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Overview
Doctor Bill Becknell moved to Russia and, despite not speaking the language, began providing medical care to people in the villages above the Arctic Circle. He traveled by truck, snowmobile, reindeer sleigh, and helicopter to reach people who had never seen a doctor or heard about Jesus—people who told him that they’ve been waiting all their lives for someone to explain who created the stars in the night sky. Every trip he made was an adventure. Despite extreme hardships, brokenness, sacrifices, and even near-death experiences along the road, Bill discovered that God has an unfailing love that is beyond comprehension.
This is the true story of one man’s journey to confront and understand the suffering, pain, confusion, and despair that challenge our lives. Sorrow is a part of living, but how we handle the tragedy in our lives makes all the difference. This book was written to encourage us not to be afraid to step into the unknown abyss of faith.
“This book about battles of faith . . . will be an encouragement to everyone who reads it.” —Ingeborg Fuhrhop-Stetzler, president, Agape Germany
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781630474171 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Morgan James Publishing |
| Publication date: | 10/01/2018 |
| Series: | Morgan James Faith |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 150 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
the promise
it was cold ...
I mean ... "really" cold ...
It was the middle of winter in Russia, and tonight the temperature was less than -30 C. I had never been in weather this severe in my entire life. We were well above the Arctic Circle on this night ... or maybe it was day? I couldn't tell. Because daylight does not exist here from December through January.
Here I was, standing in this frozen desert with my new, heavy-duty Arctic LL Bean goose down coat, and feeling very "out of place." My hood was up, my gloves were on, and I was shaking inside from the cold and the anxiety.
I was standing outside a small frost-covered metal building on the edge of the tundra. Off in the distance was "nothing" but white. I could not even see a horizon. A light misty snow was falling slowly past a lonely streetlight on the edge of the civilized world, and the men inside the building were busy preparing our reindeer sleds.
I had just asked a question and I really wanted to know the answer.
"Why are we leaving at midnight, instead of in the morning?"
Our tundra guide said, "We are leaving at midnight so that the lakes and rivers will be frozen. This way there is less chance that we will fall through the ice."
That was not very comforting or what I wanted to hear! I wish I hadn't asked.
Our host handed us some very "stinky" reindeer skins to put on and we climbed onto the sleigh, and suddenly, we were off with a jerk. Our host was waving good-bye to us, and his image quickly faded into the snowy mist. Within a few seconds, his figure was gone.
We were now "racing" across the frozen tundra in the middle of the night on the back of a wooden reindeer sleigh pulled by a Russian snowmobile that was ready to give up and die at any minute. The distant lights of the small settlement could be seen inside the snow cloud that quickly faded behind us. A snowy mist escaped from under the front of the snowmobile to circle around and surround us in an icy cloud of snow spray.
That was "the beginning" of an unforgettable journey to the "Ends of the Earth" ... or should I say "The Top of the World"?
As the sleigh flew across the frozen tundra for the next eight hours, and we became lost for several additional hours, I had time to think.
What in the world am I doing here? This is stupid!
How did I get here?
Why am I putting my life and the life of my translator at risk for death? She has two small kids at home. Maybe I should not have asked her to come with me?
Am I crazy? This could be a disaster!
I started to pray ...
Lord, here I am far above the Arctic Circle, traveling on a reindeer sleigh across the tundra in the middle of the night. It is -30 C, and my driver has told me we are traveling at night because we'll have less chance of falling through the ice on the lakes and rivers ...!
Am I doing what you want?
Is this where you want me to be?
Please forgive me for all these questions and doubts. I truly believe it was your calling that brought me to Russia, and I am trying my best to obey. But, I am scared for the safety of my translator and me. Did I make the right decision to come here?
Full of uncertainty and unanswered questions, I was more concerned for my translator than myself. I was living on a borrowed second life, and so it was not a big deal if I died ... but my translator is the mother of two small children.
The night ride was so picturesque! There are no words to describe the incredible beauty of that night as it reflected the moonlight with "zillions" of sparkles that surrounded us like diamonds everywhere we looked. It was incredibly beautiful and peaceful.
I started praising and thanking God for each one of those little "sparkles" off the moonlight, and for all the Love He had given me through His Son Jesus Christ. Then with the adrenalin flowing and my heart pounding inside my chest ...
I could hear God whisper ...
"Relax ...
I have you exactly where I want you. You are in the palm of my hand!"
An amazing peace flooded me, and I knew I was okay. Safe. I was now "one" with my Heavenly Father, and nothing else mattered.
The answer to all those questions about "how I got here" began many years ago with my childhood in the mountains of Eastern Kentucky.
I was flying across the frozen tundra tonight, not knowing where I was going, putting my life and the life of my translator into the hands of a man we had never met before today, because of a "promise." A promise I made to God when I was a teenager, and now, I was here to keep that promise.
My journey to Russia begins with a promise ...
A Day at the Farm
It all began as an ordinary day during my early teenage years ...
Then ...
Suddenly ... there was an explosion of beautiful colors ...
No noise ...
No pain ... but,
Now, I lay paralyzed on the ground.
I was in severe pain,
I could not breathe.
My clothes were on fire and I was seconds away from dying.
This is the story of what happened that day, and how it led me to Russia. It changed my life forever!
It was a hot summer afternoon in Eastern Kentucky, typical of what we call "dog days" of August, but as I remember, this was June. (Some people say the phrase "dog days" comes from the ancient Romans and has something to do with a star named Sirius.)
But, not in Eastern Kentucky. To understand what is meant by "dog days" you must visit the Appalachian Mountains in August and look at the dogs. These usually rambunctious and playful hound dogs normally jump all over you, but in summer they look dead.
They are lying lifeless on the front porch of a house or mobile home that sits among the green trees on the mountainside. But if you look closely, they are breathing ... barely. These dogs are lying in the shade with their tongues hanging out, "panting" for their next breath of air.
Each breath looks like their last. If you come near them, they will not even lift their heads, but they might have enough energy to move their eyes and glance up at you. Otherwise, no other body parts are working.
On days like this it is difficult to do anything. Simply moving and breathing is hard work. The humidity is so high you sweat like Niagara Falls, and any movement feels like you are swimming in molasses.
That's why we call 'em "dog days."
The weather is not fit for a dog!
Today was one of those days.
The sun was beating down on me and I was "burning up" as people would say. I was wearing a thin, short-sleeved shirt and it was "wringing wet" with sweat.
My mother was kind enough to drive us from our small town to what we called "the chicken farm" out on Island Creek. My father had a busy medical practice in this part of the world and was loved and respected by all his patients. He was as close to the TV's Marcus Welby MD as anyone you would ever meet in real life.
I never met another doctor like him. He loved medicine, and he loved the "art" of medical practice. He loved and cared about his patients, the mountain culture that he called home, and agriculture. The world could use more doctors like him.
Unfortunately, medical practice is a business today, thanks to the government and insurance companies. This "golden age" of medicine in which he practiced is gone. But, I find it really strange that people think putting a huge government organization or large bureaucratic "for-profit" insurance company between the patient and the doctor will result in better and cheaper medical care.
We already know the government cannot even manage a monopoly like the post office, and to think they can do a better job managing medical care at a cheaper cost is absurd.
My father once told me that over one-third of his patients didn't pay their bills. Still, he never refused to help anyone whether they paid their bills or not. They continued to be his patients, and he felt like it was his responsibility to try to help them, no matter who they were or what they owed him.
Back to the Farm
This was his "chicken farm," because my dad loved not only medicine, but agriculture. He was born and raised in the mountains, and his family lived close to nature in the hills of Eastern Kentucky. Most everything they needed they raised in a garden or on their small hillside farm. As a young boy he plowed the family farm with a team of mules, and because he was the oldest, it was his responsibility to take care of the family. His father had a job that required a lot of travel, so he was not home much to help with the farm chores.
Dad had planned to graduate from the College of Agriculture at a mountain college, but in his last year he decided to pursue his dream of being a doctor and applied for medical school at the University of Louisville.
He had written the U of L Medical School many letters when he was a child, asking how to apply to medical school. He applied and was accepted with his first application. He used to say it was only because they already knew him from the many letters he had written as a boy.
His "chicken farm" had over 10,000 chickens that laid eggs every day, and these were then sold to the local grocery stores. I could tell you some character building stories about this place and how I shoveled chicken manure (yep, it was really stinky); I shot a "lead mine" at clay pigeons; learned how to speed shift a pickup truck; raised prize winning 4-H Angus steers (which were very tasty); and learned to drive a tractor, rake and bale hay. I was curious about everything.
My father was always trying to help people by creating new jobs in the poverty stricken mountains. During his lifetime, he owned and operated this chicken farm, plus two large coal mines, a dairy farm complete with pasteurizing milk and home milk delivery, and a hog farm. He also raised national "field trial" prize winning bird dogs and fox hounds. None of these were profitable! Medical practice and delivering babies was a full-time job, and there was not enough time to manage a farm and a busy medical practice. But he loved agriculture and nature.
Late in life, he owned a farm which became a wild life habitat for deer, wild turkeys, grouse, quail, ducks, geese, and any other wild animals that happened to pass by. In the last years of their lives, my mother and father would sit in rocking chairs, under a shelter, and watch these wild animals for hours.
I remember talking with him once about how much money he had lost during his lifetime trying to do all these "other" things, and his comment was, "Yep, you are right, I lost a lot of money, but I enjoyed every minute of it." I guess if you look at it that way, it is hard to argue. My mother would disagree with him. But, she was a faithful wife and supported him in whatever he wanted to do.
Sheriff and Outlaws in the Emergency Room
Growing up as a boy, I remember seeing our sheriff brought into the emergency room of my dad's office. This was the only emergency room we had within 100 miles. This time the sheriff was dead. He had been shot several times in an ambush. He was the first dead man I had seen outside of a funeral home. He was pale gray, blue on the backside, and had blood all over his uniform, with holes and big spots of blood on his chest and abdomen.
He had been ambushed somewhere up in the mountains, and the first place they brought him was "my dad's emergency room." It was the only place we had in the 1950s.
When I was a boy, I remember seeing several law officers who had been shot, (usually over illegal alcohol), terrible car accidents, drownings, shootings, many broken bones sticking out through the skin, heart attacks, and one small boy who had been literally "scalped" when a mule kicked him in the head. I assisted my dad with that one to sew the scalp back on his head. I saw him later and it looked good. You could not even see where he had been scalped. The mule had tried to kick his brains out, but his scalp "hung on."
Sadly, people talk like Family Practice is a lost and dying specialty. But my father could do almost anything. He could set your broken bones, treat your heart attack, trauma, and even deliver your baby. And, he could do it well. When medical malpractice came along, things changed. Nothing got better, it simply drove the cost of medicine through the roof. The lawyers won, and society lost, because today doctors practice "defensive medicine" and order extra expensive tests to avoid lawsuits.
Experience is a great teacher, and few had the experiences he did. All the things you would normally see in a busy emergency department came to this small room in his clinic. It would have made a great medical school! There was lots of pathology!
Our private home was only 20 feet away, and because I was always curious about everything, including medicine, I was in and out of his medical office all the time. Plus my mother would send me to the office to "get your dad for lunch." It seemed he was late more often than he was on time for lunch and supper.
Upstairs in this same "medical office" was the Manchester Maternity Hospital. No ... it was not a real hospital as you would think of today, but it was a place where mountain women could come and deliver their babies in safety instead of delivering them at home. It was much safer than home delivery.
I liked being around the medical office. It was interesting as a young boy to see all these things, and my dad was a good teacher. I asked a lot of questions. But I never once got sick or started to pass out when I saw blood.
Only medical people will understand this. As a young boy, I could never figure out what those GYN "speculums" were used for, and my dad would never tell me. It was only in medical school that I learned what pap smears were and how to do pelvic exams. As a child ... I was always trying to figure out how they worked! If you are in the medical profession, you are welcome to laugh if you can imagine a little boy playing with one of those speculums, thinking it looked like a duck's bill, and making it go quack, quack.
My father was also a Christian. He was not a "believer" when my parents married, and I don't know the exact events that triggered his conversion. But his life was devoted to his family and patients. I have mentioned some of the aspects of his life, because his character deeply affected my own life and character formation.
Death Was Coming
I had worked for months to build this gas powered model airplane, and today my brother and I were determined to fly it. The paint had finally dried and it was ready.
It was a beauty!
I had painted my model airplane "black" with gold details just like the real Mooney airplane I would own later in life (see photo). The black Mooney paint job was "classy" and I often received nice comments from the control tower when I was landing or taking off. I had named my real Mooney airplane "Amazing Grace -The Wings of Love" and I really enjoyed flying as an instrument rated pilot.
People would often comment about the black color, and say, "You should paint your airplane white because if you have an accident it will be easier to see." My response was, "If I have an accident, I will most likely be dead and it won't matter." But during the summer, I confess it was really hot in that black airplane until you got up to altitude where the temperature dropped.
I hate to fly commercially. Most pilots know what I am talking about.
Commercial flying is so boring. Smooth. Seldom a bump, comfortable temperature. You can get up and walk around. They bring you nice cold drinks and a snack. But, in a small plane it is different. It may be boring after you get to altitude and go on auto-pilot, but there are times it can be punctuated with moments of "stark terror," especially in bad weather. I have been there a few times!
So, I started the motor on this small model airplane and gave it to my brother to hold while I ran to pick up the control handle in the center of the circle. In those days we did not have "radio controlled" airplanes, and so, the airplane was controlled with two small steel wires which came out from the wing of the plane and into a red plastic handle which I held in my hand.
The engine was roaring, the wind from the propeller was whipping my brothers t-shirt. I was excited, my heart was already flying. I was nervous but ready to finally fly this airplane. My biggest fear was that he would release it, and I would crash it into the ground and break it into a million pieces! But it felt great to have my fingers wrapped around that control handle, and we were going to "fly" it today or "die trying"!
"Let it go!" I yelled over the roar of the engine. He did, and suddenly the plane was flying! It was great! Round and round and up and down it went. I was so happy.
The airplane was fast and it maneuvered beautifully, I felt like I was "in Heaven" ... and little did I know how "real" that possibility was about to become.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Faith"
by .
Copyright © 2015 Dr. Bill Becknell.
Excerpted by permission of Morgan James Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Lost on the Tundra!Chapter One: The Promise
Chapter Two: Promises. . .Promises. . .Promises
Chapter Three: Character Formation in the Appalachian Soul
Chapter Four: How I Knew It was God. . .And Not Pizza!
Chapter Five: Brokenness