Day 3
Another day, another cause for celebration. Tuesday’s clinic was filled with bright successes and equally touching experiences. Our morning began, once again, with a beautiful buffet and a devotional that centered our hearts before the work began. After arriving to the clinic, we exited the bus to a line out the building of hopeful patients waiting.
I would like to shed light on one particular story that deeply impacted many of our team members. A young man named Alvin walked into our clinic alone, looking for care. He is only 26 years old, and as we learned his story, it became clear how much courage it took for him to be there. Alvin had been drinking daily since he was twelve, and by sixteen, he found himself without a home. That means more than half his life – years that should have been carefree, were instead shaped by struggle far too heavy for someone so young.
By the time he reached us, Alvin’s abdomen and calves were swollen, and his eyes had taken on a yellow tinge – signs of severe liver failure. He now lives alone in a park, and coming to our clinic was his last push for help after trying so many other doors. What struck our team was not just the severity of his condition, but his willingness to still ask for help at all. That single act of walking through our doors took real strength, and it is why we are here: to make sure that when someone finally finds the courage to ask, someone is there to answer. Our medical team got to work immediately, and Alvin left that day not with a cure, but with something he may not have had in a long time – a team in his corner and some relief. He was then to a larger facility that could provide him care with equipment we did not have access to. We are holding onto hope for his next steps.
Later in the afternoon, I was brought out to the mobility clinic, where I was met with a kind, joyful face. The “community grandpa,” 90 years young, received a wheelchair that day. Throughout his life, he sold water bottles from a small cart on the side of the road to help provide for his 10 children and 40 grandchildren. As we fitted him for the wheelchair that would support his daily functioning, he kept repeating praises of gratitude, shaking our hands again and again, a wide smile never leaving his face. It was a beautiful reminder that dignity can arrive in various forms.
Dinner brought its own kind of joy. A lovely mariachi band serenaded the room while team members and volunteers danced with one another between the tables. The cheers and laughter that echoed off the walls warmed my heart – we have already become good friends, bonded over just a few short days. This mission is so crucially important and being surrounded by like-minded people who feel that same pull is refreshing. It’s easy to carry stories like Alvin’s home with a heavy heart, but it’s nights like this that are full of music, laughter, and connection that remind us why we keep showing up: because for every hard story, there is also this much light.
