I have died twice on the World Race. The first was spiritually on a balcony in Honduras, the second was quite literally in a bathroom in Ethiopia, a day I affectionately refer to as Black Tuesday.
A lot of my squamates believed that they were going to see someone raised from the dead in Africa. The Lord had promised me that big things would happen this last continent, so I was open to the possibility. March came and went and April was already winding down when I began to question that promise. God, being the good sarcastic dad that he is to me, thumped me on the forehead and reminded me that
1.) He doesn’t lie or mislead
2.) He rewards faithfulness and almost never in scripture did Jesus perform a miracle without someone asking him to. Duh Gracie.
The village HOPEthiopia is in is called Harbuchulule, and it seemed like every other day the house moms or project workers were having to take off work to go to a funeral in the community. Really, my obliviousness astounds me sometimes. About a week after my prayer-forehead-thumping our ministry host Mingistu told us that one of the groundskeeper’s babies had died that morning. My heart started pounding out of my chest, and if Gracie Davis of month one had been standing in that circle you can be darn sure she would have said what a shame and gone on with her life. Hope, my friends, changes everything.
I asked if we could go and pray for the baby, and the next morning a few of my squamates and I made the half hour walk into town to visit the home and the body before it was buried.
I’ve never experienced anything like it. I was praying for a miracle but carried the understanding that above all else, I wanted the Lord’s will to be done, and that he was honored by my obedience in going where he sent me and my acknowledgement that he had the power to bring that baby back to life.
The small, dark, one room mud house was crowded with more than fifty people, with more than two hundred others waiting outside. There was such a sense of hopelessness, such darkness and depression in that house. I later learned that this was her first child that had survived to birth, only to die suddenly from illness before making it to a year old. We were ushered behind a curtain to be with the family, and prayed aloud and thanked God for his mercies. Awkwardly, feeling unfinished and with expectation, we followed the house moms outside to wait for the funeral procession to depart from the house to the burial site. We sat under the hot African sun for nearly two hours and watched hundreds of villagers come in droves, wailing and crying.
It was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen. As we followed the procession to the burial sight I wanted to join in the weeping. The love these people had for this family, the way their hearts broke for their brothers and sisters, it was so pure. The attendees likely had never even met the baby, but their compassion was overwhelming. That’s the body of Christ, in a way I had never experienced. You don’t see close to a thousand people show up to an infants funeral in the United States. The Lord didn’t draw the child back from the dead that day, but He was so undeniably present, and he brought my faith in community back to life.
I think there were a lot of reasons the Lord was calling me to go that family that day, but I know the biggest one was to witness and be broken for what the American church is lacking. I don’t know when or where or how well or humbly attended my funeral is going to be, but I do hope that the Lord wrecks hearts through my testimony like he did my own that day.
In Christ,
g
