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Part 1
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12 | 13
To Do His Will
Story of an Armenian Girl (Part thirteen)
by Serpouhi Tavoukdjian
Then one day I was giving a patient quartz light treatment in
her room. The telephone rang, and I learned I was wanted in the
superintendent's office. Quickly I turned off the light and told
the patient, "This is an emergency. I will be back very
soon," and hurried to answer the call. As I ran I kept
wondering what naughty thing I had done that I must be called
upon Miss Macey's carpet. As I turned to go down the hall toward
her office, the door opened, and she came toward me smiling the
same smile I had seen in my dream weeks before, and she said,
"Miss Tavoukdjian, your dream has come true."
We went almost at once to Jacksonville to take the
examinations. There was not time left for me to get down to real
hard study, and I was dismayed. I said, "Miss Macey, I
never can pass unless the Lord make a miracle."
She just smiled and answered, "Do the best you can, Miss
Tavoukdjian. And He is perfectly well able to do a miracle, you
know, if that is His will."
We were there having examinations for two days. I studied as
hard I could, but when there was not more time, I just told the
Lord and asked Him to bring to my mind the things I would need
to know. Then I went and wrote the best I could. When I was sure
at last that I had passed in every subject, I was so glad!
A few weeks after taking the State Board examination, I went
to Atlanta, Georgia, where the Orlando Sanitarium was operating
a health extension service for the poor and sick and needy. We
gave treatments and also studied the Bible with those who
desired to learn about the truths of the third angel's message.
I was just nicely started in the work when a letter came form
the immigration officials in Washington, saying that I am in
America only as a student, and now that I have finished my
nurses' course, I must leave, Even though I received no salary,
only board and shelter, for this extension service, still they
would not permit me to stay in Atlanta.
Through the kindness of friends, it was arranged that I could
come back to Washington Missionary College and spend another
year in school. I was not in the dormitory, but worked in a
near-by home for my room and board.
One morning in early December of 1931, I was in the brush
factory were I had worked when I first came to America and
Takoma Park. While I was standing there talking to a friend, two
strange men came in to truck away some merchandise. One of these
men looked at me so long and intently that I was embarrassed,
for I knew that he was noticing the tattoo marks on my face.
Then he turned to my friends and asked what those marks were,
and why I did not have them taken off. They explained I could
not have them removed because it was impossible.
Then he said, "I believe there is a doctor at Johns
Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore who could take them off."
I, of course, hear this. "Of there is any hope that
these disfigurements can be removed from my face," I
declared, "I will go to Baltimore and see about it."
For all the years since I had left Arabia those tattoo marks
had been a great embarrassment to me. Every one, when he first
saw me, stopped to stare. If I went on the store, people looked
and looked. If I walked down the street, children would
sometimes follow me. And the first time I went on duty with a
new patient was always hard, for the patient would draw away,
and did not wish to have me come near. Once some of my friends
asked me to go to a circus, and I told them, "No, I do not
wish to go to any circus. For if we go, my face will be a
greater curiosity than the animals, and people will look at me
and forget them."
Even before I left Turkey and Greece, I felt much ashamed of
these tattoo marks, for every one who saw me knew that I had
been sold to the Arabs. And particularly whenever I met a
Turkish soldier I felt like covering my face. I was afraid of
what he would do to me. So you see why I was so very anxious to
have them removed if it could be done.
I wanted to go to Baltimore that very day, but that city is
some distance from Takoma Park, and I was busy at work and
school. Neither did I have much money for taking trips. I waited
a week, and then some friends of mine were going there on
business, and they asked if I did not wish to go with them and
visit the hospital.
Of course I was glad to go. At Johns Hopkins Hospital I
talked with the receiving nurse. She said that there was a
doctor there who does that work, Dr. L. W. Ketron, but that I
could not see him that day. It would be necessary to make an
appointment. Of course, I did not know when I could come again,
so I could not make such an appointment, and there was nothing
to do but go home. However, I did ask Dr. A. W. Truman,
superintendent of the Washington Sanitarium, to write a letter
to Dr. Ketron, and explain to him about me, and ask if he could
see me the next time I could come to Baltimore. He very kindly
did this.
One day, when I was doing the housework in the home where I
earned my board and room, the doorbell rang. I opened the door.
A strange lady stood there, whom I had never seen before, and
she looked and looked at me, and I knew, of course, that she was
surprised at my tattoo marks. I was becoming very much
embarrassed, when she leaned toward me suddenly and asked,
"Who did that to you?"
Before I could answer, the lady of the house was standing
beside me. She explained about my face, and told the visitor of
my hope that the doctor at Johns Hopkins could do something to
remove the marks. The visitor was much interested. Also she was
very kind. She told me that she drove to Baltimore from
Washington almost every week, and would be more than glad to
take me with her any time. Was very happy. God had once more
answered my prayers.
The week before Christmas I went to see Dr. Ketron. Of course
he knew about me from Dr. Truman's letter, and he was very kind.
He looked at my face and said, "Yes, we do that kind of
work. Come in, and we'll try right now."
Dr. Ketron used an electric needle to mark on my forehead.
But when I went back for another treatment, he looked at my face
closely and said he was not satisfied, that he feared the
electric needle would not do the work successfully after all but
might leave bad scars. "But," he said, "there is
a doctor, J. S. Davis, who is also connected with Johns Hopkins,
but who works in the Union Memorial Hospital here in the city.
He is a very wonderful plastic surgeon. I think he could do it
for you and leave almost no scars. You just wait, and I will
call him up right now, and will talk to him and tell him about
you." I sat there in his office while he made all the
explanations and also made an appointment for me to see Dr.
Davis.
The next time I went to Baltimore, I went at once to Dr.
Davis's office. He was expecting me. Carefully he looked at my
face, and said, "I will try to do the very best I can. But
you will have to be a very, very patient girl."
I did not think I would mind how patient I would have to be
or how long it took, just so those horrid marks could be blotted
out. We talked about what the charges would be. He knew
something of my experience, and that I had no money to pay a
large price, so he told me that he would do it entirely free of
charge. I was very happy about this.
Then he told me to write to his secretary for a bed in the
Union Memorial Hospital right after Christmas, and we would
begin.
I spent New Year's Day of 1932 in the hospital. When Dr.
Davis said I must be patient, he knew whereof he spoke. I am
writing these words a year later. Three times I have been in the
hospital, remaining there fourteen weeks in all, and undergoing
four very painful and delicate operations. My doctor is a
skilled specialist in plastic surgery, and his fame in this
field is wide, but he has never before done work of just exactly
this kind. However, he and his assistants have been very
successful. I have been to the hospital for my last operation,
and every disfiguring tattoo mark is gone. More wonderful still,
there are only very slight scars remaining to show where the
once were.
Never, so long as I live, can I forget Ward C in Union
Memorial Hospital in Baltimore, and the many kind friends among
doctors, supervisors, nurses, and patients who helped to make my
days there not only pleasant but a real benefit healthwise.
When my school closed on May, 1932, I again heard almost at
once from the immigration authorities. They reminded me that I
was in the United States as student, and since my course of
study was completed, and I had done one year postgraduate work,
now it was most certainly time for me to leave the country. They
also reminded me that it would be against the law for me to do
any remunerative work, since foreign students are allowed to
earn only their board and room.
I reported to them that I was planning to go away very soon.
Doctors Robert and Carolyn Hillbourne, with whom I had become
acquainted while in training at the Orlando Sanitarium, were
doing self-supporting medical missionary work in Morocco, North
Africa. They needed a nurse very much to help them, and I had
just received a letter from them, asking if I would come and
give this help. Not only could I do nursing, but I also had the
language of the people there. They said they would pay my
passage and promise me board and room and clothing, but that
they could not give me a salary at the present time. I was very
glad to accept these conditions, and made application for a
passport. Then I hurried back to Baltimore, and to the hospital
for another-and I hoped the last-operation on my face.
While in the hospital, I learned to my dismay that I could
not be granted a passport. I t seems that the paper from the
Greek government on which I entered the United States in 1924
was not a passport all, but only a "statement." Greece
was at that time very anxious to get rid of Armenian refugees,
and the American immigration laws were much less strict than
they are today.
Long weeks were spent by my friends and the immigration
officials trying to straighten out the tangle. But in spite of
our efforts, it still seems that there is no legal way in which
I can get out of the United States to go anywhere else. And
neither can I legally stay here. The immigration officials did
not know what to do with me, for I really have no country.
Then came the months-troubled, uncertain ones for me-when I
lived under constant threat of deportation, hoping for the best
from day to day. The authorities were kind and did their best to
solve the problem of my future. But they were very much
perplexed-and so was I! Also the Doctors Hillbourne were much
disappointed as they worked on alone in Morocco.
At last I received final word from the immigration office
that I must stay in the United States. I am not a citizen of any
country, but a refugee; therefore I cannot have a passport. But
now I may work for wages-if I am fortunate enough to find
work-for the first time since I finished my nurses' course.
Now, perhaps, you wonder why I have told you this sad story
of the distress and suffering which have come to my people.
I have told it because I am anxious to have you realize that
faith in Jesus Christ as a Saviour and as a Friend, is an anchor
which holds sure and steadfast in the fiercest storm. Truly, the
hope of eternal life which He has promised to His children is a
blessed hope, and I never forgot it in any of my great troubles.
He helped me to bear them.
Not only so, but I know it is because of the protection of my
heavenly Father that my life was spared. He has kept me in this
world for some special purpose. My one desire is to serve Him
faithfully, and do for Him just the work which He has for me to
do. As I think of all He has done for me, it seems that I cannot
love Him enough, and that no sacrifice He could ask me to make
in His service, would be too great.
I tell you, He will be just as wonderful, just as true, just
as loving a Friend to you, my reader-if you will let Him. He is
knocking right now at the door of your heart, only waiting till
you open it and say, "Come in." Won't you let my
Saviour be your Saviour too?
And so my story ends. What does the future hold for me? In
this world of trouble, I do not know. But I do know that it will
be all right. In the midst of disappointment and uncertainty and
loneliness, it is my privilege to trust an all-wise heavenly
Father. I am sure "He leadeth me," even though, at the
moment, I cannot see just exactly where He leads; and as I bow
in submission to His will, I am-
"Ready to go, ready to stay
Ready my place to fill;
Ready for service, lowly or great,
Ready to do His will."
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