A Layne Post
Driving to the hospital I knew I would need to manage my time a bit. I would have an hour an a half, and many times I get so caught up chatting with the ladies on the veranda I never make it inside. There were three specific people I wanted to to see. On the list was a young girl, maybe ten years old, whose tumor has gone from bad to worse. As I drove I imagined conversations in my head, ways I’d like to encourage her and perhaps calm some of her fears, knowing her time on this earth is short.
I arrived, ready to minister.
I walk into the room and in shame she turns sides as I sit, shutting her eyes, covering her face. The skin is taught beyond what seems possible, making her creamy mocha cheek appear translucent. Blood vessels bulge beneath the paper thin covering, while some have burst leaving red specks of blood beneath the skin. Beads of sweat run together, her forehead drenched from the fever. I run my hand over her hairline. She is not up for talking.
Her grandmother sits on the bed with her, legs straight out. A tired smile crosses her face in greeting. She does not speak Portuguese, and I do not speak her language.
I communicate a little through another mother close by, though she does not seem eager to play the role of translator. Ministry is difficult like this. I feel a bit helpless, unable to connect in any meaningful way.
With permission, I pray and then leave, a little dissatisfied. That was not how I imagined it.
Pray for Nelsa. Pray for the Holy Spirit to connect with her, to reveal Himself to her. Pray for an eternity in heaven for her, for her to be healed and her sins forgiven.