“This isn’t worth it.” That’s what I was thinking on the seemingly endless hike from our house to the hospital at the other end of town. It was a cold, blustery day and Melissa and Darren were walking so fast they were basically running. I’m more of a stroller; I like to enjoy the journey. Plus my legs are a good 7 or 8 inches shorter than theirs, so I was already at a disadvantage. Needless to say, I wasn’t exactly enjoying the walk and I can’t honestly say that I thought our 1 hour at the hospital was going to be worth the 2 hour trek.
When we finally arrived, I headed to the children’s ward. I played a few minutes with my friend Tokozani, a boy with a beautiful smile and the world’s best laugh. I taught him thumb war and the slap game…a stupid idea on my part because he is freakishly strong for a kid and my hands were left with angry red splotches for several minutes. My feeble attempts at simple phrases in SiSwati brought out bursts of laughter as I butchered his language. Someone gave all of the children balloons that day and Toko entertained himself batting it back and forth with me and then hitting it as hard as he could to see how far he could bounce it off my head.
Just behind Tokozani’s bed is a door leading into the malnutrition unit, filled with precious little babies far too small for their age. A precious, 4-month old baby boy peered up at me…he weighed about 4lbs and was smaller than normal, healthy babies are at birth. His mother sat beside him and explained all this to me in broken English as she tried to get him to eat something. From what she told me, he had chronic diarrhea and that is why she brought him to the hospital a couple days before. I have no idea how it’s possible he hadn’t gained any weight in 4 months of life, but from what I know of Swaziland, many people cannot afford food or adequate health care. In America this little guy would have been hooked up to 5 different machines, and iv, feeding tube, and been in one of those chambers to protect him from germs and stuff; here he was laying on a small mattress on top of a table, there seemed to be no nurses checking on him, and he didn’t even have an iv. His mom left and I sat there praying over him as he slept. A week later, I would come back and discover the heartbreaking news that he had died.
Across the room was a 3 year old girl who was constantly and lovingly watched over by her grandmother. The little girl, her name is Hope, had cerebral palsy and this is the family that would bring me back here every day for the next week, the lengthy walk to the hospital long forgotten as I looked into precious eyes that could not gaze back into mine. I was reminded how blessed I am to have good health, to be able to walk. God gently repeated that this journey wasn’t about me; it was about His kingdom and the people that He lovingly created. They were royalty, sons and daughters of the King, worth so much more than any amount of steps it could take me to get to them. It’s very unusual in Swazi culture for family to be so devoted to special needs children, but grandmother was there day after day, standing guard over her granddaughter agonizing over her health. She allowed me to stand in for her as she went to get food, and as I stood there alternately rubbing Hope’s back and wiping drool from her face, I told her exactly who she was, a beloved child of God. She wouldn’t eat very much and she had small seizures continually for almost the entire hour I was there – this is why the grandmother was so concerned. No doctors came to check on her; apart from the medicine they had given her earlier, there was nothing more they could do. I prayed with her grandmother and left.
The next day, I was greeted with a hug and spent almost the entire time talking with the grandmother, learning about her family and her life and encouraging her. Worry is etched into the lines on her tired face and as I ask how she is doing, she immediately breaks down in my arms, weeping over the stress of the unknown future of her beloved granddaughter, the hospital bill, and the emotional toll of it all. I don’t have any answers; I can’t snap my fingers and fix this situation. All I can do is silently pray for this woman, this girl, this family as I stand there holding this lady, crying with her.
Jeremiah 29:11 says “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” I don’t know what plans the Lord has for Hope and her family. I don’t know what became of her after the few short days I got to be a brief part of their lives. But I do know that Jesus deeply cares for each of them and has His hand in their lives. I know that He fearfully and wonderfully created Hope on purpose for a purpose. It’s easy to look at that moment and wonder where God is and how any of what is happening is good, but God has been teaching me to learn to trust in His goodness even when I don’t understand. And often times after I’ve surrendered this to God, He shows me where He was and what He was doing…He never left Hope’s side, He was holding the grandmother even as I held her. God often works behind us more than He does in front of us (there is a lot more going on than we see or realize). I’m sure the disciples and Mary and Martha were wondering why Jesus had waited to come to them and in the balance of Jesus’ decision hung their brother’s life. Jesus had planned to let Lazarus die. It was all part of the plan from the very beginning. They knew if Jesus had only been there, their brother would be alive. But something more than they could see was going on…Jesus came perfectly at the right time and was going to do something beyond what they could have ever imagined. He came knowing He was going to raise Lazarus from the dead. What’s interesting to me is the part of the story where Jesus wept. He weeps with them, He mourns when they mourn even though He knows their mourning is about to be over as soon as He says “Lazarus, come out.” I will never have all of the answers, I may not be able to fix whatever the circumstances are; but right now God is teaching me that I don’t have to have the answers; I don’t have to fix things. Sometimes it’s more important just to be with people where they are and to let them be there without trying to fix them. Mourn with the people who mourn, laugh with those who laugh, support them in the place they are in, love them exactly as they are…this is what we are called to do.
