Once on the field, missionaries often find themselves in situations that go well beyond their Bible school training. This was especially true in the earlier days of missions. Take a walk into the past with this account from Harold Reiner, Brazil missionary since 1949. Harold and his wife, Joan (pictured above), still actively serve in northeast Brazil, and they still actively pursue opportunities God brings their way—no matter how out of the ordinary.
Sabastião’s festered leg
Northeast Brazil, 1962
It was early morning when we heard a clap of hands at the gate, the Brazilans’ equivalent of knocking on a door. Our house bordered the railroad track that led out of the city of Juazeiro do Norte toward northeast Brazil’s coast. It seemed strange that anyone would use that familiar clap at the front gate so early in the day. What was this all about? The man handed us a poorly scratched note. It was from Apodi, a small farm near the interior city of Assaré. A young man named Sabastião was suffering from a festering leg that was the result of a gunshot wound from years before. Would I fly him out for medical attention? Another mercy flight.
Hop the old jeep, off to the town’s makeshift airstrip, pre-flight our Piper Tri Pacer PT-BBZ, and a half-hour flight to Assaré. Having arranged a local jeep there, we were able to get to the Apodi farm. There, Sabastião lay with his festering leg wrapped in what appeared to be an old bed sheet torn into strips. As we worked our way back to the Assaré airstrip, it became apparent that his wife and mother planned to accompany him to Juazeiro, where he would be treated. Checking over the plane, we were off for Juazeiro, the four of us.
My wife, Joan, was at the airfield and jeeped all of us to the local hospital. Sabastião would have surgery the next morning.
An unexpected twist
Mid-morning the next day, the hospital car blew its horn in front of our house. What did they want? Dr. Hildigard, the surgeon, was having trouble with the surgery and needed my help? What did I know about festered legs? Didn’t I do my part by flying Sabastião out from the interior? But I felt good. I was becoming important and known in the Catholic Hospital. This was an important achievement for missionaries in northeast Brazil. In the early days, the Catholic Church had fiercely persecuted Baptist missionaries. But because I had the only airplane based in the interior of northeast Brazil, I was able to serve the community in cases of emergencies, and this opened doors for even the persecutors to hear the gospel.
It pays to be handy
I remember entering the operating room and seeing the open leg. Now I can stand the color “red,” but “blood,” no. I fainted away and when I came to, I was lying on the floor and a nun was fanning me. After my pale face colored a bit, I got to my feet and asked the doc, “What’s going on?” The leg was slit open, and he showed me the slotted heads of four oversized stainless-steel screws that secured a rough-looking steel plate to the bone. But I said, “Doc, it’s the other side of his leg that’s festered.” I was getting interested in the project now. “I know,” he replied, “That’s where the problem is. The screws put in some years ago are too long and pass the bone, leaving the points sticking through into the flesh on the other side. Infection has set in, and we must remove these screws, and I don’t have the proper tools.” Remember, this was nearly 50 years ago, and interior hospitals were crude and poorly equipped. And the job called for tools more appropriate for auto repair. Being a certified aircraft mechanic, I had a variety of tools.
I saw no more “red.” I was into it, ready to go. The hospital chauffeur drove me to the house; I picked up a couple of heavy-duty screwdrivers and headed back to the hospital. Doc put them in the sterilizing oven to cook. They cooled off and I went to work. The hours passed.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch
And how were things going at the house with Joan and the two women? The mother and wife didn’t seem to be worried about anything. They had seen Sabastião suffer so long that nothing seemed to matter now. They were intrigued with the American style of living. The Servel kerosene refrigerator that we brought to Brazil in 1949 fascinated them. How could fire at the bottom be so cold at the top? And ice, where did that come from? Then there were the children’s pet guinea pigs that ran around the house and scrambled behind the refrig at night to relax near the small, warm kerosene flame. Joan was having her day.
Harold gets down to business
Oh yes, back to the hospital activity. With all effort applied to the man-sized screwdriver, I was unable to back off the screws. A more sophisticated tool would be required. A brace and bit? That would do it. So, back to the house we went. I found the brace and picked out two bits for slotted-head screws and rushed back to the hospital and into the operating room. Sabastião looked a bit more pale but was responding to my encouraging remarks. I pulled over a stool that was nearby, climbed up to get a position enabling sufficient pressure on the brace with my chest. The first screw was out. The nun cleaned up the blood, and we went to number two.
It didn’t go well. The head broke off, as did one other of the remaining two. Doc Hildigard stood bewildered. I assured him that all was under control, but inside I wasn’t too sure. The steel plate had dropped off, but the two headless screws still had their points protruding through the bone into the flesh on the other side. “Doc,” I said, “We’ll take them out from the other side, but you’ll have to make a small slit so I can grab the points with a heavy-duty lock pliers.” Doc, the surgeon, was ready to participate with his profession while I headed to the house for the pliers and back to finish my job. The slit and blood were there, but with ease the proper tool carried the two remaining on through the open slit, and my part was done. I felt good.
All’s well that ends well
The next day I went to see Sabastião. I complemented Doc Hildigard on the attractive stitching closing the incisions. I watched as the nun bandaged the wounds, and then I went home. Sabastião would have to be flown back to Assaré in a couple weeks, then taken by jeep to his home in Apodí. That would finish my part, but Joan would have to carry on for while taking care of Sabastião’s wife and mother for another two weeks.