I wrote this blog about a month ago during our time in Kitale, Kenya on our hospital visit and never got around to posting it:
The overwhelming scent of urine and body odor made the rice and potatoes I’d just eaten for lunch want to come back up. My stomach churned and my palms grew clammy.
I noticed a bucket, similar to the one I’ve been washing my clothes in, sitting on the ground full of used needles, empty vaccination bottles and blood stained gauze. In America, these things would be in a ‘Biohazard’ marked box hanging on a wall.
We stuck out like sore thumbs standing in the middle of the children’s ward. Around me babies were crying, mother’s waited in a long line for a small serving of Ugali and there I stood, unsure where to begin.
Hesitant as to whom to approach, I sheepishly trailed behind my teammates as we began to hand out milk and oranges and pray for each child. I couldn’t shake the timidity and discomfort I felt.
The majority of the mothers spoke no English so conversations were limited. The task seemed simple enough. Just pray. I suppose I expected a rejection to prayer. I was tired of being watched. And who was I to be praying for the sick?
As I began making my way from child to child my heart underwent a change. I found myself overwhelmed with emotion and encountering Christ’s love for his children.
Holding Emmanuel in my arms and praying for his malaria.
Tickling sweet Valentine who suffered from seizures of unknown origin.
Touching Sara’s cheek when all she could do was stare at me from her dirty hospital bed because of the sickle cell anemia that’s robbed her ability to walk.
Wiped tears from Samuel’s eyes as his mother unwrapped the towel around him to reveal horrible burns over every inch of his legs.
Holding Diane’s little hand as she stood before me looking like a princess in her tattered lilac dress. Hearing the words HIV positive, knowing it will most likely claim her life.
You hear of the horrible diseases that claim the lives of thousands each year in Africa. Mothers. Fathers. Sisters. Brothers. Friends.
It’s a completely different story when they’re children. Children whose hands you’ve held. That have looked into your eyes, looking for an answer. Looking for some sort of release from the pain they’re bearing.
