It was a very special Friday in Kemantian. I had just spent a few hours with AFM Training Director, Laurence Burn, talking about redemption and how God can use us to help other people who don’t know him. Sabbath was beginning, and the whole Palawano Project team was gathered together in the Georges’ for worship. I had been in Kemantian only four weeks, and I was enjoying it a lot, but I recognized the challenge before us, towering like mountains all around us. So, when it was my turn to pray, I remembered a challenge that Laurence had given us to pray like Caleb when he asked Joshua to give him the mountains, because he had seen the giants living in them, and he believed God would give him victory. I prayed that God would show me the giants in the mountains of my heart and help me conquer them so I could better love and serve the Palawano people.

The next morning I awoke early to a beautiful Sabbath, hot and clear. Our view of the sun rising over the mountains was spectacular. We were up early because the whole team and the church members were going to have church in Kensuli, about an hour’s hike away. From Kemantian, we can easily see Kensuli, which sits on the opposite mountain slope. But getting there is another matter. The trail to Kensuli follows the shape of a V, descending steeply down to the Tamlang River and then up a nearly vertical mountainside. Many people, including me, wear soccer cleats to keep from slipping on the steep, muddy path.

Naphtali, Brenden and I were ahead of the rest of the group, talking, laughing and enjoying the day as we hiked down toward the Tamlang. Naphtali had brought his puppy Kumba along. The dog was terrified by the roar of the river, swelled by a week of daily rains, so I carried it over some sections of the trail down to the suspension bridge.

Still carrying the dog, I carefully started across the bridge’s wet planks, not thinking how poorly hard plastic cleats work on damp, slippery wood. In a flash, I found myself on my back as the bridge swayed beneath me. Still clutching the dog, I wasn’t able to reach out and grab the cables, and for a moment I was in danger of rolling off the bridge into the foaming chasm below.
As the swaying diminished, I checked to make sure the dog wasn’t hurt, and then I began taking stock of my injuries. There was a numb sort of pain in my leg, which was folded under me. Naphtali came running up to help me. When I straightened my leg, I saw that my foot was jutting off at an odd angle. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back onto the planks. Oh man, I thought, I’m going to have to ask Naphtali to put my foot back in place . . . I hadn’t even finished my thought when I felt a crack in my foot and a sharp pain. Naphtali had seen what needed to be done and had realigned my foot while my eyes were closed!

I crawled back off the bridge so the rest of our group could pass. Naphtali was already at work with his machete, cutting branches and roots to make a splint for my foot. After the group made sure I was otherwise okay, they continued on toward Kensuli. Brendan and Naphtali stayed behind to help me back up the mountain to Kemantian.

Since we clearly were going to miss church, we decided to have worship right there. It was a bizarre but special moment, sitting there singing by the roaring river with my broken ankle propped up. I felt deeply joyful and thankful despite the pain. I hadn’t fallen into the river and drowned. God was with me.

After our worship, Brenden and Naphtali improvised a stretcher, and we started the slow, difficult hike up to Kemantian. I felt very sorry for those guys. I am not a light person, and the trail is hard enough with empty hands. I couldn’t imagine how hard they were working. After struggling for a while with the stretcher, they finally admitted that we needed to change tactics. They folded my leg up, tied roots around my thigh and shin and made a strap over my shoulder so my broken foot wouldn’t move. They supported me under each arm, and I started hopping up the mountain on my good leg. However, the trail was too narrow for three of us side by side. Eventually the roots started to loosen and allow my foot to move, and each hop became more painful. I tried crab-walking on my hands and good foot, but that was too slow, so we went back to painful hopping.

As I was beginning to wonder if I would ever make it back to the village, a group of high-schoolers and locals returning from Kensuli caught up with us. With more carriers, we decided to use the stretcher again, and this is how I finished the journey to Kemantian.

As I waited at the clinic for the rest of the team to return, I had time to face the thoughts I had been avoiding. My foot and ankle were swelling more and more, and the skin coloration was worrying. As a doctor, I knew that if it got worse, the swelling could slow blood flow to my foot, leading to necrosis. I knew I had to get out of the mountains.

When the team returned, they started preparing to carry me out. With all the effort it had taken just to get me up from the river, I honestly wondered if it was even possible to carry me all the way down to the lowlands. Only those who have hiked the trail to Kemantian can appreciate how narrow, steep, slippery, treacherous and grueling it is, even in the best weather. I could tell my teammates were worried, too. But Naphtali remained optimistic, saying it was doable.

They built a clever hammock for me attached to poles. But as we started the hike, one design flaw became problematic. My foot was getting wedged between the bamboo and the hammock, and each swing of the hammock twisted it from side to side. Every few hundred feet, the pain would become too much for me, and we would have stop to reposition my foot. Eventually we got the hammock adjusted right and were able to make steady progress. However, the sun was now setting, and the rest of our journey would have to take place in the dark.

The swinging of the hammock still hurt, but I tried to make things as easy for the carriers as I could and not complain. All I could see looking up was their headlamps and their faces, sweaty with effort. Yet they were so cheerful, making jokes and laughing all the time. At first there were only a few guys to carry me. But as we passed through a village, more people joined to help, and there was less need for rest stops.

As we moved through the darkness, I was praying the whole way for the guys who were risking injury and even their lives to help me. Several times someone beside me would suddenly disappear from my view as he fell off the trail. He would tumble down the mountain until he could stop himself, and then he would climb back up to the trail and continue on. But the guys never lost their spirit. For seven hours they carried me down that trail, sweating and tumbling and laughing and hooting all the way to the trailhead in the lowlands.

I have nothing but gratitude and admiration for all the people involved. I was blessed by their spirit and their willingness to help. In my time of need, I felt their deep sense of community and self-sacrifice. To me, they were Jesus’ hands and feet, carrying my burdens. I have a new appreciation for the Bible story of the man whose friends lowered him through the roof to where Jesus was. This is the heart of God—self-sacrifice, going the second mile, taking risks to help someone who cannot help himself.

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