No instruction manual, no stethoscope, no gloves. Not even a knife to cut the umbilical cord! How was I supposed to deliver a baby in the middle of the jungle with no prior experience? I was a green-as-grass nursing graduate on an overnight trip, and I was unprepared.

We had spent a lovely Sabbath with the church in Kensuli and were packing to leave when the local traditional birthing attendant (TBA) asked Amy, Kara and me to come see a woman who was in labor. I was excited as we trekked through the jungle. This was the type of adventure I had come here for! Then the realization hit me that I had never delivered a baby, and I had no supplies but hand sanitizer. Our radio was broken, and Chris, our physician assistant, was more than an hour’s hike away. I had a season of frantic prayer.

It seemed like the entire village was packed into the hut. I understood the woman had been in labor only two hours, but she looked exhausted. I checked her pulse and breathing and felt her abdomen. It was firm and contracted, so we sat back to wait.

Then Amy noticed a movement under the blanket covering the woman’s knees and investigated. “Alanna! There’s a baby under here!” she shouted. Indeed there was. A big, gooey baby boy was lying on the bamboo slats. Apparently I had misunderstood. The woman had given birth two hours ago. I rubbed the baby’s chest and was rewarded with a cry. At least his lungs were strong, but he felt cold. He was still attached to the umbilical cord because the placenta had not yet been delivered. There is a belief here that a newborn shouldn’t be touched or the cord cut until the placenta is delivered. Unaware of this belief at the time, and I asked for a knife and string, but of course none appeared. We appealed to the baby’s father, and he finally went out and cut a piece of sharp bamboo. Nervously tying and severing the cord, I gave the baby to Kara to wrap and warm.

Turning my attention to the exhausted mother, I didn’t know what to do. Retained placentas are common here, but I had never studied treatments. I sent one of the kids to get Kiana and her phone to call Mrs. George in the States for guidance. While waiting, we coached the mother to push, massaged the uterus, and tugged very gently on the cord during contractions.

The TBA suggested we pray for the mother, and the mother agreed. We prayed God would put His healing power on her womb, and she would deliver the placenta without complications. Kiana arrived with her phone, and I called Mrs. George. I prayed the one bar of battery and the one bar of signal would last. A few moments later, Amy yelled from the hut that the placenta was out. I left Mrs. George hanging mid-sentence and ran to check. It was all there—no missing pieces and no bleeding. Thank you, God!

I bathed the pink, squirming baby, swaddled him in a blanket burrito-fashion and presented him to his mother. According to custom, she will not feed him for two days and will wait a few weeks to name him in case he doesn’t survive, but I was happy. The old ladies called us Mepunda y, which means skilled, but we told them it was God who had worked and to thank Him instead.

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