Day 1:
The hospital is like a scene out of an American horror film.
The elevator appears out-of-service as heaps of people, including us, tackle
the white-washed corridor of stairs. The first floors were eerily empty, save a
few Africans waiting.. waiting for someone to care.
nauseated by the stench of urine and other fluids.
Each room contains 8 makeshift beds surrounded by family and
friends. We rotate in a circle, praying, encouraging, and talking about Jesus.
We tell about the hope we have, the suffering that produces perseverance, and
that Jesus understands… even if we don’t.
Its truly amazing to me how the Spirit really DOES give the
words to say just like Jesus promised his first 12 disciples.
for an operation, the ones who have not received an initial assessment really
stir my emotions.
Day 2:
Today I watch the elevators doors open. Oh, they do work. I
wonder what ID badge one must wear around their neck for access. We take the
stairs again.
I wave to friends I met yesterday: the woman with a cast and
her male visitor who both dedicated their lives to Christ, the man with the
stomachache, and the men with the marked up bibles. I ask about the man who was
paralyzed from the waist down.
they should even be called patients. The only proof of admittance is the
bracelet around their wrist and the urine bags on the floor next to the beds.
Oh, and a few sport the typical blue hospital trousers, proof they’ve been
there awhile.
A more accurate name for the people in the beds should be “the
sick”, “the outcast”, the ones “referred to the hospital of rejects.” The
nurses and doctors are hard to find, until we stumble past the break room.
That’s where they chill from 4-6pm. Oh, visiting hours, I get it. Apparently
from 4-6pm, the family members become certified nurses and doctors. This stirs
up anger as well as passionate prayer. Let me expand. While Kerry, David Shaw,
Pastor Paul, and I were praying for the man sitting by bed #7, a scene began to
unravel. The young man in bed #8 began to bleed from the large tumor that took
the place of his chin and mouth. It was the size of a melon and was bandaged
tight onto his face.
His situation reminded me of when I got teeth pulled at the
dentist. As a result of the numbing shot, not only did my mouth become swollen,
I could no longer control the saliva and blood that would drip from my mouth.
My
concentration diverted away from the man in bed #7 whose joy spread through his
facial expression by the fact that it was his turn to talk to us. Bed #8 had my
full attention. We called down the hallway for a nurse. One came after awhile,
looked in the room, and walked back out as if she could careless. I was
furious. The man began to cry out and moan as he suffered not only pain, but
obvious embarrassment and anger. His sheets were soon blood soaked and he
gathered them to his face and stormed out of the room.
After
praying for bed #7, we found the tumor man sitting in a chair outside the
nurses break room. I wanted to do anything to help him, maybe wash out his
mouth, or just talk to him and actually notice him. But since that wasn’t our
place, we prayed and we cried out in this man’s place. God, heal HIM! Love him!
Hold this kid tight in your arms.
I’m not
sure why some people in this world suffer like that. It is really hard to see.
But I have hope and I want it to be known in this world. My hope is for the
least of these, those the nurses push aside. My passion is for the least of
these, that they may be first in the kingdom of God.
