Two wise doctors

Irish students and graduates were dispersing all over the globe in the cause of making Jesus famous for all the right reasons. Our European colleagues couldn’t help but notice that so they invited us to help to give this process a turbo-boost.

The idea was that since many young Irish people of our acquaintance had gone on short-term projects we could coordinate their deployment, foster their welfare and upgrade their training. So far, they had gone to places like Zaire (as it then was, now Congo), Bolivia, Algeria, and Poland. We could also provide the same service for other European graduates from the vantage point of a base in Germany.

We followed the logic and were happy with the idea of smoothing the way for our compatriots plus whoever else showed up. But first we would need to go through the exact same cross-cultural training as everybody else. An eclectic group of veteran trainers had been assembled in the East End of London in the midst of the vast medley of cultures there. That’s where the first four months of our new life would start.

The day came. We packed up our stuff and, like so many before us, left Ireland. We didn’t know for how long. It could be for ever. You never know, do you? Before we made our way from Blackrock to the Dun Laoghaire-Holyhead ferry our next-door neighbour did the kindest thing she could think of. She cooked us a full Irish breakfast to remember. It wasn’t exactly the smoothest of crossings, so I had a few extra opportunities to remember that breakfast.

We ended up in Plaistow in the East End, bag and baggage, and were assigned to a flat conveniently located upstairs from the training room in the same building and in direct contact with local life. That building also backed on to a kebab shop which became a big part of our life because their back gate clanged loudly until late at night, reverberating through the house. In the morning we would find pickles strewn on the pavement because the kebab customers didn’t seem to like the pickles that were included in their takeaway. Maybe they didn’t have the heart to tell the proprietors face to face.

Language learning is a big deal when you’re trying to identify with somebody’s culture and it certainly was a big deal in our training. It’s good manners and was exemplified by Christ himself. When he claimed to be the Son of God and foretold his arrest, death and resurrection he did so in a Galilean accent – and we know from the historical record that there was such an accent.

We were spoiled by having a phonetics expert on hand, Grace Liversage. Grace came from a background about as intercultural as you’d get. She was tutored in her childhood by Eric Liddell (the Olympic gold medallist whose life featured in the film Chariots of Fire) when they were both in a Japanese internment camp in China in the early 1940s.

I never grasped the significance of “voiceless dental fricatives” like Grace would have preferred and thankfully the emphasis was on learning by speaking. The method is called LAMP (for “Language Acquisition Made Practical”). Each of us trainees were assigned to a local person whose native language was not English. Pam got to spend time with a Gujarati lady who ran a corner shop – while she was running it. I was assigned to a Tamil guy called Chris. Somebody had failed to impress upon him that what I needed to do was learn to speak some Tamil. Instead he thought it would be good for me to see Tamil script and revel in its wonder. He was right. It is beautiful indeed but the opportunity to speak Tamil passed me by.

Language-learning wasn’t the only training given. A good slice of time also went into maintaining your mental health. Here Dr June Morgan was drafted into service. She had served in Thailand and now, in retirement, was trying to help people going into the front end of the missionary process. I must say I balked a bit when I saw on the schedule that she was going to give a 90-minute talk on depression. I even cheekily whispered to my classmates, “Sounds depressing”.

The deadpan delivery of Dr June’s talk was an inspiration. The first thing that struck me was that she told us she did the Times crossword on the way out to us on the Underground. Apparently she did the crossword every day, “just to keep my mind straight”. She pulled no punches in explaining the danger zone we were sailing into by going into cross-cultural living. “Everybody will experience some element of depression in their life”, she said, “but that missionaries are more susceptible.”

June illustrated this by recounting her distress in Thailand when she found her mother had died, long before the days of fast communication and travel. She turned herself in to a colleague psychiatrist (who happened to be a Buddhist) who helped her, over time, to talk her way through it. Her message to us was as simple as it was brutal: (a) you will get depressed (b) watch out for signs (c) go and see your doctor.

I went straight out to the local GP surgery after a quick bite of lunch. For weeks I had had some frustrating physical symptoms. There was a rash on my inner arm and what appeared to me to be a swelling in my groin. I had seen no medics, lived in denial and hoped it would all go away. The doctor on duty received me kindly, examined me and told me to come in about a week. Next visit – same thing. Examination, come back in another week.

On my third visit to the surgery they assigned me to yet another GP – this time an older gentleman. It was a cold day (the Spring of 1986 broke low temperature records) and I had my big coat on. I was still in the process of hanging it on a coat stand when he enquired, “Have you by any chance, been subject to any kind of stress?” “You haven’t examined me yet; I’m just taking my coat off now.” He repeated his question, without a trace of irritation.

In my answer I said two of the stupidest things I’ve ever said in my life; “First, I’m a Christian, so I don’t think stress is going to be an issue; and second, I’m just not that type of person”. He took some notes quietly, did a perfunctory inspection of my symptoms and gave me a prescription. “Take one of these every day and we’ll see how you are”.

I went back to the same doctor after only a few days to happily announce that the prescription had done the trick. All my symptoms, which had appeared unrelated, had gone, thanks to the little pill which had some kind of a mumbo-jumbo medical name when the pharmacist gave it to me. “It’s Valium”, said the doctor. “Sometimes we use Valium diagnostically”. “But how can that be?!”, I persisted, “How can a pill for my mind affect my body?” I’ll never forget his parting words, “You see, Mr Wilson, there is a strong connection between your body and your soul”. Dr Morgan had been right.

Of course you can guess that he also told me to “take it easy”. Not so simple. We were coming to the end of a strenuous three-month course, our sons were in a strange school, it was freezing cold, our old landlady in Ireland had been writing to us arguing about our deposit and we were shortly going to move on to live somewhere (not sure where yet) in southern Germany.

But then I remembered something. There was a short-term solution waiting in the wings. The prescription at the pharmacy had not been totally used up! I went back and acquired the few remaining Valium, nipped out to a high-street travel agent and booked a very-last-minute cheap package holiday to the Adriatic coast of Italy for our whole family. Compared to the previous months I had a grand old time. Pam could notice it – maybe even the boys. The seaside city of Rimini never looked better.

Restored to better health, and with me hopefully gaining some humility, we graduated, shipped our things one more time, and took a flight to Basel on 30th June 1986. Now all we had to do was learn to speak German.