Azungu! Azungu! The chant follows us through the village as we walk from one red clay home to the next. The chatter and giggles of children sneaking behind on the path are becoming a familiar sound, one that should be bottled and saved for a rainy day.
The theme of today is quite evident. Sickness continually creeps into each home on our path today, a day the Lord himself has made. Praying for the health of our brothers and sisters here in the small Malawian village has me feeling heavier and heavier. I know the Lord is almighty. I have reasoned this in my head and cling to it when my lying emotions tell me otherwise. I know he does not want his children to be sick or suffering. He is a God that cannot be understood completely, but that does not make him unjust.
I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve prayed for the Lord to take away the pain and sickness of my brothers and sisters today. Laying hands on shoulders, backs, legs, heads while calling upon the always-able Holy Spirit to heal as the Bible tells us. I do believe this, right? Am I just going through the motions? It is by faith that the Lord works within us. So, heart, why are you not faithful? Why do I feel like a numb shell of an individual? Lord, please show me. Show me your goodness in this fog.
One more house visit. Lord, help me keep this smile on my face with a lifted spirit.
We round a corner and there stands a little house with a wheelchair in the doorway. My friend nudges me and I follow his eyes to the worn-down chair resting near the entrance, acting as a blinking welcome sign. There is excitement in my partner’s stature, understandably so, but I feel my heart stutter. Shouldn’t I also be eager to enter the home and pray for healing? Why am I so uneasy? This day has been full of sick children and mothers. What if this is yet another story to weigh down my already sinking heart?
Stop giving Satan a foothold, Ellen. This opportunity is a gift. A gift to you.
A man approaches me and my friend with a worn, tired smile. One that he dresses himself with each new morning. Hope is written on his face by the means of this memorable grin. He sticks his hand out confidently. It feels good to shake a hand that means it. It’s been awhile.
His spirit is contagious, thank goodness.
We follow closely as our new friend ushers two strangers into his home, as if we’ve been family for years. He makes it clear that brothers and sisters are always welcome, for this is a house of the Lord. The air seems lighter, the sun perfectly breaking through the windows. I look to the left and see a woman slouched in a large, comfy chair. Half her body seemingly asleep, while the other does what it can to express the emotions that are expressed in her eyes. She has so much to say. So much wisdom to share. But says nothing.
We continue small-talk with her husband. That is what you’re supposed to do upon waltzing into someone’s home, right? I’m curious. I want to ask all about his wife. There are so many questions festering in my mind.
There it is. The first pro-longed silence. Oh come on, someone fill it.
He speaks. His wife has not been able to speak in years. She can no longer dress herself or complete simple, daily tasks. It appears to be the effects of some sort of stroke. Regardless, something has made her a prisoner in her own body. He looks at her and makes sure she knows his love for her. It appears that his heart has made a promise to never discuss her as if she is not here in the room with us. She is his beautiful wife that he is evidently proud of. Before we know it, we’re looking at wedding photos and both individuals are beaming. Their love really knows no boundaries.
He continues to share about their mutual love for God and the ways in which they’ve been abundantly blessed. Blessing after blessing. She takes a deep breath and sighs, but no words are formed. We chat lightly about their sons and daughters. The youngest is sitting to my right, rocking back and forth on his soccer ball wearing the same familiar smile that I was greeted with only 10 short minutes ago. There is so much happiness in this room, it’s confusing. I know I’ll never understand it, so I bask in it and try to soak up every last drop. I know in my heart and mind that it could only be the contagious love of Christ shared within this family.
It is by faith that we are set free. This woman and her husband are so faithful, yet she is imprisoned. I don’t want to leave this home without hearing this woman’s voice. I want to leave with my faith renewed.
My partner is praying now, kneeling next to her with a hand placed on her shoulder. I should get up. I should join them. My head now in my hands, praying that this woman’s faith would be used as a testament to the goodness of our creator. Lord, give me something to share with this couple. Give me words that you would have them know. Please use me. I have faith in you.
I slowly see a pair of hands descending from above. Moving slowly, but surely. The hands turn to face me and I see the dark holes presented in the middle of the luminous palms. They continue descending until they meet the bottom of a basin, overflowing with water. The towel resting in the basin is gently picked up with one hand and is gracefully swept over a pair of worn feet resting near the basin. The towel is back in the basin moving towards the second set of feet, much more delicate this time.
Don’t you see, Ellen? I have been serving your brother and sister this whole time. I once sacrificed my life and shed blood that covered every one of my Father’s beloved children. Every minute since, I have served you and this family by merely being. They are able to have the faith they do because I endured the cross. They, and you, are able to hold ‘unswervingly to the hope that is professed’ because I am the pioneer and perfecter of faith. I have not forgotten them, nor will I ever.
My friend continues to pray. I know he too can sense the spirit moving within the room. Doubt and lies are not welcome in this place. No, there is peace. There is assurance.
A new sound is introduced to the still silence of the room. A series of mumbles. Is that really what I’m hearing? Sound from vocal chords that our world says are destined to be silent. The voice of a woman who’s faith has set her free, even for a moment.
I’m stepping out of this little red clay home with a seemingly different heart beating in my chest and eyes refocused on the one who gave it all. There is pain. There is suffering. But there is grace, mercy, and love. A sacrifice was made long ago for each and every one of us and the hands of our merciful savior reach for us, not only willingly but eagerly.
“Let us draw near to God with a sincere heart and with the full assurance that faith brings, having our hearts sprinkled to cleanse us from a guilty conscience and having our bodies washed with pure water. Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful” Hebrews 10:22-23
