Over the course of the last 14 months my greatest desire was
to return to Africa. I’ve had to stop, blink a couple times, and then take a
deep breath numerous times this past week. I’m back. It’s like returning after
a super long vacation. When we stepped off the plane in Entebbe the humidity
hit my face like a rocket. It was then I realized I was home. It’s the
strangest feeling. Yet, I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. We had
quite the adventure getting to Tororo where we would be for the next month or
so. It included hostels, white water rafting, bungee jumping, fires, turned
over trucks and waiting, waiting, waiting.
Sunday we had the honor of visiting patients at St.
Anthony’s hospital. I’m no stranger to doing hospital ministry but this time
things were different. The place seemed heavy. It wasn’t the hospital I was
used to going to in Kenya where the majority of the people spoke English and
walked around serious, but with a smile on their face. This place seemed hopeless and broken. When we first
entered the men’s ward to begin praying, they just started at us. I’m not sure
when the last time they had seen a white person was, let alone a white person
coming to pray for them. I’ve seen healing happen in the hospital, so I was
eager to get right to praying. I jumped in, asked questions, got a little
background information and I began to pray. I find I grow the most in my prayer
life when I am praying boldly and have an attitude of ‘not taking no for an
answer.’ God wants us to pray boldly and to pray the ‘impossible’ because He
likes to show His goodness to us.
When we had finished in the men’s ward we were walking from
place to place and noticed a room with a door half open. In Uganda, if a door
is half open it might as well be fully open because we walked right in. We were
in a private room full of ladies and one lady in particular was laying on the
bed. She wasn’t talking, or looking around. She was just laying there,
lifeless. I had asked the ladies what her name was and they responded with a
quiet ‘Claire.’ Claire was Ugandan, with dark, sad, brown eyes. She didn’t
smile and made no attempt at eye contact, but she listened to every word I
said. I had gone on to ask why Claire was in the hospital and how long she was
going to have to be there. The response was definitely one I was unprepared
for. Claire had just had a full-term stillborn baby.
The look on her face said it all. She was broken, lost, and
looking for answers. She didn’t know why this had happened, and neither did I.
Most people think Christians have the right answers and to know what to say at
any given time but I was at a lost for words. I quickly processed what I had
just heard and began to pray. I spoke life into her, and told her I didn’t know
why this happened but God wouldn’t leave her. I told her it sucked and if she
needed to cry, to cry out to God. I also began to tell her that she was loved,
and she was renewed and made whole. It was a simple prayer, but one I pushed
through to finish. God was breaking my heart in the smallest way for what
Claire was feeling and if the only thing she got out of my visit was the kiss
on her forehead and my holding her hand, than I am perfectly okay with that.
I know this isn’t the last Claire I’ll encounter in these
next four months. But, I’m believing that one prayer, one kiss, one held hand
can make anyone’s day better.
