Traveling to balmy San Diego to learn about medical practice in developing nations seemed at first somewhat dyssynchronous to me.  In my experience, global health meant sleeping on concrete floors (at best), and several bouts of diarrhea.  When the opportunity to learn how better to practice medicine in a difficult environment just so happened to arise in sunny California, I quickly sent in my application.

In part, I went to support a faculty member and fellow resident who were presenting at the conference.  Their presentation focused on sustainable change abroad, through a residency global health program committed to impacting a single community.  Attending this lecture helped me appreciate the wonderful opportunities I received during my time in Rochester.  Through this program, I both witnessed and participated in long-term community health work in Honduras.  It didn’t take long to realize: other programs weren’t like ours.  Few took residents to the same country, much less the same town, year after year.  Even fewer had organized plans for change that were initiated and powered by nationals (rather than visiting “rockstar” North Americans).  Our program had worked towards something special in San Jose de San Marcos, Honduras -- something I didn’t quite appreciate until watching in unfold in an academic setting.

Of course, I attended many other lectures as well.  I learned about pathophysiology abroad (particularly parasitology), as well as means of gaining financial backing for sustainable projects.  I heard about maintaining work-life balance in a foreign environment, a goal of particular importance for any physician who plans to move his or her family abroad.  I met individuals who had worked in resource-poor countries for longer than I had been alive in this land of prosperity.  I learned, again, why I went into medicine in the first place. 

This was, perhaps, the reason I am most grateful for having traveled to San Diego the Fall before I graduated.  It was good for me to remember, near the end, why I had started in the beginning.  Somewhere between the hassles of coding and documenting, I had forgotten that entire groups of people live and die completely apart from this artificial “healthcare” system we have created in the United States.  Health is not an electronic medical system, nor can it be measured by such.  Health is people, living well, in whichever environment they find themselves.  And that’s the kind of health I want to spend my life pursuing.

For more hours than I can remember in the past seven years, I have sat in my car with tears streaming down my face over this career. A career in which I cannot provide the care I wish to people who break my heart. People whose eyes I don't have time to stare into -- because if I do, I will lose myself, sit down, and find myself even more behind.

As sunshine streams through the rain's teardrops that collect sympathetically across the windshield, I remember to exhale. This reminds me to ungrit my teeth.

I know the cost, now, of not standing up when God says to move. I remember it every time I must turn away from people who need, because I don't have time to care. Medical training has been my wilderness, a learning ground earned by allowing fear to keep me from entering the Promised Land. I don't ever want to see this place again.

This is what it looks like to live on a "safe" path: the upwardly mobile track down which I was prodded since before I can remember. Good at Math and Science? Detail oriented? Like people? Be a doctor -- you will forget Math, be owned by Science, find yourself consumed by details, and forget about people. You will become someone who forgets that encouragement is an art, not a whipping post of perfection.

God. Don't ever let me forget the price of making my own path, rather than waiting on Yours. Don't ever again let me trust the clammoring voices of the many, rather than listening for the quiet voice of One.

For more hours than I can remember in the past seven years, I have sat in my car with tears streaming down my face over this career. A career in which I cannot provide the care I wish to people who break my heart. People whose eyes I don't have time to stare into -- because if I do, I will lose myself, sit down, and find myself even more behind.

As sunshine streams through the rain's teardrops that collect sympathetically across the windshield, I remember to exhale. This reminds me to ungrit my teeth.

I know the cost, now, of not standing up when God says to move. I remember it every time I must turn away from people who need, because I don't have time to care. Medical training has been my wilderness, a learning ground earned by allowing fear to keep me from entering the Promised Land. I don't ever want to see this place again.

This is what it looks like to live on a "safe" path: the upwardly mobile track down which I was prodded since before I can remember. Good at Math and Science? Detail oriented? Like people? Be a doctor -- you will forget Math, be owned by Science, find yourself consumed by details, and forget about people. You will become someone who forgets that encouragement is an art, not a whipping post of perfection.

God. Don't ever let me forget the price of making my own path, rather than waiting on Yours. Don't ever again let me trust the clammoring voices of the many, rather than listening for the quiet voice of One.

Seven years is the duration of an indentured servitude term, both Biblically and historically. Seven years. Old enough to thoroughly understand the life you lived, and young enough to set out on a different one.

Thank God for Himself. He makes everything new. Even, and especially, the broken.

Each of us has a finite amount of affection.  We waste it on so many things.  We become needlessly invested in minutia, without even considering the alternatives.  Every second we spend upset over things that don't matter is a second we rob from things that do matter.  We have sold our affections, not even to the highest bidder, just to the loudest or closest one.  Affection is the currency of our souls.  Which is why our Father asks us to set our affections on things of eternal value -- because where our treasure is, there our hearts will be also. 

Traveling to balmy San Diego to learn about medical practice in developing nations seemed at first somewhat dyssynchronous to me.  In my experience, global health meant sleeping on concrete floors (at best), and several bouts of diarrhea.  When the opportunity to learn how better to practice medicine in a difficult environment just so happened to arise in sunny California, I quickly sent in my application.

In part, I went to support a faculty member and fellow resident who were presenting at the conference.  Their presentation focused on sustainable change abroad, through a residency global health program committed to impacting a single community.  Attending this lecture helped me appreciate the wonderful opportunities I received during my time in Rochester.  Through this program, I both witnessed and participated in long-term community health work in Honduras.  It didn’t take long to realize: other programs weren’t like ours.  Few took residents to the same country, much less the same town, year after year.  Even fewer had organized plans for change that were initiated and powered by nationals (rather than visiting “rockstar” North Americans).  Our program had worked towards something special in San Jose de San Marcos, Honduras -- something I didn’t quite appreciate until watching in unfold in an academic setting.

Of course, I attended many other lectures as well.  I learned about pathophysiology abroad (particularly parasitology), as well as means of gaining financial backing for sustainable projects.  I heard about maintaining work-life balance in a foreign environment, a goal of particular importance for any physician who plans to move his or her family abroad.  I met individuals who had worked in resource-poor countries for longer than I had been alive in this land of prosperity.  I learned, again, why I went into medicine in the first place. 

This was, perhaps, the reason I am most grateful for having traveled to San Diego the Fall before I graduated.  It was good for me to remember, near the end, why I had started in the beginning.  Somewhere between the hassles of coding and documenting, I had forgotten that entire groups of people live and die completely apart from this artificial “healthcare” system we have created in the United States.  Health is not an electronic medical system, nor can it be measured by such.  Health is people, living well, in whichever environment they find themselves.  And that’s the kind of health I want to spend my life pursuing.

For more hours than I can remember in the past seven years, I have sat in my car with tears streaming down my face over this career. A career in which I cannot provide the care I wish to people who break my heart. People whose eyes I don't have time to stare into -- because if I do, I will lose myself, sit down, and find myself even more behind.

As sunshine streams through the rain's teardrops that collect sympathetically across the windshield, I remember to exhale. This reminds me to ungrit my teeth.

I know the cost, now, of not standing up when God says to move. I remember it every time I must turn away from people who need, because I don't have time to care. Medical training has been my wilderness, a learning ground earned by allowing fear to keep me from entering the Promised Land. I don't ever want to see this place again.

This is what it looks like to live on a "safe" path: the upwardly mobile track down which I was prodded since before I can remember. Good at Math and Science? Detail oriented? Like people? Be a doctor -- you will forget Math, be owned by Science, find yourself consumed by details, and forget about people. You will become someone who forgets that encouragement is an art, not a whipping post of perfection.

God. Don't ever let me forget the price of making my own path, rather than waiting on Yours. Don't ever again let me trust the clammoring voices of the many, rather than listening for the quiet voice of One.

For more hours than I can remember in the past seven years, I have sat in my car with tears streaming down my face over this career. A career in which I cannot provide the care I wish to people who break my heart. People whose eyes I don't have time to stare into -- because if I do, I will lose myself, sit down, and find myself even more behind.

As sunshine streams through the rain's teardrops that collect sympathetically across the windshield, I remember to exhale. This reminds me to ungrit my teeth.

I know the cost, now, of not standing up when God says to move. I remember it every time I must turn away from people who need, because I don't have time to care. Medical training has been my wilderness, a learning ground earned by allowing fear to keep me from entering the Promised Land. I don't ever want to see this place again.

This is what it looks like to live on a "safe" path: the upwardly mobile track down which I was prodded since before I can remember. Good at Math and Science? Detail oriented? Like people? Be a doctor -- you will forget Math, be owned by Science, find yourself consumed by details, and forget about people. You will become someone who forgets that encouragement is an art, not a whipping post of perfection.

God. Don't ever let me forget the price of making my own path, rather than waiting on Yours. Don't ever again let me trust the clammoring voices of the many, rather than listening for the quiet voice of One.

Seven years is the duration of an indentured servitude term, both Biblically and historically. Seven years. Old enough to thoroughly understand the life you lived, and young enough to set out on a different one.

Thank God for Himself. He makes everything new. Even, and especially, the broken.

Each of us has a finite amount of affection.  We waste it on so many things.  We become needlessly invested in minutia, without even considering the alternatives.  Every second we spend upset over things that don't matter is a second we rob from things that do matter.  We have sold our affections, not even to the highest bidder, just to the loudest or closest one.  Affection is the currency of our souls.  Which is why our Father asks us to set our affections on things of eternal value -- because where our treasure is, there our hearts will be also.