We were three deep on the beds this morning, hoping that God really wanted us all in there, because we had dental abscesses sitting hip-to-hip with VVF ladies. The translators and disciplers beat drums and shook shekeres as we clapped and sang about God's love and provision; the same song the kiddos at the orphanage taught me a few days ago, sitting around in the sand as three or four of them simultaneously tried to plait my hair.
My lifetime. I will give God my lifetime.
And if I give God my lifetime,
He will take care of me.
He will never, never let me down,
If I give God my lifetime.
And then Victoria got up to testify. She told about the two years before Kumassah was born. How she didn't pray and she didn't go to service and she wasn't grateful to Daddy Jesus. And then Kumassah came out, and she had the growth on her head, and Victoria definitely wasn't grateful then.So they came to the ship. Kumassah had surgery, went home and then the wound got infected. Her neighbours started telling Victoria that the baby's brains were coming out, and that the people on the ship weren't going to help. She didn't think God deserved any kind of thanks, but she came back anyway.
She told about how she cried and didn't know who to turn to. And then a nurse came and sat with her and talked with her and gave her a Bible to read.
And now, her smile breaking wide across her face, I know who I will be saying my prayers to every day. And I know who I need to thank.
...
And then, of course, came the rest of the day. I could write you out a long list of things I never thought I'd really have to do. Making beds with flat sheets and hospital corners. Calculating IV rates based on the number of drips that fall every minute. Introducing myself in Liberian English and feeling for all the world like I'm not saying anything, only to have a patient's mother grin and shout, "She speak clear!" Coming back from dinner to find that I've gotten eight new admissions at the same time. Things like that.
When the IVs had been started and the new kids had been tucked into bed, I looked around for Abraham. His aunt pointed to the bathroom. He don't come out.I opened the door to find my little boy, clad in his yellow and blue gown, looking for all the world like a thundercloud about to break. I tried everything, all my tricks and all my coaxings, but he refused to say a word. Just stood there, orange slippered, fingering the knot on the tie of his gown. I led him out of the bathroom, Hansel following a breadcrumb trail of stickers, and over to the other side of the ward where I sat him on a bed next to me.
Finally, I heard his little voice. Despite my sheer fluency in Liberian English (sarcasm, that) I couldn't make out what he was saying. He pulled my head close and whispered into my ear.
This not a man clothes. This a girl clothes.
So we got him another gown. He picked it out himself. It's covered in pink flowers. Somehow, this one is a man clothes.
