I entered medical school with a strong sense of calling. Despite what I now recognize as good credentials, I had a tough time with applications and ended up applying twice, only to get in at the last possible moment after one of the latest-possible interviews. It was because of these pitfalls and my undeniable enjoyment of my medical school coursework that I felt my calling confirmed.

Early on, I sought out fellowship at school and one resultant blessing was my attendance at a city-wide Christian Medical Dental Association (CMDA) meeting involving the trustees of the organization. It was here that I heard Al Weir, a Christian hematologist-oncologist, verbalize a sense that I was already beginning to have—that one of my goals ought to be to live as a Christian doctor, not just a Christian who happened to be a doctor or vice versa. I took this message to heart, studying with all my power to be able to serve my future patients well and socializing with my classmates with every opportunity. I became involved in the Christian fellowship and also in student government. I had realized, in my year off, however, how sheltered and “God-girl”-like I had become in college. I tried to shed a simplistic goody-two shoes image as I tried to learn some of the culture necessary to be in the world, but be not of it.

As part of the leadership for our medical school fellowship, I helped to invite Harold Adolph, a career missionary surgeon, to speak at our school. Getting to know him changed my outlook on my future completely. He showed horrifying and amazing photos of unusual pathology not seen in the US because of the availability of healthcare. He blew my mind with the statistic that one out of ten Africans would see a doctor in their lifetime. And he reinforced a principle introduced to me on an urban mission experience in college: many of the good things we want to do but think we ought put off due to a lack of resources or perfect timing are built up by habit. We must make it a practice, early on, to serve in missions or make the necessary sacrifices. Otherwise, we may go through life thinking, “Oh yeah—I’ll go on missions once I have the money to go for a long time.” That time, if sought only by waiting for it, will never come. Instead, the criteria we think are set for going will be subsumed by the changes in our circumstances and the ongoing rat race in which we find ourselves locked.

As part of an effort to stay missions-minded and inspired by Dr. Adolph, I went to Ghana on short-term missions as a fourth year student. I loved the people, especially the children, and found myself challenged by unexpected obstacles as I saw firsthand that it is impossible to be fair with a drop in the bucket when surrounded by an ocean of need.

And yet, the point of going was not lost. My most memorable patient there was Emilia. Everyone noticed her, standing silently, un-interactively, stubbornly, in the middle of the room, surrounded by people, yet so clearly alone. She resisted her mother’s every effort to engage her, refusing to enter into any dialogue she was invited into. I remember trying to look into her face, and how she persistently looked down or away. For most who came to see us, we had something to give—Tylenol, antibiotics, antacids, bandages, toothbrushes, or even “bum goo” (our fond nickname for Preparation H). But for Emilia, there was absolutely nothing we could offer. I could sense that her mom was frustrated by her refusal to even allow me to examine her, and I wished I could speak in Ewe to express to her the sympathy I felt.

“Tell her that her child has a condition that is difficult to treat, even in the States.” My translator Ben nodded and waited for me to finish. “There are no medicines to help this. The best thing for the child is to show her love—and this will be hard. It will require a kind of love that we, as humans, are not able to give. It is the love that God showed us through the death of His son on the cross, a love that knows all of our darkness and disobedience, yet redeems them and forgives us.” Of course, in retrospect, my thoughts are far clearer and more eloquent than they were at the time. I am not sure how much I actually conveyed to her. I felt so inadequate to fight off even the least of the obstacles facing mother and child, for I knew that even the deepest and most passionate of maternal love may be lessened and embittered by a child’s failure to acknowledge it. And this mother, according to her registration form, was an idol worshipper. Feeling somewhat afraid to ask, as though I were being opportunistic, and yet compelled to do so by a fear of how the child might turn out without knowing such love, and a fear of how hellish this woman’s life would be without a strength greater than her own, I pressed on.

“Ben, can you ask her if she knows about God and His love for us?” Still feeling shy, I wasn’t sure how to speak my own desire for her to know this God and accept the love He had shown us through the death of His son. So I don’t remember how much I said and how much I left up to Ben. I think that in the end, I merely asked him to ask if we could pray for her, and then for the child. I do remember trying to be careful about asking to pray for the child, because I knew that some of our Ghanaian volunteers probably thought the child was possessed by Satan.

It filled me with unspeakable joy when Ben told me that the mom wanted to accept Christ right then, so he led her through a prayer confessing her need for and acceptance of Christ as her savior, and then I prayed for her. We again tried to call Emilia over, but she again refused, toying with the straps of her faded yellow dress. So Ben and I went to her, standing next to her with our hands held over her as though she were emanating a force field—she would not allow us to touch her. With a closing amen, Ben and I returned to our seats, and while he gave the mom some final instructions, I looked at Emilia. Surprisingly, she briefly met my gaze. We bade her mother farewell and God’s blessings, and then the most amazing thing happened. When her mother stood up and called her name, Emilia came at once, taking her mother’s arm. And so they left, just as they had come—mother leading child—but with the distance between them miraculously bridged.

God works wonders in the field of medicine, in various ways and in various situations. As a surgeon with a passion for what she does, I feel truly blessed to be able to see Him at work on almost a daily basis and be privy to some of the most heart- and life-wrenching conversations that center around the most invasive interventions imaginable. It has also been my privilege to befriend many co-residents and discuss our various visions, hopes and disappointments in our chosen fields. It is my desire and my vision to help my colleagues and those I someday mentor to see these blessings in a field sometimes seen as devoid of true compassion, humility and deep thought. It is my hope that part of this mission of mine will extend overseas and that I might be able to bring these same colleagues with me to see the nations and their need, to cultivate life-long desires and habits. I want to be a transformer, even as I continue to be transformed, to find balance and be even more rooted in my identity in Christ as I live fully in the world, but am not of it.