Tuesday afternoon, I walked down the hill to our small market. Although the market is short on good garden food, it is “the place to be” for local community news, announcements and simply enjoying being with everyone.

I purchased a packet of fried bananas and sat down in the shade beside my friend Katherina.1 Sharing my bananas, I watched as people arrived and left. Secure in our friendship, neither of us needed to talk; we just enjoyed the market as we took each delicious bite.

Katherina’s five-year-old daughter Rianna wanted bananas, but was feeling shy around “the white lady” who was gone for several months on furlough last year. I handed her some bananas, which she clutched before hurrying off to be with another friend.

An hour later, I walked back to my house and began preparing supper, knowing that many people around me were doing the same. I was happy because I had purchased a nice squash. Every day with fresh vegetables is a good day!

Knock! Knock! I heard women’s voices outside my door.

I stepped out, seeing almost half a dozen women and several children milling around my yard.

“You want to talk to me?” I asked as I walked down my steps.

“Yes,” replied a very concerned voice.

“What is it?” I asked, sensing that this was VERY serious.

“It’s Rianna. I had half a bottle of bleach in my house, which she thought was water, and drank it all down.”

I sank onto the bottom step as this terrifying news settled in. Rianna had swallowed about eight ounces of bleach. The nurses who normally staff our small clinic had been gone for a month. The nearest clinic capable of caring for Rianna is nine hours downriver, although it might be better to go directly to town.

“We gave her milk immediately, then brought her to you,” one of the women explained.

“You did the right thing,” I said, my mind still scrambling. “Let me see what additional advice I can find,” I offered weakly. I wondered if it was truly bleach, or a refilled bottle—bottles are repurposed all the time in the jungle. How could she have swallowed a whole cup of bleach?

But, five-year-old brains can become one-tracked. She could have been extremely thirsty. She could have thought she had a water bottle. Not all water around here tastes very good after all.

Rianna was sweating profusely, very afraid, and sitting on Katherina’s lap. While I observed her and listened, she let out an enormous belch.

“Here, have some more milk,” someone offered. She had had enough after only a sip.

I searched the internet. Instructions for the developed world are to go to a hospital immediately; very little else is published. We did not have that luxury!

I called a nurse in America, who helped me find medical advice: no to charcoal and yes to fluids, as much as tolerated, to dilute and weaken the bleach in the stomach.

I sent a message to the dispatcher for the ambulance float plane that evacuates the seriously ill. They responded with clear medical advice, assurance that they were praying for us, and asked for a medical update in the morning. If Rianna were experiencing severe and worsening symptoms, they would evacuate her.

“What exactly does bleach do when you drink it?” one of the women asked me.

After reading the nurses’ replies, I felt I knew way too much! “It burns the delicate skin of the mouth, throat and stomach, and can be very dangerous,” I explained.

I mixed up a batch of Milo, a chocolate-flavored health drink. Rianna turned her face away from this newest liquid offering.

“Let’s pray for her,” I offered.

We sat in a circle in my yard, and I lifted my voice in prayer. Tears streamed down my face. This vibrant child could die. My heart was breaking, and I poured out my heart to the Saviour, who CAN heal. I reminded Him that we had done the small things we could do—we had no other resources—and that He was in charge of everything else.

The women left, carrying Rianna and talking softly.

I spent the night sleeping fitfully. Each time I awoke, I prayed.

When it was fully light, I began walking, nearly a mile, toward Katherina’s house. When I reached Dorin’s house directly across the river from Katherina’s, I stood on the riverbank and waved. As soon as Katherina spotted me, she carried Rianna to her canoe and paddled over to my side.

Though Rianna was shy because of the white lady, she was fully alert and able to speak, swallow and talk! She shook my hand as Katherina gave me a full report.

“Last night, after we got home, she began feeling better. She finished the milk and the Milo, then played before bed. Then, this morning, when we got up, she was hungry, so I cooked her a fish. She just finished eating it when we saw you.”

“Praise God!” was all my heart could say.

I told Katherina I would let the nurses and float-plane staff know that Rianna was alright, and then I left. I would have skipped with joy along the trail back to my house, except for the slick mud and my desire not to fall.

This week in the market, I sat under a mango tree, eating banana chips and watching Rianna play with her best friend. In typical five-year-old fashion, tightly clutching something tasty to eat, they walked side-by-side, whispering. I caught the words “the white lady” before they hurried out of my sight.

My heart sings because I know that God healed her.

1 See the March 2024 and March 2025 issues for more about Katherina.

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