled teenagers were involved. She already had made a huge difference in few lives but she was on the mission to rescue more lives. She had a vision from God and He started leading her step by step in faith to reach more kids who have trouble keeping up in the regular schools.

She leads our school by her life and example. Integrity, compassion and hard work are the motto and mission of her life. And due to all her efforts and God’s Grace, the school is now a fully accredited faith based school in Oklahoma, the first of its kind. It has an awesome staff – people whom God brought along side her to carry the burden she has for these kids. The school now has a full staff to teach the core subjects required and 25 high school students attend it on a regular basis to study.

For me personally it has been an incredible experience to work along with her. To see God’s purpose being fulfilled by her and the staff who work at THA. We see the young lives touched, their burdens shared and their pain being healed. There is a lot of caring, nurturing and love which are the pillars of THA. It has been a reminder that if God gives you a dream he will also provide you with resources to fulfill it. Our lives become more worth living when you can impact other lives and that is the purpose of Tulsa Hope Academy.

My dad was originally from Oaxaca, a graduated architect. My mom, who was a fashion designer, was originally from Mexico City, and met my dad when he was in college. They got married before he got his thesis done, at the same time he was working, so they hardly spent any time together. For two years, my parents lived in Mexico City, in a small apartment. Mom had two miscarriages before she had my brother Sergio, me and later my youngest brother Jose Luis.

My brother Sergio was born in Mexico City, while my parents were living there. After my brother Sergio was born, my dad decided to return to Oaxaca and be closer to his parents. My mom decided to have me in Mexico City because the medical conditions were much better there than in Oaxaca. So I was born in a private Hospital called: “Mosel”.

My parents brought me down to Oaxaca a month after I was born. Dad registered me as if I was born in Oaxaca. For him it was very important the place a person was from and this meant also the place you are born. During my childhood I used to tease him about this subject, I would tell everyone that I was from Mexico City, and I was proud of it!! He would tell me, “You are Oaxaquena!”

In July of 1976, my mom’s relatives came down to Oaxaca and we all went on a trip to the Istmo of Oaxaca, which was about 4 to 5 hours by car. We all rode together in a Volkswagen van. (I still remember it’s color, it was like a bluish light green)

On our way back, my grandpa (my mom’s dad), decided to drive. My parents were next to him in the front of the van. In the back were my other grandparents (dad’s side), my grandma (mom’s mom), my two youngest aunts, my brother Sergio, and me.

Mom remembers many times asking my brother and me to go with her, but we wanted to be with my aunts playing. My mom says that a big old truck wanted to pass us since the traffic was going very slow, and that the road was narrow and curvy. My grandpa decided to move over a little; to let the truck pass, but the person who was driving it was drunk, so when he did pass us he pushed us off the road. Since we were driving in the mountains and since there were no guardrails, the van fell down the hill, rolling over and over until it eventually stopped. Every body except my mom was unconscious. She tried to wake up everyone else. She went to find my brother Sergio. She found him on the ground, bleeding from his ear. She knew that it was bad, so she carried him with her and took him to my dad, who was waking up and realizing what was going on. Then she looked for me. She said she couldn’t find me for a while, and that she started screaming my name in desperation. Until now she cannot explain how in the world I was so far away from the rest of the family, severely wounded but alive.

She noticed that my right arm was bleeding tremendously and saw that it was broken badly. She assisted me like a professional rescuer, and performed a series of things to stop the bleeding and to hold my arm to my shoulder. She carried me and took me where the rest of my family was. By then everybody was awake, in pain, injured, and in shock.

Several hours passed after the accident, until my parents and me received medical attention. My parents had to ask a stranger from the road we were on, to take us to the closest town. My brother was already dead, and I was fighting for my life. The accident occurred around 6pm, and hours later I was flying to Mexico City in a small plane.

(From all of this I just have flashbacks. Most of everything I am telling you I remember from writing it all in a diary that I had with me in the hospital, from my mom’s story and the vague recollections I have. I can’t help crying while I am typing this, but I was asked to write the story of my life, and I have to put this sad part of it in as well. I do this in the hope that you can praise God for what He has done for my loved ones and me.)

My uncle (the doctor) took me in the small plane with him. As we arrived to the hospital they put me in a bed with wheels and I just remember a bunch of people next to me running, and my uncle Tono, telling them what to do.

My parents had to stay at the scene of the accident in order to drive back to Oaxaca to bury my brother Sergio. Sometimes I imagine that scene – a dark sky, and rainy. Since it was July, it probably was like that.

Several of my relatives were injured as well. But what hurt us the most with the loss of my brother Sergio, the firstborn. My dad’s world came apart. He said that he wished that everyone else had died but my brother. I can understand his pain, because Sergio meant so much to him and to all of us. Back then in my culture, to have the firstborn child being a boy was a great thing because the family name would last longer. Having men in the family was very important in Oaxaca. It meant respect to your family.
With all the pain my parents had, they still had to face my situation in Mexico City.

My mom says that my aunts were with me since the time I came out of surgery. The doctors decided to amputate my right arm because I had a big infection going on and they didn’t want my bone to get it too.

I have memories of being on the bed at the hospital, with the rest of my arm covered with bandages, and with pain. I remember writing and drawing in a notebook with a brown shiny cover. My mom said that I asked one of my aunts for a radio because I wanted to listen to music. I still have it; it’s small and green. It’s my favorite radio.

This all happened when I was three years old. I was in rehabilitation and physical therapy for many months in Mexico City. Mom says that before the accident I was left handed and very independent. So my progress in the hospital was fast. I had two psychologists working with me. One worked in ludotherapy (game therapy) and the other as a personal post trauma clinician. I just remember playing a lot in this special room, and talking to both of them. They were very nice. I think that’s where I got the desire to become a psychologist.

I grew up, went to USA as an exchange student, studied Clinical Psychology and later I returned to study Vocational Orientation and Psychological Pedagogy (education field). I lived in USA for some time, got married and then we both moved to Oaxaca valley to serve the people as missionaries. I have a lot to tell you about my life which is so much event full and would love to share more with you more in the coming days.

If you would like to know more about us or about our ministry you can contact us at
: http://www.derekylily.com/