While I sat on the aluminum bench, another family came in to the Urgency Room to seek assistance.
A middle-aged man, dressed in a grey polyester suit moved swiftly to get the attention of the white coats. His father, slender and tall with a wide face, hurried to lift his wife onto one of the beds. She opened her eyes for only a moment as her body made contact with the well worn sheets. She coughed intermittently, her body shaking from the effort. She wore a brown wool coat, rough and buttoned up to her neck. Her salt and pepper hair was heavy with sweat...though she was trembling as if she were freezing.
The son's face registered no emotion. The situation appeared grave to my eye. Once the son disappeared to pay the ransom for treatment...his father...shoulders now stooped...ran his calloused hand over his wife's face and hair. She opened her eyes and he whispered something to her. My eyes started to burn as the tears welled up in them...the tenderness of his touch...in the midst of that bleak room, with the white coats laughing and joking with each other, the rain pouring down outside the window...I could feel his heartbreak.
Here, in 2010, public displays of affection are reserved for those young courting years. (In fact just last week I had to explain to some of my offspring why the young couple was licking each other's cheeks while giggling and pressing themselves together on a crowded bus.) In fact, I cannot think of a time since we've lived here that I have seen a middle-aged or elderly couple touching each other. It simply isn't done. One assumes that because it is not seen as appropriate. Yet, here I'd seen an exchange so precious, so significant, that I was struck by the deep emotion of it. This man loved his wife and was clearly torn by her suffering so he caressed her. I thought it so startling that as soon as I processed what I saw, I felt shamed, as though I'd seen something intensely private and should avert my eyes, but it was so compelling to watch and I yearned to construct a story for them.
The son returned, performing his role of filial piety to the utmost...but never approaching her bed...never expressing his feelings through touch...only through his responsive duty...
...the mother in me so wanted him to comfort her...
...but he kept the image of detached control...while his father shifted his weight nervously, glancing quickly here and there for any white coat to break away from the apparently hilarious "water-cooler" chat...awaiting the prognosis for his love...
I was surprised to see the Doctor standing before me again with Little Kevin's X-Rays.
"Our team says that the treatment appears to be effective. But, the child probably needs surgery, he should come to our hospital for us to see him personally."
My mind tried to catch up with his comment...what did this mean?
The second opinion was that tying Kevin to a bed, for nearly three weeks, his leg in traction with a iron ball hanging from the end of the bed, and hoping that his bones would stay in place while he is on a constant IV drip..."appears to be effective."
My gut reaction was total disappointment. Is this the best I could get? That the boy likely needs surgery but they will have to transport him across town to see these doctors...what chance do I have of getting that to happen? All the while, I know that the Doctors at the Pediatric hospital are already saying to the family that he may never walk "normally" again. The "best care" would be the course that Kevin is already on?...and it is accepted that he may never be made whole again!
I suppose my Western bias is a great obstacle to accepting this dire prognosis for this precious 3 year old boy. His teachers have said that he was the most athletic and coordinated kid at the Kindergarten.
I want to help him. But I cannot.
If it was simply a matter of money, I would give it...I would raise it...
But he is a child born Here...and I am a foreigner...if I am to tell his parents that a better outcome exists...that I know he could have better care, better therapy, a promise of full physical restoration...would that not be a cruel "reality" to introduce to them?
It is a reality for me, for my children...if we had a great need...we would take out our passports and gain entry into health care that I've seen perform amazing feats in my lifetime...
But not for Kevin.
One of our New Guys, now home with us for over 3 months, was born with arthogryposis. His hands have a malformation that affects his range of motion, joints, and his grip. His feet were mildly clubbed, but he struggles as he walks...often tripping over his own toes many times during a walk.
I've been researching getting him the casting he requires for his feet, as recommended by one of the premier children's hospitals back There. So far, the results of my searching for suitable care have not been encouraging. An expert Here told me, "If he was my son, I'd take him back to my home country and get him to the best orthopedic surgeon I could find, as this can affect the rest of his life." Of course, it is possible for us to do that for our newly adopted son...but that choice does not exist for Kevin...and the hundreds of thousands of children Here who have life altering conditions and accidents.
I am so grieved by this...the inequality of it...why are my children able to have the best...while Kevin does not? How inadequate I am, in my diminished sphere of influence...I cannot change the injustice of this situation.
And then I hear the voice of the Spirit reminding me that, it is in my weakness, that He is strong. This is promised over and over again in the Word and yet the human condition, at least my human condition, is to strive to overcome this injustice in my flesh. I cannot change or control this matter, I am more limited Here than I have ever been. Where once I was known as a "communicator" ...Here, I face my inadequacy daily...I cannot effectively communicate with anyone.
It is not reachable for me. But.. I AM a Child of Him!
Any follower of Him has in our grasp untold power. Power to make war against injustice. Power to bring mercy, grace, and love into the midst of brokenness. If there is any aide I can give the family that can move mountains, that can heal him within a system of (in my Western opinion) sub-standard care...it is in prayer.
As a "container of the HS" I carry within me His love and compassion...His healing power...His presence into my everyday life and experiences. He is near me and all those He places into my path, like Little Kevin. He is near Little Kevin, through my presence, and my role is to seek Kevin's healing and wholeness on my knees, fully accepting and confessing my inadequacy to remedy anything.
This experience of living Here shows me continually that I need Him. There are no longer the familiar guises of "control" that I lived with in the West...I am weak and helpless on my own...
I grew up despising this idea of weakness in myself. But, it is that very weakness that opens my eyes to see my need for Him and His presence...
And in the middle of that vacuous hospital hallway, staring at humanity...I am ever more aware of their need for Him, too.
For without Him...where is our hope?
It is not in money, or humanly compassion, or governments, or an invisible code of fairness...
...all these are corrupt and leave Little Kevin, the broken down couple and their daughter, and the loving husband with his fading bride and distant son...hopeless.
May He use me to share His light and hope in the lives that cross my path each day.
Without Him, I acknowledge that I have nothing to offer.
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