Day 4
A storm rocked our village last night. Living in Texas, I’m no stranger to powerful storms, and I never tire of watching a good one—but this was unlike anything I’ve ever seen. “Majestic” doesn’t even come close. Lightning didn’t just flash; it danced, alive and relentless, across the sky.
Scripture tells us that the heavens declare the glory of God, that the skies proclaim the work of His hands. How fitting, then, that my roommate and I stood there barefoot in the dark, unable to look away. You take off your sandals when you know you’re standing on holy ground.
We stand on holy ground in our clinics every single day.
Young and old come through our doors carrying pain, questions, and a fragile but stubborn hope. A woman leaves her home at 4 a.m., traveling for hours to reach us. She wonders: Will my needs be met here? Or will I go home disappointed—again? Can I dare to hope that this might be the day relief finally comes?
But she knows the Scriptures. She holds fast to the promise in Romans: that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint. She walks into our clinic clinging to that truth.
Pam has served on both village and surgical teams for decades. She has stories she will carry with her for the rest of her life—faces, names, miracles. Yet even after all these years, she still lights up when she talks about them.
This morning she told us about a 12-year-old boy who came to the orthopedic clinic with a severe clubfoot. You might think that would define his life. It doesn’t. This boy runs on the side of his foot. He plays soccer—every position—with his friends and classmates, refusing to be sidelined or silenced by his condition.
Then he received an invitation to our clinic.
For him, it was better than a Willy Wonka golden ticket. He was so excited he couldn’t sleep the night before. He arrived not with fear, but with anticipation. And as the team examined him, right there in the middle of the clinic, he suddenly burst into song—pure, unselfconscious joy spilling out of him.
Would that we all met life like that—limitation and all—with a song.
And he is just one story. There are hundreds more. Every clinic day, every surgical week, every village we set up in holds another chapter: reading glasses distributed so a grandmother can see clearly her grandchildren’s faces; medication given that lets a father return to work; a wound cleaned and dressed so infection no longer threatens a person’s life.
Even a wheelchair built is not just an aid—it is a doorway. It is the means to school, to church, to the marketplace, to friendship, to dignity. It is the difference between being hidden away and being seen; between depending on everyone else and discovering, again, “I can.”
These are the moments that change us. Not only the stories of those who leave with restored health, but also the stories of those who still have steep mountains to climb, yet walk forward knowing they are not alone.
This is why our name matters.
Faith in Practice is not just a title or a slogan. It is what we live every day: faith that steps into suffering, faith that listens, serves, and stays; faith that shows up in exam rooms, surgical wards, waiting lines, wheelchairs, and thunder-filled nights.
Faith made visible. Faith made tangible.
Faith in Practice.
Julie Eberly Photographer and Blogger
