Lost in Maputo-land.

I’m not sure how to update you all on my equivalencia paperwork without coming off as hostile, morose, or defeated. So I’ll try to stick to the facts.

Fact number one. I got promises for immediate action (meaning an answer in less than one week) from the director of education in Maputo.... 5 weeks ago.

Fact number two. Last week, I got a call that there was an answer to my paperwork but since it was a Friday, no one could be bothered to open the envelop and read those results over the phone. My friend in Maputo would have to show up in person on Monday.

Fact number three. My friend was busy so he went in on Tuesday. While there he was told that the department of education had LOST my most recent application. We’d have to resubmit everything. --everything since January that is. That equates to 5 months of wasted time.

Fact number four. I’m really disappointed, somewhat angry, and overall unimpressed.

How does a country, that has lost or misdirected my application four times in almost two years, get anything done?

Seriously, are you kidding me?!

Please pray as this next round of paperwork should be submitted next week. Pray for supernatural results.

This is beyond ridiculous.

More Papers Than Sense

Last year after getting the license to open the clinic, I headed off to Beira with a spring in my step to buy supplies for the clinic. Beira is the best place to buy medicines since it’s a coastal city and there are a number of pharmaceutical companies that import medicines directly to the port. 

When I approached them for catalogs and supply lists, they told me with tight-lipped condescending smiles they could only sell them to me if I had an AVARA.

Never having heard of this document before, I returned to Maforga empty handed. I asked around for help in obtaining it and got a LOT of conflicting information. Once the dust settled and I was able to filter though yet ANOTHER set of paperwork requirements, things got even more confusing.

I won’t bore you with the details. But I will share that I’ve been working on the process for over 9 months and I don’t feel even one step closer.

After spending lots of money getting the building inspected and registered, I was informed that my efforts were wasted. You see... I had been seeking a way to establish a pharmaceutical license/AVARA for the clinic. That way I could buy the medicines in Beira and then provide them to the community.

But I should have done my homework better.

The Mozambican laws prohibit a private clinic from also owning a private pharmacy. And even though the clinic is a charity/non-profit clinic, there is no way to have a non-profit pharmacy.

So... I was denied that route.

The only route that remains is to get the AVARA for the clinic. This is still a possibility and it might permit me to buy some medicines. I’m not sure. But to complete the process, I must wait on others.

So I wait.

And I pray.

Please pray with me.

Thanks.

Equivalencia Update

You know it’s an off week when you look down at your mud stained feet and wonder when you took your last shower.

Yes. You read that correctly. And when I say shower... I really mean bucket bath.

In the midst of my feet-inspired reverie this morning, mini flashes of strange and various adventures this week confused my counting and I had to start again.

Finally I determinde --with much self-incriminating horror-- that it has been 7 days.

One week since I showered.

Oh the shame!

It’s at times like this that I’m thankful God hasn’t married me off. Who would share a bed with such a stinker?!

So as I stop to type this out, imagine my grimy toe nails and greasy hair and laugh with me.

I have much to share.

In fact, I have so much to share. I’m going to do it in mini segments because, honestly, who has time to read diatribes on Mozambican corruption or shady mechanics?

I will start at the beginning though. The question is... which beginning?

The Maputo Adventure (and all that came after)

In my most recent newsletter I told you how I went to Maputo to talk to the US ambassador and various heads of departments at the Ministry of Education and Health. I won’t belabor those points again but I will add what has happened since.

The consulate staff has corresponded with me and told me basically their hands are tied. They can (and have) tried to address the delays in my equivalencia process on a more systemic level, but to no avail. They are even willing to make phone calls for me if and when it seems necessary. However, the extent of their influence is limited at best.

I believe them.

Moreover shortly after my visit to Maputo, the Ministry of Education director promised to expedite things (according to my helper in Maputo) but no concrete evidence to this fact has surfaced. She promised to have results by the end of the week. It’s been 2 1/2 weeks since then.

The cogs of bureaucracy move slowly here... if they move at all.

So the long of the short of it is... I must wait and pray. So, I wait and I pray.

The locals are chomping at the bit to see the clinic open. Eyes are on me. Not a day goes by that one of the workers doesn't ask me ‘how long?’.

Can I blame them?

I’ve been encouraged by some on my team to ‘just open it’ and to ‘forget getting government approval’. I’ve been told that the ‘law of love supersedes the laws of man’ and I’m commanded to just start healing people.

How can I argue with that?

Except... except... except, the Bible tells us to abide by the laws of the land. If we don’t abide by them we disgrace God and bring shame to His name.

How do I reconcile the two?

I tell my would-be encouragers that if I practice medicine without a license I can be arrested. No one seems to believe me. No one really thinks I’ll be thrown in prison or kicked out the country for ‘doing good’. But who wants to risk it?

What kind of Christian would I be to openly defy the government on such an important issue? Why put myself in such a predicament, especially in such a litigious society, so I can have the pleasure of handing out medicines?

Yes, the law of love supersedes the laws of man. But am I qualified to pick and chose which laws to obey?

But we are not talking about being forbidden to speak about Jesus or pray in His name. I’m not being forbidden to preach... I’m being told they need to vet me before I dole out malaria meds and catch bambinos.

To me... these are quite different circumstances.

Moreover, I must explain that my equivalencia is not the only thing holding up the clinic’s opening.

The three main issues blocking my way at the moment are:

• a new clinic roof is needed but delayed.
• there is currently no water to the clinic and there is no way to determine how long it will be to resolve the problem.
• the AVARA document process is stuck. This is the document which allows me to buy medicines in bulk and for discounted prices.

Other issues come into play (such as my car is broken again!). But I won’t rant about that at this time. I will, however, promise to write about them all individually and in more detail in the days to come.

But please know... I’m tired and discouraged. I feel like a failure and daily want to give up. I could be inches from my destination... or I could be a million miles away. I cannot know for sure or clearly see what is next. Pray for me.

Please.

Maputo Bound (Part two... or how my papers moved)

So.... the saga continues.

That first night in Maputo was cold and noisy. The feral dogs antagonized the neighborhood guard dogs.

Barking ensued. Lots of barking.

After breakfast, I caught a city bus (or chapa) for the government offices in charge of my paperwork. It takes 40 minutes or so by bus and is a bit of a circuitous trek off the beaten path.

I made it by 10:30 am only to find the doors locked and the lights off.
    --What? Was it a public holiday?

I looked around and found people watching me jiggle the door handle in dumb confusion.

I turned to them and asked, “Isn’t this the place where I get my Equivlencia?”
-- “No, they moved.” The man looked at me kindly and with much more patience than I deserved. I could see he had had this conversation before.
-- “Moved?” I toyed with the tone in my voice and opted for flat. “Where?”
-- “You have to go back downtown.... then it’s around the corner from the Department of Education.”

I pressed him for clearer directions after insisting I was not a local, but all he could accomplish was to write down the exact same information above. Sigh.

So with a new destination in mind, I retraced my steps to the center of town (another 40 minutes back) and I found the new building. But by this time, it was dangerously close to lunch and I was not sure any staff would even be there.

The building was beautiful. Be-UTE-i-ful. Beautiful!

It shone with the glow of tile wax and chrome. Its steps were covered in well-edged tile and its walls were smudge-free. The furniture looked like it was cut from a magazine --modern faux-finish accented with chrome.

I looked down at my (now) dusty sandals --ineffectively hiding chipped nail polish-- and smiled a little. I was going to dirty up their polished interior. 

As I entered the main office, a clerk was hammering out the finer points of the equivilencia process to a woman in tight jeans and platted hair. She had a beautiful degree stenciled with Arabic calligraphy and bright colors. I spied it over her arm, but the only word that made sense was ‘Qatar’. I smiled at her impishly and waited.

When she left, the clerk asked what I needed and I handed him my file number. I wanted to see how things were progressing, I explained. He handed off my identification number to an underling, who took it and walked woefully to a long row of file cabinets.

I sat down to wait.

Would I have to wait two days for them to find it like last time? I wondered.

Twenty minutes later, I was called up to the desk. The clerk looked confused, my file open in front of him.

-- “We have your file...” he started, “but I don’t know what it means.”
I waited silently. Praying. He obviously had something more to say.
-- “You need to speak to my Chef... but he is at lunch.”
-- “Can’t I see what it says?” I asked, reaching for my file.
-- “No... no. You must talk to my Chef.” He shifted the file slightly away from my hand. A flash of fear in his eyes at the thought I might take it by force.
-- “Did they refuse it?” I asked after a long, pregnant pause. My hands obediently by my sides.
-- “Come back today at 3 pm," he offered. "My Chef will be back from lunch by then.”
Clearly, he did not want me to touch my file or know the secrets it held, so I relented and agreed to return at 3 p.m.

I confess my hopes were not high when I left. My last diploma was rejected... and I was starting to think this one would be as well. Ugg.

I returned to the guesthouse deflated, ate lunch, and napped. But as three-o-clock ticked ever nearer, I found myself back in the shiny, waxed office.

Once the clerk met my eyes, he asked me to take a seat and wait. He had to find his Chef do departemento, he explained. But after looking for awhile and making a few calls, he learned that the Chef was in a meeting. I’d have to come back in the morning.

-- “Can’t you just tell me the results of the file?” I pleaded.
-- “Can you please come back in the morning?” He (almost) pleaded. “Come at 9 am.”
-- “What time does the Chef come in?” I asked.
-- “He gets in at 9 am.”
-- “What time do you open?”
-- “7:30 am.”
-- “I’ll be here at 7:29 in the morning...” I stated flatly.
He nodded that he understood completely, and I left him with a smile. Or was it a leer?

The next morning, I was feeling half nauseated (must have been the chicken I ate on the bus), half nervous (what if he denied my degree?) when I entered the office doors.

I was not there a minute before the clerk called me to the front of the line. (Yes, there as a line at 7:30 a.m.!)

-- “The Chef is not in the office today...” he informed me.
-- “Is there someone else I can talk to?” I queried. “I need to help clear up a misunderstanding.”
-- “Yes. Yes. Let me get her,” he mumbled quietly and scurried off.

While I sat, I prayed. It had been 7 months of this. I’d been filling out paperwork and shuttling back and forth to Maputo for 7 months... and they still had nothing. Why, Lord? What is the hold up?

Eventually, a round-faced woman in a polyester skirt suit called me to the front desk. Her purse was on her shoulder... and I could see she had to leave any minute.

-- “The Ordem de Medicos (or medical board) insist you are not a doctor,” she explained. Lights were going on in my brain.
              --They thought I was a doctor? Oy! Vey!

I nodded to show I understood and waited. She continued to outline that every office they had sent my documents to (two different offices at the medical university and the medical board) all were at a loss as to what to do with me.

I continued to wait.

-- “The Chef has a meeting to go to... we are late,” she confessed. “But I’m going to ask my second in charge to take over this case.” She paused a minute, then added, “There has to be an answer.”

I thanked her and went to wait a bit longer. I couldn’t help but wonder if I had made this journey in vain. Would I have to return to push on this paper in a few more weeks? When would this merry-go-round stop?

Ten minutes later a thin man in a pressed, white shirt and olive green trousers called me forward. My file sat open before him. He seemed genuinely nervous... almost chagrined.

-- “Senhora, we don’t know why the medical board refused your degree...” he explained. “We are going to send it to the Ministry of Health for a review and get back to you as soon as we can.”
-- “Sehnor,” I interrupted kindly. “The medical board is right. I am not a doctor... nor do I pretend to be. The confusion is due to the Portuguese word for midwifery. I am a midwife. My degree is in midwifery. But the word in Portuguese for Obstetrics... is the same for Midwifery. There is no other way to translate this degree.”
As I explained his eyes lightened with understanding and he allowed me to continue without interruption.
-- “I spoke with the doctors in Chimoio,” I explained. “My equivalencia should be for a degree in nurse-midwifery not obstetrics.”

He smiled in relief as I explained and promised to send the file off that morning for approval. He apologized that I had to come so far and especially being that I had to travel through insecurities to get there... and even offered to send my documents directly to Chimoio via courier once they were ready. That was a first.

We exchanged numbers and I left. This has been my 5th trip in 7 months... and I hope it will be my last. My fingers are crossed that the courier will actually work out, but I’m not very optimistic. I suspect I’ll have to return to Maputo again. The question is when.

From there, I was tempted to leave back to Chimoio that night but I was booked for another night in the guest house. I wasn’t sure if I should stay or go. I opted to stay that night and left the next day.

But... the trip back is a story unto itself. I’m still exhausted from the trip... and would rather write when my mind is clearer.

More to come.

Please pray that my documents (no doubt on someone’s desk at the ministry of health in Maputo right now) are approved, stamped, and signed off in record time. Thanks.

First Step.

A journey of a thousand miles always starts with that first step.

And my journey --of opening this clinic in Moz-- has begun.

Finally.

The first step is complete.

I have the signature! (And I did not have to pay a bribe to get it!!!!)

I can open!

As I look back over all the waiting, praying, pushing, and crying I’ve done in the process of taking this first step, I’m both horrified and relieved.

I knew starting a work in Moz would not come easily. But with God’s promises that it would (eventually) come, I held on.

I’d be lying if I said that through these long, strange months my faith was always strong.

More often than not, I was shaken.

I have been discouraged... and often frustrated.

        Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!

But now as I lift my other foot and stretch it in faith for the next step, my heart soars in gratitude.

        Praise Him! He is faithful!

He guides my steps. He goes before me and behind. He surrounds me in His love!

So what now?

Great question.

Now I have to take 4 more steps.

1. I need a document called an AVORA, which will allow me to purchase medicines for the clinic. (I started this process today!)
2. Then I need to restart my ‘equivilencia’ process which will allow me to legally practice as a midwife. (I’ll have to go back to Maputo for this... pray for the right timing.)
3. I’ll also need to start actively interviewing nurses and putting ads on the radio station for interviews. (I’m not sure when to do this. Pray for wisdom!)
4. Lastly, I’ll need to finish all the unfinished construction projects at the clinic to make it inspection worthy. (Because this takes SO LONG, I’m starting this process today. I will be interviewing a new construction crew to help me complete it faster. Pray for discernment and enough funds for the projects.)

Thank you awesome prayer warriors! Thank you faithful friends! Thank you!

Keep praying.

My Papers.

This week has been ... well... interesting.

To say the least.

I went to Maputo in search of answers. My papers. I needed my papers. The broken record in my head stutters over these two simple words.

My papers.

You, who have followed my adventures these last few months, know well that I’m in need of My Papers to open the clinic. But I have not explained what it means and why it’s so important.

Forgive me for that.

Now is the time to explain.

I’ll try to be brief.

Last October, it dawned me that I’d have to get my midwifery degree approved in Mozambique in order to practice. So I stumbled through the paperwork process, trying to decipher the litany of stamps, translations, and certifications needed to submit it.

My Portuguese was not as good then ( 6 months ago), and I was uncertain as to how to proceed. But I eventually mustered through them.

However as I tried to submit them locally, the Minister of Education encouraged me to instead go directly to the source --Maputo.

“Everything is done in Maputo”, he said looking highly distracted. “You’ll save months of waiting if you do it there.”

Why? Was he just too lazy to help? Or was he right?

I wasn’t sure. But I decided to believe him and so sent my documents with a friend to Maputo.

But once in Maputo, my friend was scolded for having done them wrong and was informed they’d have to be redone to include an even longer list of criteria.

So I went back to the drawing board, reworked them, and then submitted them again. But this time I went in person.

Unfortunately, I’d lost a good month in the process.

But even after re-working them like mad, I’d apparently done it wrong again. I had to stay several days running around Maputo finding even more stamps, photocopies, and signatures.

Not easy.

(Since I was at it, I decided to get both my diplomas recognized and submitted my Theology degree alongside my Midwifery degree.)

After a number of days, they finally accepted my documents, instructing me to return in a week to follow up.

-- “Really?”, I asked in excitement. “They’ll be done in a week?”

The woman behind the counter looked at me like I’d been hit with the stupid stick more than once and hissed lowly, “No. But come back anyway. We might have problems with your application and need you to fix it.”

-- “But I live 17 hours drive away,” I pleaded. “I cannot come back next week.”

Not even trying to hide her annoyance, she suggested: “Just stay in a hotel then, and come back next week.”

-- “Hotels are too expensive...” I argued on stupidly, “I’m a missionary. I cannot afford to live in Maputo for a week only to be told if my application is correct or not. Can’t you give me a number to call so I can follow up from my province?”

Sighing in a deeper annoyance than before she spat, “No!”, adding tersely, “You’ll just have to come back in a month!” Then she quickly turned her gaze to the woman standing behind me, stack of papers in hand, and asked, “Neeexxxt?”

I left a bit dismayed by her attitude, grumbling the words “Functionary!” under my breath. But I couldn’t help but feel relieved. After two months of sweating over these documents, they were finally submitted!

A month went by... and I returned to check on the papers.

The 17 hour bus ride there was not easy. Cramped. Hot. Stinky. But I made it back to this nation’s capital intact and ready for anything.

Well... almost anything.

I didn’t know I was so doggedly optimistic about getting approved, until I walked into the same small office and found the same disgruntled functionary behind the desk.

When she told me that neither of my degrees had been decided on yet and that I should come back in another month, I balked.

This was during a time of rebel activity and it had been unsafe for me to travel by bus in the first place. Rebels were bombing vehicles along one stretch of the road... and I could not keep coming back only to be told to wait... and wait some more.

-- “Can’t you, please, just give me a number to call?” I begged. Then I explained the distance and insecurities of travel for a single woman.

She seemed more inclined to help me this time. And after some deliberation, finally agreed to give me the number for their office.

I thanked her, then left that night. The 17 hours it took for me to return was starting to get a bit easier. I made friends along the way. I took in the sights. I was even able to sleep sitting up.

But once back home each time I called to follow up, no one answered the phone. This went on for weeks... a month.

Finally, frustrated and annoyed now, I returned once again to Maputo.

When I walked into the cramped office for a third time in so many months, I was deeply annoyed that the woman seemed smug. She asked a bit haughtily, “Aren’t you the one from Chimoio?”

-- “Yes. That’s me,” I said trying to keep the distain from my voice.
-- “Why are you here?” she asked pleasantly. “I thought you were going to call? Didn’t you say last time it was unsafe for you to travel?”
-- “Yes. It is unsafe to travel... but I didn’t have any choice,” I explained. “Each time I called, the phone just rang and rang. Then after some time, it said that it was not connected.”
-- “That can’t be,” she protested. “You must have been dialing the wrong number.”

I repeated the number to her and she nodded that it was correct, looking confused.

Another woman, sitting further back behind stacks of folders popped her head around to throw in her two cents. “It must be your phone,” she argued. “Try calling it now.”

I did as I was asked and my phone flashed once again that it was an invalid number. I showed it to her, not hiding my smug expression. Did she really think I didn’t know how to make a call?

Then I watched her pick up the phone, switch it on underneath, then insist I call it again. I did what she asked and found the number rang.

Sigh.

The phone of a whole department had been turned off --literally turned off!-- for a month.

Oh! Mozambique!

Okay... okay.... I know I’m taking a bit longer than I expected. I guess I have more to say than I realized.

Please bare with me. I have more... but not much.

Long story short, I was informed once again that my papers had not been done and that I’d have to return. But this time, they gave me two numbers to dial instead of one.

Dejected and more than a little frustrated, I journeyed home to once again report nothing had been done.

But by this time my relationship with local Ministry of Health official was better, and he decided to help me push this through.

So when it came time to call again for a answers, he called for me.

But would you believe it... both numbers they gave me were false! Neither worked even though his secretary called every few hours for two days.

He did not seem surprised.

-- “You’ll just have to go back again,” he told me with a sad shake of his head.
-- “Really?” I sighed. “There is no way for you to get different numbers?” I knew I was reaching, but I had to ask.
-- “Nope,” he sighed back with genuine sympathy, “Sorry...”
-- “Okay... but what can I do differently?” I asked desperately, “Can you offer any advice?”

He hesitated, rocked back on his chair, then smiled. “Yes, I can offer you some advice.”

Then he quickly explained the ‘White skin factor’ of such delays and encouraged me to get the secretaries’ boss involved. The plan was simple. Go over their heads... but do it politely.

Bus trip number four.

Still cramped. Still stinky. Still hot. But somehow easier... almost routine.

This final time was earlier this week. I managed my trip so I could walk in to the cramped office bright and early on Monday morning.

The functionaries were rushing about and obviously busier than usual. Once it was my turn, I was told to wait a bit while they searched for my file.

I waited... and waited.

And waited.

I wasn’t annoyed though as I could see they were systematically flipping through a long wall of file cabinets, and asking others to help search.

An hour went by and she finally called me up to the desk.
-- “Your file is lost,” she almost whispered.
-- “Lost?” I asked incredulously, cocking my eyebrow up for emphasis.
-- “Please give us today to keep searching,” she pleaded in hushed tones. “If you give me your number, I’ll call you once it’s found.”

I gave her my number out of curtesy never once believing she’d call. Then I added, “But either way, I’ll be here tomorrow morning for my file.” The warning in my voice was clear.
She nodded gravely and I left.

The next morning, I arrived to find that they had not even searched again. Asked to take a seat and wait, I watched two men slowly make their way through folders stacked in clumsy piles amid battered boxes.

Another hour went by.

And I prayed and prayed....

Sometimes I prayed that my files would be found.... but mostly I prayed that I would not reach over the desk and gouge out the functionary’s dark eyes.

Yes. I know. Not very kind of me. But true.

I didn’t want to shame Jesus by even using a harsh tone in my voice.... so I guess it’s a good thing I had an hour to pray!

Eventually, I heard her call for ‘Stephan’ (most Mozambicans forget to add the last syllable) and I jerked my head up in response. Our eyes met and she called me over.

-- “This is one response,” she said dryly, handing me a stamped paper. “You’ll have to sign here,” she added, pointing to the top of the page, “to say that you’ve received it.”

My heart jumped. Was this it? Had I finally done it?!

My eyes scanned the paper.... something didn’t seem right. So I read it quickly, my heart sinking as the bold script screamed denied.

Denied?

I read it again. And again...

It was my Theology degree results. They refused to recognize it, claiming my school was not accredited.

“Hogwash!” I thought to myself but I didn’t say that. Instead, I nodded that I understood and signed where she had indicated.

I had been sure my Theology degree would be approved. Sure! The fact it hadn’t honestly frightened me. Could this be? Would they really deny my education? Not possible!

Once I calmed down a bit, I stared at her with determination until she met my eyes again. She looked uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable.

I think she expected some kind of argument.

But I didn’t argue. I didn’t really care about my Theology degree. What mattered was my midwifery degree. What were the results there?

-- “What about my other degree?” I asked flatly.
-- “They are not done yet.”
-- “Not done?” I asked incredulously. “But it has been over four months!”

She looked dejected but somehow also sorry for me, then said, “I don’t know, Senhora.”

A long pregnant pause.

She made no effort to explain or apologize further so I leaned in closer.

-- “Very well,” I said calmly, “In that case, I’ll need to speak with your boss.” This is what my minister friend had instructed me to do.

She didn’t even bat an eyelash. Instead she nodded gravely, called an office assistant over, and instructed him to take me to the boss immediately.

Ten minutes later I was sitting at the boss’ desk, appealing for help. At first he seemed irritated with my requests for aid, but with time his frosty demeanor warmed.

-- “Please, Senhor,” I pleaded. “I really need your help... four months for an answer seems too long. Something is wrong.”

He hesitated, seemingly puzzled as to what to do, so I waited for him to think it through. But even then, he flipped it back on to me.

-- “What should I do?” he asked innocently. I honestly wanted to laugh in response. Was he really asking me how to do his job?

Seriously?

Sigh.

I told him what I thought was to be done. He listened kindly. I continued on, detailing possibilities and options. He thought about them, distractedly shuffling papers about his desk.

Then I sat silently and waited.

A few minutes later, a decision was made and he enthusiastically went about getting it done.

First it started with curt orders to the secretaries. “Write this and that! Sign it there!”

Then it was fruitless phone calls to the other departments. “Why don’t they answer? Call again!”

Then it was long explanations of detailed plans to make it happen, all his secretaries listening intently and nodding deferentially.

Finally, he turned to me and promised answers the following day.

I thanked him and left.

But the following day, the secretaries barely looked at me entering before they called for another office assistant to take me to the Boss.

This was not looking good. The dread in my stomach ate acidly up my throat.

Gulp.

Was this going to be another denial? Would I have nothing to show for this 6 months of labor but a bad story? Really?

Once in his office, I tried to smile but failed. I could only coax my lips to press in a tight straight line -- the dread barely caged behind my teeth.

Before he spoke, he shook his head in disgust almost as if in warning. A full minute passed while he busied himself with a stack of papers needing signatures.

I waited silently, not trusting my teeth to hold back the dread.

But when he spoke, I was relieved to learn that I was not denied --not yet at least. No.... in fact, it was more a matter of incompetence. And he was not happy to admit one of his departments had dropped the ball.

-- “Senhora Stephanie,” he started, “The paper was sent to the medical university for approval.” I nodded. He continued, “They didn’t know what to do with it and refused to decide.” I nodded on but a look of confusion clouded my eyes and furrowed my brow.

-- “What do you mean?” I asked.

-- “They referred your degree to the specialist department of the medical university for review. But they never actually took it there. So... it’s been sitting on someone’s desk for over a month and a half. Just sitting there!”

I was flattered by the indignant tone in his voice. He seemed as upset about it as I was. They had obviously dropped the ball.

-- “I’ve managed to get it sent to the right department yesterday, but you’re going to need to push it from Chimoio.”

I listened, nodding periodically. He spoke so quickly and used such high Portuguese that I was at a loss several times. Fortunately, his irritation caused him to repeat himself often. Eventually, I got it.

He instructed me on the best way to proceed, but it requires lots of favor. Lots. This is where you all come in. I need your prayers.

I am now back in Chimoio, and tomorrow I head in to speak with my friend at the Ministry of Health. I have to ask him to get involved again, but this time I need him to do more than make phone calls.

I’m not sure what he’ll say. Frankly, I’m worried. We have a good relationship, but I now have to ask him to send a delegate from the Min. of Health in Maputo to lean on the Min. of Education medical department in Maputo.

This apparently is the only way it’ll happen. Sigh.

But more than that... the hang up seems to be more about me being “Just” a midwife. I need his delegate to explain what an expert midwife is. They don’t have a category for one here it would seem. And I need to ask them to make a new category.

I might as well be asking for the moon.

If not, the likelihood of me being denied is high. Too high for my comfort.

My heart doesn’t know what to think. My brain just turns circles. My body would like to scream... or maybe run away screaming.

Yeah. That.

I want to run away screaming while my head turns and my heart bursts silently.

Okay... that might be a bit much. Actually, I’m mostly at peace... with periodic bouts of panic.

If you would... if you would only please, pray for:
-- My relationship with the Min. of Health to be strong enough for me to ask for the moon.
-- My diploma to be approved as is... or a new category to be made for me if need be.
-- For this labyrinth of paperwork to finally come to a close. I’m dizzy from all the blind alleys and dead ends.

Thanks.

I love you awesome prayer warriors!

Urgent Prayer.

Tonight I take a bus to Maputo. The goal? My papers (equivalencia) needed to open the clinic. They are still not ready and the secretaries at the ministry of education have quite literally turned off their phone. There is no way to check up on them, except in person.

I'm sick of waiting and waiting...

While discussing this long delay with our local minister of health recently, he clearly explained they were waiting for a bribe.

-- "They see your white skin and think, 'If I hold on to her papers, she'll have to pay up!'", adding with clear disappointment in his voice, "It should take no longer than 15 day."

-- "Fifteen days? Really?" I asked with incredulity, remembering how the secretaries were adamant it could take a few months. I've been waiting for four months already.

-- "Yes," he went on to explain. "By law, it should be only 2 weeks."

-- "What should I do? They aren't answering the phone... even for you?" I pleaded.

-- "You must go in person, ask to see their director, and not leave until it is arranged. I'm sure it's sitting in their desk drawer."  He then detailed the kind of formal request needed to follow up on such incompetence. He was clear and specific -- so much so that I feel encouraged.

So tonight I start my journey South. Please pray with me for favor... much favor. Please ask God to release these papers and allow me to open the clinic. Please pray for my words and my body language to be kind when I know it's just corruption and greed I face.

We fight not against flesh and blood, right?

Please fight with me in prayer. Much prayer.

I'll keep you posted.