This blog has taken me sometime to start. There’s so much I could say about PVT and how wonderful it was for my parents to visit me. I got to squeeze my mama and have her crack my back and hear my dad call me “Bug.” Two of my favorite worlds collided a week and a half ago, and I’m forever thankful for it. Jmoney and Steveo got a small glimpse into the World Race and in turn, my life.
But this blog isn’t about my parents- it’s about a two-year-old boy named Jimy.
On our first day of PVT ministry I miss placed my parents (classic) and began to look for them. After walking away from the rest of the crowd I found my mom and dad digging a trench next to a dirt “road.” My mom called to me, “Bug, look at this boy’s arm.” It’s that moment Jimy and I became friends.
From a far I could see the charcoal black covering the boy’s right arm. Mixed in was glimpses of blood and some sort of white substance- pus, I guessed. In his left hand he held his soccer ball; a mixture of trash tied together with a string formed his beloved toy.
I walked towards him and crouched down when I got to his feet. This is one of my favorite things to do on the Race, get on the kids’ level. Make them feel seen. Make them feel loved. The little boy in the bro tank gave me a big smile as I greeted him with a “Maraho” and “Amakuru.” I was shocked by the big smile on his face. Didn’t he know he had a second or third degree burn? Didn’t he know he should be writhing in pain? Didn’t he know he could lose his arm? This was by far the bravest little man I have ever met.
And I knew I could not just ignore this.
But I also knew I could not help him on my own- I have no medical training (unless you count my lovely first-aid-certification) and I haven’t even owned a band aid in 7 months. And so, God humbled me. I left Jimy to play with my dad, giggling as my dad placed his bucket hat on Jimy’s head, and went to find my teammate, Gabbie. Gabbie is an EMT in the States, and I knew she would have a better course of action. After assessing the burn Gabbie called over our squadmate, Luke (a nurse). They decided if Jimy did not have surgery the consequences would be extreme.
We found our ministry host and arranged Jimy to be taken to the hospital. His mother insisted on bathing Jimy and changing his clothes before we took him to the hospital. We agreed, under the condition that she would not get his arm wet. Gabbie and Luke waited for the taxi while I joined Jimy and his mother in their home.
The concrete room let only a little light through for his mother to clean his naked body. He didn’t exactly enjoy being naked, but he still had a small smile on his face while he waited for his mother to finish the task. But then it was time to put on his clothes. This was the first time I saw Jimy in pain.
His mother, a deaf and mute woman, began to redress Jimy. She was no where near touching his burnt arm when he let out a scream that will be with me for the rest of my life. A scream full of fear. I’ve never heard a 2 year old in so much pain. Or anyone, for that matter. His cries filled the room as I looked Jimy in the eyes and tried to comfort him. I told him he was brave. That we were going to get him help. That I was right there. His screams faded into whimpers and eventually he put his brave face back on and allowed me to carry him to the taxi.
Again, I was humbled. Only 2 of us could go. I was the obvious choice to stay, having no medical experience to offer.
Long story short, we ended up getting Jimy the surgery. Luke and Gabbie scrubbed in that night while I sat with Gabbie’s mom for 3 hours in the waiting room. I prayed for Jimy. I prayed for the doctors. I prayed for a family as a dead body was wheeled past us. Gabbie’s mom and I passed the time chatting, though we grew more anxious every minute. I wanted to see my friend.
The surgery went flawlessly and he would only need to stay in the hospital for a few days of recovery. I didn’t get to see Jimy that night- that’s okay, it wasn’t about me.
On our last day in Rwanda Gabbie, Luke, and I rode mottos to the hospital where we paid for Jimy’s medical expenses and got to see him one last time. Jimy lit up when he saw us and giggled as we passed around an inflated surgical glove and took selfies- man, that kid loves pictures. After playing with Jimy some more we gave a tearful goodbye to him and his family.
I have no doubt that God had His hands in this story. Finding Jimy was a miracle. Jimy’s arm not being infected was a miracle. Jimy not losing his arm was a miracle. Jimy not losing his life was a miracle. I am forever thankful God placed me in the right spot to find the boy in the bro tank.
Unfortunately, my WiFi is less than impressive so I cannot upload pictures on my blog. Check out Facebook, Instagram, or the stories below for pictures!
Read Luke’s side of the story here.
Read Gabbie’s side of the story here.
