I saw him across the far too dimly lit hospital room, the potent stench of vomit and other escaped bodily fluids lingering in the hot and humid air. His eyes barely open, pupils staring to the titled ceiling above, cheeks sunk in, mirroring the chest that seemed to concave with every small and shallow breath. His body lay still and motionless, my heart pounding in a wild panic that the breaths would lower, the breaths would cease, and the breaths would finally end.
His name unknown, yet a soft handshake and a “habari ako” hello to his mother, I discover a young man of barely twenty who suddenly brings to life the poor expression on deaths bed. I twist and twinge desperate to fight back the water that is quickly forming its way into tears. I cannot bear to see the pain, the suffering a moment longer. My discomfort in the moment pails to the pain my heart is feeling at seeing the tangible grip of death, of a looming further eternal death, the grim reality of life to so many in Busia, Kenya.
Our visits to the local public hospital fuels anger and bitterness at seeing the far too apparent signs of neglect, poor treatment, and what appears to be lost hope. Armed with prayer and the word of God we find our once bright smiles hardened into tight grimaces, fighting back the myriad of emotions that lay just below the surface. We move from bed to bed, bowing our heads, shutting our eyes, and begging and pleading with the Lord for Him to shower down buckets and buckets of His mercy and grace.
I question so much in the short afternoon prayer visits. I often leave shaking my head in disbelief, the perpetual “Why” plaguing my every thought. I desire to see stories of healing I know exist, to see the miracle at hand, the rejoice in the pain of what we see, what we feel, what surrounds us.
And then I do. I meet a man, James. He waits with almost panted breath, anxious to greet the “Mzungus” that float from bed to bed ready to pray, desperate to share his story of victory and hope. Through his soft grin and broken English, we discover a man sitting strong and firm, who lay much like the unnamed man described above a mere week before. Yet this man of God, with the faith of Abraham, believed in the Lord’s healing power, and he fought. He fought like a strong warrior in prayer, knowing with every fiber of his being that the Lord would heal. And he did.
With each breath the Lord breathed back into this man’s lungs, James exhaled a breath of prayer for those that lay in the hospital beds around him. As restoration began in his own body, he shared his faith with those that lay beside, across and near him. And one by one healing began. Beds emptied with each answered prayer and his tongue became a blaze with glories to the Father above.
I couldn’t resist the tears that swelled any longer. I couldn’t resist the joy that formed within. My knees began to shake violently, desiring nothing more than to fall to dusty cement below me and praise the Lord for this man, and for making the mighty touch of His hand so clear, so true, and so real. As words are typed and letters slung across this screen even now, tears cannot be contained a moment longer, and my voice once again calls out, “Praise God. Praise the Abba Father.”
There is beauty in these moments. There is beauty in seeing the pain of these men. At seeing a 13 year old boy who lay restless and anxious on his bed, his stomach, chest and legs swollen without a clear explanation, his breath heavy, his sighs deep, his body crying out in pain. There is beauty at not turning away from the difficult image that lay before me. There is beauty at not being able to distract myself from his father’s warm embrace, wrapping around him, holding him, hugging him, and simply loving him. The clearest and most beautiful illustration of the Father’s love.
In these tough yet tender moment’s I see such beauty, such hope, and such sweet and beautiful love. I no longer can let the mystery of this hospital allude me. The difficult sheds way for the fight and the battle that brews inside of me, crying out to Lord for His strong touch of restoration. A bitter heart transforms into that of thanksgiving and I can clearly see through the pain, a heart is born for the broken.
