It was a calm Sunday afternoon and I headed out with a group of friends to a little place on the beach to relax and have some girl time. As we got into our taxi, the driver recognized that we were from Mercy Ships and began asking questions. He had a little boy named Murphy that couldn't walk and he wanted to know if we could help him. His eyes were filled with hope as he promised to bring his son with him when he came back to pick us up later that afternoon.
A few hours later, Mac (our driver) came back as he had promised with not only his son, but his whole family. I took one look at the little boy and felt a lump in my throat. Murphy was four years old and appeared to have cerebral palsy, not an orthopedic problem. He was not even able to speak. In my broken French, I explained to his daddy that we would not be able to help. He looked at me with sadness in his eyes, but a glimpse of hope still remained. "What about in your country? Can they do surgery in America?" Mac did not understand the implications of the little boy's condition. I explained to him a little bit more about his son's condition and that it wasn't something that could be reversed. My words seemed to hit him like a punch in the gut. "So he's going to grow up like this," he asked. I told him about therapies that might be able to help his son, but tried to give him a realistic idea of what his son would be like. He was completely gutted. I asked if we could pray for his son and said a prayer for Murphy and his family, knowing that Jesus was the only one who could give them true comfort in that moment.
The drive back to the ship was a quiet one. From time to time, Mac would let out a deep sigh. I knew he was still processing the heaviness of my words. I did not come to the beach expecting to shatter the dreams of a hopeful father. I told him how sorry I was and that I wish I could help him. He attempted a weak smile, dropped us off at the port, and drove away.
I think I can now relate with the doctors and how they feel when they have to break the bad news to parents in the hospital about a disorder that their child has. It wasn't just that we couldn't do surgery for Mac's child or that I had no medicine to give, but that his son had a condition that would affect him for the rest of his life. Mac thought he could just get surgery and be ok...there was still some hope remaining. But with a few words from my mouth, that hope disappeared.
I came back to the ship with a heavy heart. I said another prayer for the daddy who loved his little boy and just wanted to give him a better life. I thought of all the patients that we would see on the screening day and the thousands of other parents who would carry their little one to us in hopes of medical help. I thought of all the people we would have to turn away because they needed a different type of surgery than the specialties that we offer or the patients who had conditions that were inoperable. Jesus, please be their hope.
Tomorrow is screening day. We are expecting thousands of people to come. For some, it will be a joyful celebration because they will leave with their patient card and surgery date. For others, it will be a heart-wrenching, disappointing day. But I know that Jesus cares for each one who will be there and I pray that His love would be poured out through us in it all.
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