There are beds scattered all across the room. Four beds to our left, four to our right. A small wall that would come up to your waist stands between the next section of four beds. The ceiling is sagging in a few places, and some sections of it are missing, exposing the dark rafters above. The floor is green, plastic like tiles, chipping and wearing away like the rest of the building. Wooden IV stands are dispersed throughout the room, providing a drip to some of the patients. The beds are metal, rusty, old.
Bugiri Hospital is completely different than any hospital I've ever been to in the United States. I'm pretty sure any African hospital would be different than what I'm used to seeing back home. Sparkling floors, walls, doors, instruments of the trade. Private rooms, curtains, the latest technology.
Here, a bed in an open ward that looks like it's seen five wars. A mosquito net maybe. Family members scattered on mats on the floor in any open space around the bed. It's darker during the day, unless the sun streams in through the windows. The electricity only turns on later in the evening.
This is where we come every Saturday. This is where we face our fears, step out in boldness and pray for healing and comfort every week. Where we walk through each ward, look into the eyes of the sick, touch them and pray over them. Men, women, and children.
Some with malaria. Hernias. A woman who has been paralyzed for two years from childbirth. Urinary problems. Head injuries. Broken legs and arms. Stab wounds. Chest pains. Heart pains. Anything and everything has touched these wards and these people.
I want to tell you about one of these special people. A little baby boy, named Alex. He was sleeping on his tummy, sprawled across a tiny, old mattress laid on the floor, with a thin sheet covering his smooth, chocolate brown skin. His mother was perched on the metal frame of the crib that the mattress was taken from. She looked down at her sleeping son.
We asked her if we could pray with her, and proceeded to ask what was wrong with her son, and what we could specifically pray for. Through the broken translation, we learned that there was something wrong with his blood, and had been having new blood put in. He had been passing out when he was awake, and hadn't breast fed in three days.
The few of us that were with this woman knelt down on the floor, preparing to pray for little baby Alex. I stretched my hand over his tiny one. Another hand was placed on his head. We began to pray for this precious baby boy. To declare healing over his body, that he would wake up. That he would eat. That God would restore His precious son.
After a few intense moments of kneeling at the feet of our Father on the behalf of his child, we say “amen,” and withdraw our hands, and begin to sit up. Suddenly, little baby Alex stirs. His arms begin to twitch in that tiny baby way, as they do when they come out of a deep slumber. His head moves a little. Then, his eyes flutter open. They are glazed, and he lifts his head a little, and then looks around confused. (As I would if four “mzungus” surrounded my bed)
He is quickly scooped up into his mothers arms, and begins to fuss a little. His mother begins to fumble with her shirt, preparing to offer her milk to her son, hoping that after three days of not breastfeeding, that he will take to it.
We begin to walk away to give the mother and her son privacy in this moment, but we glance back and little baby Alex is in his mothers arms, breastfeeding.
It was a beautiful moment, full of God's power. Some may say it is coincidence. But I know that our Father was in that moment. He took up his small child, and coursed his power through little Alex's veins. And we were so blessed to be a part of that moment.
That is why we are here. That is what we are called to. To spread God's love. His power. His life. To heal the sick. Cast our demons. To raise the dead. Freely we have received, so freely we give.
