George

George is a small trim block of a man, short, solidly muscled and without a trace of softness. To me he looks as if he had been hewn out of the native stone of Espiritu Santo, his home island. His hands are a pair of compact meaty squares, wide flat calloused palms, short stubby fingers, thick mud stained fingernails.

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Who Carries Your Mother's Water

High up in the misty mountains of Tanna the village of Yanemilen sits in the fold of the hill. Like a child reclining in the arms of a grandfather. Its back rests against the mountain face behind it and on each side the massive arms of the mountain wrap around it. Surrounded by thick vine-choked jungle it is an island in time. A mile to the south of the village Mt Yasur comes and goes as the grey fog slides over the mountain. Like a tired old man it grunts and grumbles ceaselessly, with its complaints occasionally punctuated by the reverberating “Boom!” as it spits clouds of ash and lava kilometers into the sky.

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Be Mine Valentines?

I made my way to the door of the school, sat down on the rough concrete and leaned against the half finished block wall. We had just finished pouring a bound beam on half of the exterior wall. I was hot and sweaty and my hands were chapped from handling cement all day. I was tired and impatient to get home, it was Valentine’s Day. However, the foreman had asked me to wait for a few minutes; he said he had something he needed to give me before I left. I resigned myself to waiting for his return and in my mind begin rehearsing my plans for an evening with Renee.

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Rainy Day Missionary

I peered out the door of the tin shack into the misty rain. After downpours all night I wasn’t sure how long that this break would last. I decided to make my way to the kitchen before the leaden skies let loose another deluge. I gathered my Bible and notebook and set off through the mist. The kitchen was a quarter of a mile down a muddy road from my hut. I slowly wove my way around mud puddles doing my best to avoid drenching my shoes. I failed.

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Hungry Devils

“Oh this is a good one,” I hear from the other side of the curtain. I am standing in a make shift clinic in Ponmuili a village in south central Pentecost translating for Dr Yumi from Health Care Ministries. We are treating patients from villages that live in stone age conditions. Spending time with doctors and nurses has taught me that when a medical professional refers to a case as a “good one” it is rarely good for the patient. In fact a good case will often turn your stomach.

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