After the Friday evening worship service, we eagerly loaded into the back of the church pickup and headed to a local hospital. We were going join the congregation’s weekly routine of handing out coffee and praying over patients.
I was so excited. This was an opportunity to call on Jesus to heal the sick and do ministry where it’s “really” needed. My team and I giggled as we felt the movement of the truck sway us from side to side. We talked about our open air view of the city and practiced our broken Spanish together.
I’m so ready for this, I thought.
When I found out we would be doing hospital ministry once a week, I (wrongly) had a very westernized idea of what this would look like. I envisioned myself going from room to room, getting to know the patients as they recover from their ailments, and praying boldly for miraculous healing. This is an opportunity to build relationships with people who are suffering, I thought. This is what I asked Jesus for leading up to the race!
Immediately upon entering the hospital, my position changed completely. I was greeted with visibly ill people standing around the overly full lobby as they waited in misery to be seen. My eyes wandered to the floor to see men and women sitting on cardboard because there was no other place for them to be treated. We walked through a short hallway to the main room and saw dozens of beds crammed together, supporting frail bodies fighting for their next moment. At least a quarter of the patients appeared to have just lost ligaments, while another handful were visibly dying right before my eyes. There was no getting to know them, no forming relationship. These people were hanging on for dear life, and they weren’t anywhere near ready to chat about prayer requests. The spirit of oppression was heavy and daunting in that place.
That boldness that I arrogantly expected to hold onto within those walls left me instantly. I felt like a little girl who needed to follow her parents around to avoid getting lost. When I did pray for people, I barely believed the words coming out of my mouth. I desperately wanted to make things better for all parties involved, but I was at a loss.
I remember looking around and thinking to myself, “Oh God, Oh God. I was not prepared for this.”
This was more than an expression of panic in that moment of fear. It was the raw truth. I wasn’t prepared because I didn’t go to the One from whom my strength stems. I relied on myself and was humbled big time. I left that hospital discouraged and afraid.
I knew in that moment that this was only the beginning of the heartbreak I would walk through this year. I was scared for what was to come in other countries with different monsters. I knew this was what I asked for, but I was terrified.
In the days following that first visit to the hospital, I’ve processed those fears and sought God to redeem that experience. I want to be the bold child of God that I know I am, but I need to press in to my Father in order to have any hope at success.
As hard as that was to walk though that hospital, it needed to happen in order for me to realign my heart. I’m on the World Race for God’s glory. Every single reason for why I’m here comes back to that.
This realization has brought new purpose to my ministry. It’s brought much needed perspective. Again, I find myself thankful for growing pains.
Tonight, we headed back to that same hospital. I sought the Lord beforehand and felt his hand steadily guiding me. We arrived and there was another church inside already, so we headed to an area of town that is saturated with the homeless community.
I will write a blog soon on how the Lord used this to give me boldness and most importantly, glorify him and bring hope to dark places.
Until then,
McKenzie
