Stacey Hume was in Malawi. In a typical scene, she found herself at the front of a church with countless people lined up waiting for her to pray for them. A small girl came to the front of the line:
She meekly approached me, head hung low. Wanangwa, one of the pastors that has been acting as a translator for us, asked her what she needed prayer for. She responded in Chichewa, their native language, and her words were so quiet, I couldn’t hear her voice. She leaned in close to him and whispered as if it were the most special of secrets, her small hands cupping his earlobe. He nodded his head, and he walked her slowly by the small of her back to right in front of me. He spoke to me in bold English something I was not prepared for, “She has a hole in her throat. When she drinks water, it comes out of her neck and down her chest.” My brain stopped working for a second, trying to catch up to the sentence. But there was just no way to comprehend it. He turned to walk away, but I grabbed him quickly by his right hand. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” He repeated patiently, “there is a hole, in her neck. She can not drink water very well.” He pointed to his throat in case it was his English I wasn’t understanding. I fell to my knees to see if what he was talking about was even possible, and underneath her perfect tiny brown chin, and perfect little pink mouth, was a crescent moon slit about five inches long, from jaw to jaw, mostly scarred over, except in the middle where there was a hole. It was thick around the edges, and looked as though it had healed that way. Either my eyes struggled to send the signal, or my brain would not receive it, I just went to blackout. In a moment that seemed like an eternity, I tried to comprehend how someone could have cut her, and how she could have lived through it. But there was nothing. And the world got so small.All I could think of was that I wanted to take her to a doctor. Forget the prayer, forget everything, she needed medical attention. I need an ambulance, I need the police, I need help. And then looking around for any of these options, I realized we were a million miles from anywhere. Scanning over the crowds of hurting people it dawned on me, I don’t have a car, I don’t have a doctor. All I have is God. Crap. She’s screwed.
The story doesn’t end there. But this is where the great questions surface.
So what do you do?
It would be great to get her to a hospital and get her stitched up. Do you go somewhere to find the internet, find a doctor and see if you can pay to have her stitched up?
Do you tell her God is in control and if she’ll just wait in faith He’ll heal her? Do you tell her God is in control so there’s not a lot you can do?
What do you tell yourself? How does this sort of thing happen? What does this say about God and His protection for those who love Him?
