The sun is bright and hot, even though the air is still sticky from the rain shower that passed a short time ago. We’ve just spent a few hours at a feeding station on the base of the mountain that separates Swaziland from South Africa, and the stories of the playful children who had, once again, captured our hearts are still on our lips.
We park our car on the side of the road and begin the walk up the mountain. Our destination is a small homestead a little ways up; the home of Ntombi, a mother who has all but lost the ability to use her right leg. She was severely burned several years ago, and the burn that took a chunk out of her right foot has never healed properly. Somewhere along the line she has developed what is thought to be a disease resembling cerebral palsy.
We take a dirt path up the side of the mountain, avoiding the trees and the rocks along the way. When we reach the clearing, it’s as though we’ve entered into a painting. Five huts stand before us, all complete with thatched roofs. Pigs intermingle with mules while, under their feet, chickens chase after their young. Our elevation provides us with an amazing view of the green landscape that lies below us.
Ntombi’s mage (SiSwati for “mother” and pronounced “mahgay”) comes out of one of the huts. The majority of her family lives on this homestead. She’s in her mid-60s and full of life. She greets us and, after gathering chairs or laying out mats for us to sit on, she heads to a neighboring hut to get Ntombi.
Ntombi hobbles out of her hut, aided by her mage on one side and a stick on the other. As she makes the twenty-yard walk from her hut to our sitting place, her mage leaves her side. Ntombi continues, and, although she moves slowly, it’s clear she’s used to making her way on her own. I suppose that’s something she was forced to learn early on, as her family is often too focused on finding food for their next meal to be by her side every moment.
She sits on one of the mats, her bandaged foot propped up onto an old water carton. Her body is tense, and she keeps her hands clutched in fists, held tightly to her chest. There’s so much dirt and so little care, her toes have become deformed from years of infection and limping around. She winces as one of our contacts unwraps her bandage, although I think it’s more out of embarrassment than pain – she was burned so deeply and has gone so long without care that almost all of her nerve-endings are gone. The wound is about the size of a softball and as deep as her bone. It looks as though someone has taken a pickaxe and hacked away half of her foot. As he assesses her wound, someone tells me that his only training has been from a visiting nursing student. But, unless Ntombi makes the long trek into one of the major cities, he is her only medical care. And then, of course, there is always the challenge of money for hospital visits.
She sits there silently as we watch. I can only imagine what it must be like for her, to be sitting in front of so many young, white girls, as if on display. I wonder if she knows that our hearts are breaking for her, or that we feel embarrassed for having so little to offer her. Does she ever think of life before the fire, or is it too painful to look back? I pray that, along with her foot, the flames stole some of her memories as well.
I feel the Lord prompting me to tell her that I think she’s beautiful. And so I do.
When she hears the words, Ntombi shifts her gaze from our translator to me. Her eyes light up in a mixture of disbelief and excitement, as if she has never before heard those words spoken to her, or even thought them about herself. She drops my gaze and looks down in embarrassment, a smile still plastered on her face.
I like to believe that, in that moment, Ntombi truly believes she is beautiful. Not because some young white girl from America thinks so, but because the God of the universe does.
As they coat the wound with peroxide and spread a layer of honey* over it, I wonder what my nurse-sister would say about the whole situation. I think about how much I wish she were here, on this mountain, to provide some medical guidance. But it’s just us, a jar of honey, and the Lord, in the middle of nowhere-Swaziland.
I help tape Ntombi’s bandage back on and Britni asks if we can pray for her.
I stand there, my hand on Ntombi’s shoulder, begging God to heal her, pleading for a miracle. I beg Him to change this, to somehow make it easier for her.
I open my eyes to the same scene that I closed them to. Her foot, still deformed. Her body, still racked with disease.
We say goodbye, shaking Ntombi’s hand as we head down the mountain. She holds on to each of us, not wanting to let go. But eventually, she does.
And then we leave.
The blogs of my fellow racers around the world are chocked full of stories of healings they’ve witnessed. Of God showing up and doing big, tangible things.
That hasn’t been my race so far. I’ve seen so many broken people, so many people desperate to be made whole, and I have not witnessed a single healing.
At first, it bothered me. I suppose, if I’m honest, sometimes it still does. Is my faith not strong enough? Am I too broken myself to be of any help? “Why aren’t you here, God? Why don’t you show up and do something about this?”
But I’ve realized something, through all the countries and all the poverty. I’ve realized that God is in it, even if He isn’t “showing up” before my all-too-human eyes.
I hear His voice amidst the impoverished, His truth spoken to the widows, His love among the orphans.
I am God in the midst of this pain. I hear their cries.
But, my beloved, My ways are higher than yours.
I don’t get it. I can’t pretend that I do. I live among the impoverished, knowing that in a few months I’ll be home, in the middle of the land of abundance.
I guess I’m in good company, though. God sentenced His own Son to death, and not even the angels understood it.
I’m learning how to trust Him, His sovereignty, His power. My mortal brain can only handle so much, so I’m starting to leave the rest up to Him.
And His plans seem to work out pretty well.
*Honey, as it turns out, is a natural sealant. And, more importantly, it’s cheap and readily available in rural Swaziland.
