A quick shock of pain shot through my back. “That’s weird,” I thought. We had spent several hours that day on a less-than-comfortable bus ride from Honduras to Nicaragua, so I attributed my pain to normal readjustment and continued exploring our new ministry site. We had just arrived in the beautiful little town of Chichigalpa and were in the process of setting up our tents, when all of a sudden the pain struck again–this time much worse. “What is happening?”
Five minutes later I was in complete tears, screaming and rolling around in Nicaraguan dirt. The pain was overwhelming. No matter what I did–stand, sit, lie down–the pain just got worse and worse. I cried and cried and eventually threw up out in front of our ministry base. (What a great first impression for our new contact.)
My teammates Karissa and Katrina rushed me to the public hospital in Chichigalpa, and when we arrived, what did we find? Nothing. No one was at the emergency room. We wandered through the hospital hallways and eventually found a few nurses who seemed surprised to see us. I guess they didn’t think anyone would need medical attention during Holy Week. After convincing them to care for me, they determined I probably had kidney stones, but they wouldn’t be able to do an ultrasound until the following week. Why? Once again, Holy Week. They gave me a shot of pain medicine and sent me home.
The medication wore off in the middle of the night, and by the following morning I was once again writhing on the ground in pain. I couldn’t stand, couldn’t walk. All I could do was lie on the floor and sob.
I once again was rushed to an emergency room, this time at a private hospital in León, about 45 minutes away. Praise the Lord I was accompanied by Karissa and my squad leader Ashley. Upon arrival I was whisked away to the hospital treatment room, where I was immediately hooked up to an IV. I was extremely dehydrated, and the nurses needed to get that under control before they could do anything else. They took a blood sample and said the whole treatment should be a 6-8 hour process.
Five days later, I was still in the hospital. Over the course of that time, I had two X-rays, one ultrasound, and innumerable medications. I saw six different doctors, and they finally determined that in addition to the dehydration I had a kidney infection and two kidney stones. (Turns out the nurse at the first hospital was right. Who knew?)
Those five days in the hospital were by far the hardest (worst?) days I’ve had on the Race so far. For the first time since I started this adventure in January, I actually thought to myself, “I want to go home.” I was so scared. For days we didn’t officially know what was wrong with me. I had no idea how long I would be in the hospital. My body was completely out of my control. And even though I speak Spanish, I couldn’t understand the Nicaraguan accent, so I didn’t know what anyone was around me was saying. I had no way of helping the situation. All I could do was pray.
I didn’t want to at first. For the first several days I was still trying to do everything in my power to speed up the process, make myself better, get out of there sooner. But I was so weak and in so much pain.
I prayed and prayed. People back home were lifting me up as well, and my squadmates across Nicaragua interceded on my behalf. One squadmate Sara sent me a word from the Lord, encouraging me to rest and trust in Him. It was her message that broke me. I had to surrender all this to Jesus.
He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say to the Lord, “My refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust.” …
Because you have made the Lord your dwelling place—
the Most High, who is my refuge—
no evil shall be allowed to befall you,
no plague come near your tent. [Psalm 91:1-2,9-10]
I read these words over and over again, out loud and in my head. I cried to the point that I couldn’t see anything. I pleaded that the Lord would heal me, that I would be ok.
Interestingly enough, my time in the hospital fell over Easter weekend. I had been so looking forward to celebrating Easter at a Nicaraguan church, but instead I spent it in a tiny little hospital room. Just one more way that I had to give up control. But with the backdrop of the holiday, I couldn’t help but reflect on the pain Jesus experienced on the Cross. Yes, I was in tears over my own pain, but it was merely a fraction of what He experienced. I had IVs in my hands, but He had nails. I had pain in my side, but His was pierced by a sword. And He went through all of that for me.
On Resurrection Sunday I started to feel a bit better, and I actually began walking around the hospital on my own. How wonderfully appropriate. And the next day, I received the good news that I was to be released. I walked out of the hospital that Easter Monday almost completely back to normal. I was in better physical health, but more importantly I had grown spiritually. God used my time in the hospital to draw me closer to Him. I am still processing all that I went through in that little hospital room, but I can guarantee that it was a turning point for me on the Race. For the first time I was forced into complete, 100% reliance on Him, a lesson that I will take with me for the rest of my life. God is good, and He uses the worst of situations for His glory.
Praise God from whom all blessings flow.
Praise Him all creatures here below.
Praise Him above ye heavenly hosts.
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
Amen.
