Perspective

"Visit Children's Hospital"

It was listed on the itinerary without much fanfare.

Just a line item on the week's agenda.

We piled out of the bus into the parking lot. Women and children stood outside the entrance. A woman dressed in white showed up to greet us. Her nurses' uniform was impeccably ironed, her hair braided without a single strand out of place. Her black skin radiated against the bleach white uniform that resembled those I had seen my grandmother wearing years prior as a nurse.

We were here.

A bus load of white people from the U.S. ready to engulf the hospital with donations, prayer and the power of our Savior.  Ready to give. Ready to bless. Ready to share.

After introductions, we were escorted upstairs to an administrator's room. We unloaded the gifts we had brought, proud of what we were able to donate. Alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, neosporin, tylenol. Buckets, blankets, baby items. Several large bags full with specifically requested items for the hospital.

Check. Check. Check.

Introductions were made. Words of thanks given. Photos taken.

Now...we could embark.

Now we could begin what we had hoped. Touring the facility. Praying. Sharing Christ. Giving of ourselves. Pointing them to Jesus. Doing a good deed. Giving. Giving. Giving.

After spending a good thirty minutes to an hour in the nutrition wing, holding starving babies and the hands of their unknowing mothers, we were escorted back through the hospital to another ward of the pediatric unit.

 The beds were full...sick children sitting next to their silent mothers.

 We were notified that the worst cases were in the back.

I didn't see a doctor. I didn't see any IV tubes, or medicine droppers. No thermometers, no patient file, no bedpans. Just simple beds with sick kids.

As I made my way to the back area, weeding through hollow eyed children and blank faced mothers, I saw her.

My team member, Hanna, was  holding her.

She was dying.

With barely a whisper, holding back tears, Hanna gently looked up at me and muttered,

"I can barely feel a pulse."

"I don't think she is breathing."

I took her tiny wrist in my hand and waited for the beat.

Waited for the life line. The pumping blood. The notion of life.

Ever so faintly it came. Barely there. Barely a movement.

Yes, she was dying.

I knew she could be contagious. I had no idea what her illness might be.

Tuberculosis? Malaria? Pneumonia? Premature birth?

I knew I could catch it. I knew I would be exposed.

But in that moment, it didn't matter.

I took her from Hanna's arms, and wrapped her in mine. I leaned close to her cheek and whispered the sweet love of Jesus in her ear. I prayed for a pulse. I swallowed my anger, my grief, my conviction and I stood there knowing she might not see the next hour. I gave what I could...a kiss, a cuddle, a prayer and yet

 in that moment, as we were being called to move on to our next itinerary line item,

I knew I was not the one giving today.

I knew I was receiving.

Faith...

"Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see."

Hebrews 11:1

Faith that our Father does not make mistakes.

Faith that even if this little one died in that moment, she would be with our Lord.

Faith that God knows the plans for her and they are good.

But in that moment, in that moment when just a short hour before I thought I would be the one to do the giving,  I also received perspective.

Perspective on life.

Perspective on living.

Perspective.

How can a person hold a child who is dying from a fully preventable cause and come back to the U.S. and complain about anything?

How can a person look into the eyes of a 20 something year old girl, who has given up the chance of a lifetime at school to care for her dying niece, be concerned about education reform in Iowa?

How can a person hold a child, age 11 months, with legs the size of a pencil and arms so fragile we are afraid they will break in two, and question my own monthly budget for food?

Perspective my dear sisters...perspective.

Dear Lord, as I did last week, this day I lift up every child and mother in that hospital to you. I pray for the nurses and caregivers that they might gain access to medical supplies to help their patients. I pray for my own personal walk with you Lord. Dear Lord, I can ask why you allow starving children to die...and yet, you could ask me the same question. Might I never lose my conviction. Might I sacrifice...truly sacrifice...so I can give more to them.