Blogger’s Note: Welcome to the first in a series of posts about Operation Impact! Today, you’ll hear from Diana Kasem, the protagonist of our story. She’ll tell you about a little of what led her to the point where she is when the novel begins.

Have you ever had a time in life when no matter how hard you fight, you still get beaten down? I did three years ago. I made a bad decision, one that I never told anyone about, not even Fiona or Deborah, two of my closest friends who also live on Last Chance Ranch. I was ashamed, and it chained me and sentenced me to silence.

I found it easier to concentrate on my work as a cardiothoracic surgeon. Most days, I love my job. That fall was especially rough with losing a doctor in our practice, a higher patient load, and tough cases where more than expected didn’t make it. Because of that and my secret, I felt the tendrils of the depression I’d first experienced eleven years before begin creeping into my soul. I was burning out, and I knew it. I needed a break away from the constant stress in my life.

Dr. Sanchez, the one who’d started this practice twenty years before, was a big believer in work-life balance, which can sometimes be a joke in the medical field. One of the perks of working for him was a six- month sabbatical granted after five years of work. I talked with him. I needed time off, time to change up the schedule, to service on the mission field. Would he grant me permission to take six months off in 2020? Dr. Sanchez is one of the most compassionate people I’ve ever met. Permission granted.

Hope bloomed. I planned my sabbatical. I scheduled three months working with a missions organization in Malawi. Then travel to see my dad’s Afghani family. Then I would wrap up with spending a month working in a medical clinic in the Philippines with my old friend, Amy Jackman. She lived there with Rich, her husband who is a headmaster and teacher on Maliit na Isla.

Then came March 2020. The world shut down, and life as we knew it ground to a halt. For those of us in the medical field, hell began. It seemed no one knew how to handle the pandemic. All elective surgery, which aren’t many in my line of work, were cancelled. We geared up in all sorts of PPE, from masks to goggles, even respirators when intubating and extubating patients. Eighty-hour weeks became my norm. So did sitting beside Covid patients and holding their hands as they drew their last breath. Then making the dreaded phone call to relatives who waited so anxiously on the other end. My only solace came at Last Chance Ranch, where we’d formed a cell. No masks needed there. Hugs allowed.

But we too experienced losses. Deborah and Victor Chavez lost four dogs in the span of a year. Their son enlisted in June 2020 and left. Gracie, their third daughter, lost her brother when he enlisted and her friends due to isolation. Then my last Golden Retriever, Oregano, died of old age. In October 2021, I contracted the Delta variety of Covid. It took me down. Way down. I barely made it out of bed and for a week didn’t leave the suite of rooms in the cabin I shared with Fiona. Forget about my sabbatical trip. It was canceled in 2020 and 2021.

Would 2022 be any different? It was. I worked with my travel agent, and in February 2022, it’s like the entire world decided Covid was here to stay and opened up. I got the green light from the missions organization. And from my extended family and Amy.

I flew out on April 15, my forty-fifth birthday. Malawi tested my mettle. And made me really understand that happiness doesn’t come from things but from being content with where we are. And visits with my relatives in South Africa, Dubai, and Australia were so affirming. And New Zealand was beautiful. Very gradually, through these travels, I felt myself healing. The color, which had vanished from my life in 2020, began returning. I felt new joy creeping over me. Not that my circumstances have changed. I’m still single, still a bit weary from burnout, but I’m learning to lean into God during this time. Now, I’m on my way to the Philippines. When I talked with Amy last night, she sounded subdued. I hope nothing’s wrong. We’ll see.