Polygamy in the Church....again?

About twice a year I schedule a pastor from America to come and conduct a church leadership conference where he teaches several hours a day on subjects ranging from the qualifications of the pastor to the Works of the Holy Spirit.  Inevitably, there is a local pastor who will come to me and ask advice on how to handle a delicate matter in his church.  Usually, it involves polygamy.

"Polygamy?"  I ask myself!  "But this seminar is about _________!  How does polygamy fit in to that context?!?"

Well, in short, it doesn't!  But, these pastors labor faithfully in far reaching, remote villages where they have little help and support.  Therefore, when they have a chance to get together with 60 or so other church leaders, I can understand why they would want to talk about what is most urgent to their immediate problems.
 
From questions such as these thence cometh my bloggings...

Guest speaker, Pastor Chris Luppino, teaching on Spiritual Gifts while Tanzanian church leadership takes diligent notes.  Isaiah is seen here listening with open Bible seated near the front wearing a pink long sleeved shirt and vest. 

This last May, a local pastor by the name of Isaiah asked to speak to me after the second day of the seminar.  He had planted a church in the remote area of Giatara about ten years ago.  During that time he has faced some hair-raising scenarios, but God has always been faithful.  The one which sticks out in my mind is when the local witch-doctor saw how effective the church was becoming in witnessing to the very people who used to fear him! Because of the obvious lack of respect (as well as lagging income) he came by to curse the church building.

"I will tear down this church!" he was reported to have declared.

I guess he was ignorant of Jesus' promise in Mathew 16 where He said that HE would BUILD His church and the gates of hell would not prevail against it.  Nevertheless, Pastor Isaiah handled the situation with patience and tact; thus, nothing violent ever transpired. On the contrary, he eventually diffused the 'bewitched' doctor by showing him the love of Christ.  I wish that I could report that he eventually received the Lord, but, alas, I cannot!

Isaiah had shared that story with me during the time I was attempting to plant a church in the village of Mdori where a different witch doctor was trying to intimidate the people of that area.  I am sorry to say that that church plant never did get off the ground...not because of any efforts by the witch doctor; contrariwise, because of the unbelief of the people. And so rings clear Jesus' question of: "When the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on the earth?" Luke 18:8

Anyway...

I knew that Pastor Isaiah had most likely already thought through his scenario biblically and was coming to me for reassurance.

"I'd better be on my toes spiritually...especially when it has to do with polygamy in the church." I thought.

As I stood with him to one side of the building, he began relaying his scenario...

A young Christian man from one of our churches moved away to a remote village to farm some land and make a living.  There was no church of any kind there except for one Catholic fellowship.  Soon he and a young Catholic girl became involved and wanted to marry...thus they did...without permission from her parents.  After a while, she was called back home where her parents prohibited her from returning to her husband.  [tribal laws and obligation are heavily respected; when they are ignored, consequences can be horrendous]  Seven years went by and neither had remarried.  Then, the man met and married another lady.  In the mean time, Pastor Isaiah planted his church.  The man and his new wife began attending and after a short time, she gets saved, and he gets his life right with the Lord!  After a few weeks go by, wife number one returns!  He had never officially annulled his marriage with her.  Now, suddenly, and unexpectedly, he has two wives!

Pastor Isaiah's question then is this--How does this man serve the Lord in the church?  Does he come with both wives?  What do the Scriptures teach about his situation?

I paused for a moment to allow the facts to sink into my ears...I asked a few clarifying questions like:

"In seven years neither ever officially got divorced?!?"  
"In preparing to get married again, he never filed for divorce based on abandonment?"
"Does he truly want to get right with God now, or is he looking for the church to sanction his marriages?"


Afterwards, I asked if I could take that night to think about it and talk to him again the next day.  I didn't get a chance to talk to him the next day...but the following day I did.

"That's how it is!" in Arusha

Growing up in America, especially the mid-west, I have grown accustomed to many colloquial sayings such as: “When it rains it pours!”  Of course, we understand it to mean that trouble is no isolated incident.  It tends to increase both in frequency and intensity before letting up.  The analogy is lost here in Tanzania being almost completely an agricultural society that depends on rain for almost everything.  Rain at any time of the year is a blessing; thus, to use it as an example for trouble is almost seen as a curse in their minds. 

Not only that, but 65% of the electricity in the country is generated by hydroelectric plants.  Having had nearly no rain since September of last year has caused the whole country to be on scheduled black-outs since around December.  That, coupled with mismanagement, the water levels to operate these plants have dropped to within two feet of total shut down.  We reap the consequences of daily (and nightly) blackouts which usually leave us with about 6 hours of power out of every 48 hours.  We are thankful to have a generator to rely on which we can run for a couple hours each day; but, with fuel prices reaching more than $5.50 a gallon, it is a costly alternative.  In this case, the “When it rains it pours!” analogy loses its effectiveness on the average Tanzania because if it did rain, they would WANT it to pour! 

Nonetheless, it makes sense in our minds…especially right now.  Not only have we gone through extended black-outs since November 2010, but also, we have spent more than $10,000 in vehicle repairs since returning to the field in February of the same year.  This is, of course, because it is 10 years old…and…the majority of its life has been spent being driven in the bush where the roads age a car at a yearly ratio of about 2 to 1. 

On Monday morning, I brought our vehicle back into the garage where I have developed a long-standing relationship with the management and mechanics.  They have proven themselves to be trustworthy in their analysis and reliable in their repairs over the past seven years.  Well, I was hoping that they could help me by fitting a new belt on our A/C when the mechanic and I uncovered a short list of major and minor problems ranging from replacing the A/C pulley and bearing up front, to re-welding the chassis in the back.  The chassis will have been re-welded three times in the last six months.  This time it came dangerously close to crushing both the break line and the power steering line which run along the chassis under the wheel well.  It would be superfluous for me to list all of the new-found damages here…but I would like to now refer back to the “When it rains, it pours!” principle. 


After leaving the car at the garage, I perilously made my way back into town by using the over-stuffed, lawless, public transport buses.   Once there, I withdrew our monthly pay from the bank.  Afterwards, I met up with my partner in ministry, Aaron Shipe, who was in town with his roomy, safe, comfortable vehicle.  After getting a quick lunch together, we returned to his car to find the drivers-side door lock ‘compromised’ and both of our bags missing from the back-seat floorboard!  Mine had about $1,200 in Tanzanian shillings—the bulk of the paycheck which I just withdrew!  We stood stunned!  We had just 30 minutes prior been warned by a Tanzanian lady selling tangerines on the street that it wasn’t safe where we were because of robbers prowling around.  It was because of this, we decided to move the car forward two blocks and park it directly in front of a bank where we supposed ample security cameras and personnel would deter the average robber.  We were wrong!  Like it or not, we had been robbed—what was done was done!

After finishing a story like this, the average Tanzania would conclude by saying: “Ndivyo hivyo!” which basically means: “That’s how it is!”  I concur…but I would like to add that, for us, right now—it’s not only raining: it’s pouring…like it or not! 

The Arusha Factor Part 2

Oh yes, the Arusha Factor!  That is, after you rehearse every possible scenario that could happen to a guy on a bike and how best to react to it, you have to remember that you can't factor in everything all the time.

Thus, I turned into the right lane and  was immediately struck by a small SUV type vehicle attempting to pass me on the RIGHT--during my right hand turn! 

She hit me with the front left fender of her car and then she must have veered to the right as to not run me over completely.  My right leg was sandwiched between the car and bike for a moment before I went over.  I hit the pavement with my head first and slid on my helmet and the top of my right shoulder with most of the rest of my body in the air hanging over me right beside the car as it went off into the ditch and I came to a stop behind it having slid about 6 feet or so. 

At least 20 people from all around saw the whole thing and rushed over to us.  I was nervous at first because I have heard stories about how when people get hit like that, a seemingly compassionate rush of onlookers scuttle over and go through the pockets of the half dead so they may steal phones, wallets, and whatever else they can get their hands on before 'real' help arrives.  But, it wasn't that way with me--although, I'm not sure why.  I was in town two weeks prior to this event with my car when someone swiped my blackberry cell phone right out of the front seat with both Shawn and Jamison seated inside the car looking on.  I had stepped out of the car only for a moment.  So, folks have no qualms with boldly stealing from westerners. 

But at that instant, while I laid in the dirt (I had slid from the pavement to the dirt)  there was a vehicle coming down from the bookstore where I had been heading.  Driving it was a Tanzanian whom I knew well, a good Christian man named Joakim.  The compassionate crowd intercepted him from afar and then loaded me into his car.  After playing short game of '20 Questions' he rushed me off to the nearest hospital which was about 15 minutes away. I was, at that moment, concerned for the welfare of my bike; but, I knew that I had to leave it for the traffic police who were on their way to write a report.  After that, I didn't know what would be the final fate of my poor Honda 650! 

As it turns out, after taking x-rays at the hospital, I hadn't broken any bones...just suffered a sprained ankle, knee, and hip.  They released me after about 2 hours.  The total cost of my first hospital visit in the country of Tanzania, including meds, was less than $15! 

The next day, I had to go to the Traffic police station and file a report.  I ended up having to stay for about 6  hours while they got the ladies story straight as well as mine...it wouldn't have taken so long if she would have gotten her story a little straighter sooner!  It helped that my rendition agreed with the officers report who went out to observed the crash sight...who also took reports from several witnesses at the scene.  

After the first three hours, I looked out the window and saw it--my bike--and it appeared in good shape!   They had moved it to the wrecked vehicle storage at the Police Station.  The only thing that we could find wrong with it was that it had a few scrapes and the two rear blinkers were smashed...though they both were still in perfect working order even in their limped state.  But, there doesn't seem to be ANY mechanical damage to the bike nor to the frame.  It's a tough bike!  I can probably get the whole thing fixed for less than a $100! 

So, other than suffering through a few weeks of having several annoyingly sprained joints as well as sore neck, back and leg muscles, my over all expenses right now have reached a whopping $115!

The Arusha Factor

On Monday afternoon, I finally swallowed the pill and ventured into town to visit the bank.  Ministry opportunities usually can motivate me to climb atop my 'motor beast' more so than the actual thrill of the ride.  Venturing into the city with it, though, is no thrill!  Actually, it is quite the opposite! 

I am not a motorcycle enthusiast; and, if it were not for ministry purposes, I wouldn't even own one.  I HAVE grown accustomed to the adventures I typically encounter seeing 'Africa' from the vantage point of a motorcycle, however.  But, I wasn't headed to the adventure-filled bush land of Africa on that day; on the contrary, I was headed into the overcrowded, under-organized city.   I groaned.  Nevertheless, I hopped on to my Honda 650, cranked it up, and headed out of the gate. 

When I got to the main road, it was as I expected it to be--packed full of buses, cars, motorcycles, bicycles, and pedestrians very precariously interwoven together on the road, sidewalks and ditches.  This year the city installed their first ever traffic lights which has really paid off in lowering the congestion and confusion by about 1% 

I praise the Lord, though, to have made it relatively quickly in to town and on to the bank where I found that the ominously long line to which I am accustomed was surprisingly short!  That was good news since I needed to make it back out of town again in a hurry if I were to make it to the Christian bookstore before it closed. 

Thus, I was on my way to buy some church songbooks so that I could carry them with me to Babati the next day for Pastor Munah.  He's one of our village pastors who has been pastoring in the same church for more than 30 years.  He had  requested them since they are sold for about $1.50 here in the city as opposed to about $2 in the village.  That 50 cent difference can be significant when you are talking about village life! 

Having successfully maneuvered the bike back outside the city limits made me somewhat 'giddy' at the prospect of pushing my bike passed second gear.  But the thrill was short lived in that I saw my turn approaching so I  turned my right blinker on and began slowing down.  By the time I reached the bottom of the hill I was going slow enough to make the turn off road so I glanced at my sight mirror and saw a car some ways behind me; but, I  knew that it would slow down because of seeing my blinker AND my brake lights...both of which were working fine.  Thus, I turned into the right lane...

Most people do not show motorcycles the same respect they would for a  much larger vehicle for some reason--even in the States.  But, in and around Arusha, it's even worse because most people don't follow would we would consider to be the simplest of 'road courtesy rules.'  I know that...and have to factor that in when driving...whether I'm on my bike or in my car.  But, sometimes, you can't factor in everything all the time! 

...I was immediately struck by a small SUV type vehicle attempting to pass me on the RIGHT--during my right hand turn!

More to come... 

There was Closure

Add caption

In his sober, semi-recovered state, this troubled youth was finally able to answer some important preliminary questions like his name, for example, which was, Mohammed, and where he's from--the village of Kiongozi...literally a kilometer from where I had found him on the road! He provided the nurse with a cell phone number for his mother thus she had called her to come and resume care of her son...then she called me...

I didn't recognize her number so I didn't respond...which prompted her to use one of her five free SMS's from the cell phone company...only...they are pre-set so that you can't personalize the message at all so it simply read "Please call me!" in both English and Swahili. Nevertheless, it didn't benefit me any because I still didn't know who had actually sent me the message. Finally she called me and tried to pack as much Swahili into three seconds as she could as to not waste money...only...I didn't understand any of it so I answered, "huh?" to which she retorted by repeating herself about three times faster...only...now she was a little annoyed because she had gone over her three second time limit.

We continued with this pattern for one more round until she finally just said that I should come to the hospital. I drove down the hill and entered the ward where the troubled but sober young man was recovering and found him surrounded by visitors with his mother sitting against the far wall. After greeting her I asked about any more details she might had discovered. She was somewhat vague. I felt as if I was getting in the way of others who wanted to come in and talk so I took that as my queue to return at a more opportune time...which I did...the next morning...and found him gone!

Feeling that I had somehow missed a perfect, God-ordained opportunity to share with the recovered young man the good news of salvation in Christ, I returned home.

The following week I was enjoying my morning devotions in my office when I heard someone announcing his arrival at our front gate. I came out and stood face to face with Mohammed who was wearing the clothes I had brought for him. Since I'm about 6 feet 5 inches tall and weight about 200 pounds, my clothes looked a little ungainly on his 5 feet 11 inch 135 pound frame. Nonetheless, there he stood staring me in the face. After about 3 seconds of growing accustomed to each other's appearances (he had barely seen me while in his right mind for more than a few moments) he bowed himself to the ground at my feet and began to weep while crying out words of gratitude. I was touched to see his level of appreciation; but, I also felt uncomfortable with the display, though I didn't let on lest he become embarrassed and less open to converse about the Gospel.

I invited him in to fellowship over a bottle of soda and to discuss what had happened on that day...then he relayed this story to me.

He had awakened early that morning and prepared himself to be gone all day looking for work. He knew that he wouldn't have another chance to eat until the next day, therefore, he asked his wife to prepare a meal for him before he left that morning of ugali, greens, and kachumbari. Ugali is a corn meal mush--very common--very tasteless; kachumbari is a cold salad mixture usually seasoned with salt and other spices. Mohammed said that as he ate the meal, he noticed that the kachumbari had a 'different taste'...but he was in a hurry so he neither inquired about it nor gave it a second thought. He left his house and walked up to the main road to follow it into the small town of Babati; but, as he reached the road he started feeling sick. He tried to continue but only made it a few steps before he collapsed in the middle of the road. He had no recollection of being dragged off the road...meeting me...being carried to the hospital...fighting the nurse who was inserting all kinds of tubes etc.

The 'other spice', he said, was the cattle dip capsules which his wife mixed into the kachumbari. The two pills would have been strong enough to dillute 100 gallons of water and dip 50 head of cattle! Evidently, she was tired of the day to day struggle of life and thus wanted to return home to her parents; but, divorce on such grounds is highly scorned and the hopes of her re-marrying into a better situation would be quite low. "Death by poisoning" seemed to be the wearied wife's only logical alternative...for her husband...not herself!

Mohammed finished the story by emphasizing that he had already met with the village leaders who advised him to forgive her and to not charge her for the crime. They told him that God had given him a great gift...a second chance at life!

On that note, I opened my Bible and began to show him that our Creator and Lord has similarly given to us a 'second chance at life.' We, like him, are dead in our trespasses and sins. Not only that, but we, like his wife, are guilty of crimes unspeakable against the very God who created us in His own image and likeness.

"The Lord's hand is not shortened that it CANNOT save, neither is His ear heavy that He CANNOT hear, but your iniquities have separated between you and your God." Isaiah 59:1-2 The word "separated" in the Swahili Bible applies to those who are 'dead' but it may also apply to those who are considered 'close to death' with no hope of recovery. (He could sense the relevance.)

But, because of the obedience of Jesus Christ (I continued), who knew neither sin nor guilt, to take the punishment of our sins upon Himself on the Cross...and...to conquered death itself through His resurrection, He now offers us Life Eternal. It is our second chance...our only hope!

After pausing for a reaction, he responded by agreeing with everything I had said. This is quite common for Tanzanians and I have grown accustomed to it. Disagreeing with an elder or anyone you respect is on the top of the list of cultural taboos. Having recognized this, I started to address some of the most common misconceptions among Muslims in Tanzania thinking that, left alone, he could never really accept the substitutionary death of Christ. Some common misconceptions are: the Bible has been re-written by Christians; Jesus, though a great prophet, is not the Son of God, He certainly did not die on the Cross, as well as a few others.

He admitted that he was struggling with these questions so I challenged him to come back another day so we can answer each one openly and honestly. I could tell he felt intimidated and vulnerable, and I, for one, do not like to 'take advantage' of people under those circumstances. Intimidation is not conviction...and...vulnerability is not sensitivity; so, I prayed for him then gave him a Bible to read. We said goodbye. He left.

About two weeks later he came back to visit me. We sat fellowshipping over another bottle of soda. He said that he had been visited by two different Christian pastors in his village--the one, a Pentecostal, the other, a Lutheran. Both women.

Women pastors in Tanzania truly is an enigma! It is, by and large, a male dominated society! Most men value women as they value their cattle. This opinion is augmented with the Islamic teaching commonly found here that women are not meant to think, but work. Nonetheless, he went on to tell me that the Lutheran pastor made more sense to him. Even though he still wasn't sure about converting to Christianity, if he did, he would do so by being baptized in the Lutheran church. He had already picked out a new name for himself--Emmanuel.

I asked him to explain what the pastor had taught him about how to be saved. He said that she told him that he had to be baptized to have his sins washed away. I rejoindered (while hiding my distress) that baptism can't wash away sin! A person can only be saved by putting his faith in Christ who took our sins upon Himself on the Cross. He was obviously confused by the opposing Christian worldviews...Unfortunatly, he needed to go. I asked him to visit me again so that I could clarify the meaning of salvation...and address more of his concerns He asked for the location of our nearest church. I told him that it was here in Babati--8 kilometers from his home. He thanked me and took a tract which I often use here entitled "The New Birth." We prayed. He said goodbye and left.

I never saw Mohammed again after that day. Who can tell if he stayed locked in the shackles of Islam, or if he traded those shackles for the chains of 'churchianity,' or if he received the New Birth and New Life found in Christ! Though disappointed myself, I knew that these had been my God-ordained opportunities to share the good news of Salvation in Christ. I was glad to have had a chance to 'plant' the seed of the Gospel on his first visit then to 'water' that seed on his second visit. I then left it in God's hands to bring the increase in His time. There was closure. I was at peace. I prayed that he would find peace.

Add caption

A couple of days later, I decided to go by the hospital to see if Mohammed/Emmanuel owed anything more on his hospital bill. The nurse called me a "Good Samaritan!" I didn't know how I felt about that...but I was glad to know that she was familiar with the story and hoped that it had more meaning to her now. She said that the balance had been paid by the elders from the young man's mosque. I thanked her for her time and left.

The next day, I climbed atop that motorcycle of mine and went barreling down the same long, hot, treacherously dusty road ...Bible 'in hand'...waiting to see what I might encounter along the way...by God's predetermination of course.

The Beginning of the End

So here I was just down the hill from our house at the Babati Hospital with a man  whom I've never met who was dying from a cause yet undetermined on the very morning I really didn't want to pull myself atop that 'electric donkey' of mine to anyway.  I left home early that morning in order to fulfill a discipleship engagement in the village of Mdori where I had been ministering 3 days a week.  Now, after only two hours time I had returned almost to my port of origin having been thrust out of my normal pattern of ministry into a 'way side' opportunity. 

After dismounting the bike and locking my helmet to the seat, I rushed over to help carry the poor man...but...he was already being carried.  I followed them into the examining room where the men from the car left him and said that he smelled like 'dip.' 

For those of you thinking 'Frito-Lay' or even 'Copenhagen' I should clarify by saying that 'dip' refers to the poison used on cows to kill fleas, ticks, tsetse flies, and other kinds of annoying pests which persecute cattle to no end.  The poison is usually sold in capsule form and then mixed in about 50 gallons of water.  The water is sometimes sprayed on the cattle; but, more typically they are herded through a dipping station where they are submerged...hence the name. 

The question is then begged--why does this poor sick man smell like cattle dip? 

Those who had carried him into the hospital quickly turned and left. I stayed behind to describe the situation as I discovered it and to relay a detailed account of my short conversation with the sick fellow to the nurse.  The nurse's preliminary astute analysis was that he was poisoned...and with the pungent aroma of cattle dip in the room, little more examination was necessary for validation.  The astute nurse then began asking him loud pointed questions like: "What is your name, young man? Where are you from? Who's trying to kill you? Are you trying to kill yourself?"  To which the only response she could elicit was: "Hospital!  Hospital!  I'm dying!  Take me to the Hospital!"

They immediately moved him to a ward where there was only one nurse on duty who then started inserting tubes into most every bodily opening he had.  Being understaffed, this was quite a battle so I stepped in to assist in holding him in various ways as he began to lose control of himself!  I fought to hold him...she fought to insert tubes...we finally prevailed as he settled into a forlorn mental state of helplessness! 

The dutiful nurse then asked who would be in charge of caring for the patient.  I had to confess to her that I had unfortunately skipped the normal social formalities which usually occur upon being introduced to a stranger and thus knew nothing about the poor, sick, young man.    The head nurse for the shift finally came in and as she and I talked we reached an understanding that I would be responsible for him until it could be determined who he was and from whence he came! 

From the hospital, I went back home to relax a few minutes, to get my bearings, and to talk to a Tanzanian friend of mine about what had happened.  We went together to bring him raw milk, as requested by the nursing staff, as well as a complete change of clothes.  We didn't think that he would survive the night, but we wanted to be prepared if he surprised us. 

Morning came and we returned to the hospital.  To our surprise, the young man had made it through the night!  I wanted a chance to talk to him about the Lord but at that moment he was under heavy sedation.  I told the nurse that she should inform me if he were to recover and be in any condition to receive visitors. 

Two days later they called...

"Are you drunk!?!"

That was my first question.  Not a good ice breaker, I know, but the normal formalities for which the Tanzanians are known seemed inappropriate in view of the circumstances. 

“Please help me…please take me to the hospital!”  was his panicked response. 

I couldn’t smell any type of alcohol on the helpless man laying in the ditch crying out for help.  It was puzzling.  My previous experiences of finding drunk people passed out in ditches didn’t match up with this one any way.  It was early morning and I usually find people in ditches in the early evening…occasionally in mid afternoon…but this would have been the first morning encounter…unless you count crazy people whom I have sometimes encountered sleeping in the street in town in the early morning.   But they usually haven’t bathed in forever and are wearing rags for clothes...like the guy who climbed into the back seat of my car in town a few weeks earlier and then had an ‘accident’ in the back seat when we tried to get him out.  No, this guy was dressed well enough…and clean.  He was also in his right mind for the moment although panic stricken.  The more I examined him, the more puzzled I become. 

Taking action seemed to be more relevant than to continue analyzing his puzzling state of  pain-stricken soberness so I ‘changed gears’ and started thinking of ways to get him to Babati.  I knew I couldn’t carry him on my motorcycle…he would fall off for sure!  At that moment, though, a bus leaving Babati full of passengers heading for the city of Arusha approached so I decided to stop it and ask for help.  They couldn’t help, of course, because how in the world would they get a forty foot long bus turned around on a winding dirt road which cuts through the African bush?  They did say, however, that the earlier bus had encountered him just an hour ago in the middle of the road and since they were at a loss of ideas on how to help him, they dragged him off to the side and left.  That would explain the drag marks I had seen which meant that he hadn’t been hit by a car. 

As the bus pulled away a car was coming FROM Arusha going TO Babati.  Hey, if they’re going in the right direction maybe THEY will stop!  They did stop but there was no room, of course.  I proffered for a volunteer to ride with me on the bike as to make room for the puzzling sick man, but they found my offer unappealing.  Many were interested in gazing at the man before moving on; but, up to that point, I had no luck in finding help.

Then…finally…another packed car stopped…and they made room for the man.  It took three of us to carry the ‘dead’ weight of the man to the front seat and lifted him inside.  Then they took off for the Babati hospital and I followed on my bike. 

“Should I just make sure he gets there and then be on my way?  Should I stay behind until he gets checked in?  Should I stick around to make sure that he’s taken care of properly?”  A thousand thoughts filled my mind!  I knew that patients relied on relatives and friends to feed and care for them while they were in the hospital.  There are no cafeteria services available.  I also knew that unless someone at the hospital recognized him upon arrival--no relative or friend would even know that he was missing!  What I also realized was that by the time we reached the hospital the man might even be unconscious…or worse!  That means that the hospital would look to me as a surrogate ‘friend.’ 

I followed them all the way back into town and then up to the hospital where I dismounted my bike and hurried up to the vehicle to help carry him inside.