*taken from a journal entry on 2/17
I am not allowed to take pictures of this week’s ministry, so I will have to do my best to paint with words…
Walking into the children’s ward of the RFM hospital in Manzini feels like you are taking a step back in time. The once-brightly colored and now-peeling paint coats the hallway that leads to the entrance. A crumpled and stained printout that reads “Children’s Ward” is hastily taped to the door. Medical devices of all sorts are strewn about the abandoned countertops and a child or two will walk by holding their IV bag. If you peek into one of the rooms leading up to the ward, you may see one or two of the longer-stay patients in their mother’s arms or sitting on a blanket laid out across the ground. Two cribs and a sheet make up the room’s sparse decor.
Coming to the threshold of the ward, the temptation to panic presents itself. A weird rush of painful flashbacks mixed with gratefulness threaten to cloud the mind. After a quick prayer for peace and strength, you enter.
The main ward is a large room with many, many cribs. Every ten feet or so there may be a partition that separates different sections of patients. To the right is a small play room of sorts with a table, crayons, and a small bag of toys. A little further in is the “malnourished room/ICU”.
Every crib in the ward is full of too-tiny children sleeping, sitting and crying with their exhausted mothers in hospital gowns caring for them. At the very end of the ward lays the children with broken limbs, their legs tied to an inverted bed with ropes and wraps to hold it in place for their six-week stay. Casts and crutches are not available here. Six weeks missing school, staring at a wall mural of Simba and a television that plays American soap operas and talk shows is the only treatment.
When I first walked in, I turned into the play room. It seemed only to be occupied by one play worker, a mother whose left eye remained shut from an unspoken injury and her rambunctious seven year old son. As I walked in further and looked at the other side of the door, I saw Surprise (that was his name) sitting on the floor playing with some of the toys.
Surprise is the most adorable and most tiny 19 month old I’ve seen. He is probably about the size and weight of a six or seven month old. His legs aren’s much more than little sticks, but his eyes are big and bright. He laughs silently in a hilarious almost-grimace that makes your heart melt.
As I befriended Surprise, his mother left to take a much-needed break. It was then that I discovered that Surprise has HIV. It is an all-too-common diagnosis in this ward, but it is still heartbreaking to see up close. It is still difficult to process and comprehend. He plays with so much joy and is wholly unaware of his affliction. The urge to panic, breakdown, and run away is strong. You will never feel more helpless than when you are staring into the eyes of an innocent child that you cannot save. But then you begin to pray and continue to make him laugh and allow his mother an hour of rest. You remember that he is not totally without hope. You remember that your heartbreak and love for the child is nothing compared to the Lord’s. And you remember what the Lord has done for those you love already and you force yourself to choose to trust him.
After Surprise’s mom came back to take him for a nap, I walked out and met another beautiful child. This one is called Thema. Thema had many of the signs of chemo treatment, though I’m not 100% sure of her ailment. She grabbed my hand and smiled. She is also 19 months, with deceivingly chubby cheeks for her light weight. Her mom smiled as I took Thema into my arms, then left. She, too, needed rest and a break from the crowded confines of the ward.
I struck up a conversation with the mother of the child in the next bed. She told me that all of the parents sleep on the hard ground underneath the children’s cribs at night. She told me that they do nothing but sit and wait all day while many children come in and out of the hospital. She wasn’t complaining, just matter-of-factly giving me a breakdown of her experience. Her son had been in the hospital for about a month for a sickness that seemed to be improving.
I told her I thought she was brave. I told her that I couldn’t imagine what she was going through there, but told her a story about someone I’m really close to who spent quite a bit of time in the hospital when he was her son’s age. I told her about his parents and how they leaned on the Lord for strength even in their darkest hours.
In the end, it felt like we bonded and we hugged before I left. She said she hoped to see me again. I think she was just grateful to have someone new to talk to. As she went to tend to her son, I walked around the ward with Thema. So many tiny IVs wrapped in bandages that could use changing. Only once did I see a doctor stroll through.
I wandered into the malnourished room where a squadmate was holding one of the patients. Across the room, a woman with a constant stream of tears was laying over tiny son with several tubes and bags of fluid around him. Some other squadmates were surrounding her, praying for her and hugging her as she received some difficult news. Sometimes all you can do is be someone to cry with.
After a while, I feel something warm on my stomach. Thema is grinning from ear to ear as she makes bubble noises with her mouth. It’s not the first time I’ve been peed on and it probably won’t be my last. I walk her back to her crib when her mom comes in and laughs at my predicament while apologizing for her child’s urine. I laugh, too, and tell her I’m used to it. She changes her nappy, then grabs a cup to go scoop out some of the formula from the barrel to feed Thema, who happily dribbles most of it down her front.
By this time, visiting hours are ending and it’s time for us to go. Despite the sickness and the heartbreak, there is still hope in that place.The mothers all look out for each other and there is an acceptance of the frailty of life. It’s as if they realize that life is a gift and a privilege, rather than a right.
And the children still go on as children, eager to laugh and play and make a mess. The smiles make it worth it.
I don’t know why these kids are sick. I don’t know why, in a few months, I get to go back to a country where children’s wards are spotless and bright and top-of-the-line. I don’t know why I get to wrap my arms around my little loved one when I get home in June and some of these parents won’t.
But I do know that, as crazy as it sounds, God can work out all of this stuff- this terribly sad, ugly stuff-into something good. I know from experience that it can be used to make something beautiful with redemptive ramifications beyond our comprehension. I know that it is difficult to see at first, or even at second (fear and pain are powerful blinders), but that it is still true.
We live in a fallen world. We were never meant for all of this sickness, sadness, fear, pain, and death. But there is Redemption.
This week has been a reminder of the precious joy that can be found in the darkest places. A reminder of the goodness and the longing for the Redemption of the world and all its sufferings. And a reminder that God really is good. All the time.
Love,
