A week ago, our team traveled to Esperanza, a town about an hour and a half away, to visit the hospital and pray for the patients.
I was excited about the day, and I was ready to pray for the sick. I had already been to the hospital in Gracias with Tiffany twice, and waited there with her for a few hours when she had Dengue Fever, so I knew what to expect from a Honduran hospital.
The walls are usually pastel green, or faded yellow. The halls are lined with faded neon colored chairs, and people waiting for their turn. At the hospital in Gracias, the emergency area was partitioned off from the entry area by hanging sheets. Babies receiving breathing treatments are crying, and there are random hospital beds in the hall for the sick to lay on while they are waiting.
As we walked into the hospital in Esperanza, I was first caught off guard by how busy it was. While the hospital in Gracias was busy in the emergency area but eerily deserted in the rest of the building, the Esperanza hospital was packed. We stopped and prayed for an old woman in a wheelchair who was sitting in the hall.
We continued down the hall, and found ourselves in the pediatric area. Our group of eleven split up into 3 groups, and went to different rooms. I was with Tiffany, Duma, our friend who speaks some English, and her sister. We stopped in a tiny room with a baby and her mom. Through Duma's translation, we learned that the baby had diarrhea and digestive problems, and they weren't sure why. We prayed for her and her mom, and went to the next room.
When we walked into the next room, we saw several crib hospital beds. Lying in the first bed, all alone, was a little boy. He looked like he was about 7 or 8 years old. We stepped up to the side of his bed, and Duma began to talk to him. I understood that she was trying to ask him his name, and where his family was. His face was swollen and covered in scabs and open sores, and one of his eyes was swollen halfway shut. He tried to respond to her, but he was so weak, and his face was so swollen that he could not speak clearly.
Duma turned to us and said that she couldn't understand him. His bed did not have a paper at the head with his name and information. My heart broke as I looked at his little body, twisted with pain and wearing mismatched flannel Winnie the Pooh pajamas. I wanted to rub his arm, give him a hug, anything to let him know that he is loved and not forgotten in his pain, but I didn't know if touching him would cause him more pain.
We began to pray for healing for him. As I prayed for healing, and for his spirit, tears began to well up in my eyes. I wanted to do more for him, but I didn't know how. When we finished praying, all we could do was tell him Dios le bendiga (God bless you), and move on.
As we continued down the pediatric hall, I kept thinking about him. "I just want to know his name," I asked God. I wanted a name to put to that little, scarred face. "His name is Victor," He told me. Victor. I smiled as I thought of him as he was as a healthy boy, running around, kicking a soccer ball.
As we walked back down the hall to leave the hospital, when we passed Victor's room, I turned to get one last look at him. He was still laying in his bed, alone. I prayed that he would feel, and even see Jesus there with him.
I still think about little Victor, and I like to think that my image of him playing soccer was a prophetic one, that he will get better, and be a healthy, happy boy again. I came on the Race expecting to have an impact on people like Victor, but instead he has made an unforgettable impression on me.
Jesus was often overwhelmed with compassion when he met someone who was sick and hurting. He gave me a little taste of that compassion that day, and it was beautiful.
Please pray for little Victor. I have no idea if he is still in the hospital, or if he is better and home with his family, or even if he has a family. His face will forever be in my heart.
