We pushed open the heavy metal doors to the maternity ward of Mpilo Hospital carrying the light and love of Jesus with us, although my feet walked more in discomfort. Hospitals, even in the USA, are far from my favorite places, and this hospital, especially, makes me uneasy.
Perhaps it’s something about the indoor brick walls, the low lighting, or the poor ventilation that causes the stench of body odor and rubbing alcohol to settle heavily in the air. Here in the maternity ward the discomfort is elevated with the addition of heat lamps for the newborns, making the entire ward easily eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit.
Discomfort aside, the ladies of my team, my host, and myself were here to visit mothers who recently gave birth to premature infants and distribute care packages to them. I thought I was prepared for this ministry. I thought I would get to love on some precious babies, pray for some excited mothers, and share in the joy that comes with a new life.
Here’s the thing about expectations; don’t have them.
We sit with the director of Baby Heroes, the ministry we are working with in this hospital. She is a kind woman who explains how the day is going to go. One by one, the mothers and their infants would enter this small office, Baby Heroes would collect some simple information from them, we would hand over the care package, pray, and repeat with the next mother. We had eight mothers to visit. Easy.
The first mother comes in and she looks to be my age. Her eyes are rimmed in exhaustion, but she smiles politely at us. She gave birth to twins at seven months. The babies are wheeled in after her in a small metal box, piled with blankets, their little hands waving and reaching past the pile of fabric, begging to be seen. We all crowd around the babies cooing and laughing at the wonder that is a new life.
I start to feel the tears prick in the corners of my eyes and I sighed a bit. The World Race makes me cry. A lot. And today would be no different. How amazing to be a part of a new beginning in this way? How amazing to celebrate life and feel the mysterious wonder of a fresh, new start?
Our host, Vicky, offers to pray for the mother and her children after the paperwork is complete. She begins praying all the usual things; may God bless the children that they grow up strong and in unity, may he give them wisdom and protect them all the days of their lives. She prayed for the mother, that she may have patience and joy, that the Lord will guide her as she raises these children.
And then she prays for the father of the children. Immediately, I felt something shift in the atmosphere. Vicky prays that wherever he is, he is well and that the heart of God is impressed upon him, the heart to be a father.
As soon as she says amen, the mother collapses into her arms, bawling. Tearfully, she tell us she does not know where the father of the children are and hasn’t seen him in six months. She kept saying she doesn’t know what she’s going to do. She doesn’t know how she is going to care for two children at once. Vicky held her tight, her face composed as I, and the other women on my team, quietly began weeping in compassion.
Vicky let her cry for a moment and held her close asking if she had family who could help. The new mother shrugged and then nodded, saying she had a sister. And then Vicky held her by her shoulders so their eyes met and in a stern but loving voice said, “Listen to me. You are strong. You are going to do this. You are going to make it. In this season— this moment— Jesus is your husband. Jesus is your strength.”
The young mother bit her lips, closed her eyes and nodded, and kept nodding, as Vicky continued speaking truth, strength, belonging, love, and life over her. By the time Vicky stopped talking, the new mother was composed. She breathed in deep and nodded again, this time with determination. A few of my teammates helped her back to her hospital room but I stayed behind, still weeping, feeling overwhelmed that this was only the first mother of the day.
However, in this moment of raw emotion, I got a glimpse into something sacred that the Lord’s been tuning my heart to while on the Race. I saw the sisterhood of women, the bond that stretches beyond borders, across races, and through time. And again, I saw the burdens the world demands we carry upon our shoulders.
At its most basic, the thing that separates men from women and unites women together is our ability to create new life. It is something ancient; a shadow of the knowledge of creation that God has gifted women. And it is holy.
To see this holiness corrupted makes me angry. Getting mad a men would be easy—so, so easy. But I don’t want to direct my anger at them. As women carry one type of burden, men carry another, a mystery that I am not yet entirely knowledgeable of.
Men aren’t to blame, but sin is. For this sacred moment of creation for this women to be spoiled by the brokenness of this world made me so angry. The injustice, the despair, the feelings of hopelessness all washed over me as my tears flowed from my eyes.
But in those emotions, I was also reminded of the power that resides within a community of women. Seeing Vicky take hold of this stranger and stand with her in truth blew me away. In a broken world, we have to stand together, no matter what that looks like. We are our own best allies because we understand what men can’t, what the world can’t. Even I, as a young women who hasn’t even gotten close to even thinking about having children, felt compassion for this mother in a way that no man ever could.
The only other one who knows the depth of that compassion is God.
Around the fourth mother we visited, I was still bawling, turning over all these thoughts in my head. My teammate Rashidat turned to me with her signature big grin and said, “Kay, you don’t have to cry. God’s got them. God’s holding them.”
While in the moment I didn’t exactly receive that message well, I have locked it in my heart since. So while continuing to walk in this sacred sisterhood with boldness, I have to remind my flaming heart that God is still sovereign and he’s holding us all.
