To Touch the King: Why We Minister to Those who Suffer | Lausanne World Pulse Archives
The grandmother, Rama, was an old acquaintance who had worked as a house-helper for some friends of ours. Her son and daughter-in-law sat with her on the floor of our sitting room—their clothes and hollow faces declaring their poverty, the quiet despair in his eyes highlighting the harsh life of a day laborer. Recently, I had spent the better part of two days with them and they had come by our home to pay their respects before returning to the village. Sitting together now, I felt anger rise like bile in my mouth—anger at this family—at their poverty and ignorance and at the way they simply accept their lot in life. Anger at a world of injustice and suffering that we have so little ability to change.
The Need of a Family
A week earlier, Rama and her daughter-in-law tried to change their fate. They arrived on our doorstep with Sonu—a 5-month-old baby boy wrapped in a blanket. Only two large, unseeing eyes were visible. He was sick, and as the cheap village doctors had not helped, they had been to see our pediatrician who had told them that something was wrong with the child’s blood, and that the treatment would cost in excess of 2,000INR (Indian Rupees). They asked us to help as they did not have that kind of money. They had nowhere else to go and had spent the last two hours searching for our house in hopes that we might be willing to pay for the treatment.
Bundling them into a rickshaw, I abandoned my afternoon plans to sit in doctors’ waiting rooms and ensure that Sonu received the proper treatment. Speaking with the pediatrician, I began to realize how critical the child’s situation was. The doctor’s only official recommendation was an immediate blood transfusion. Unofficially, his entire manner spoke of the futility of even trying.
|
|
At a small modern hospital not far away, an elderly doctor with kind hands and a gentle spirit took Sonu from his mother’s arms, removed the blanket, and engaged in the fight for this small life. I had never seen anyone so sick and still alive. This small child was emaciated, with skin hanging from his body due to dehydration; each breath punctuated with small cries of pain. He was unresponsive when the doctor tried five times to find a vein that was open enough to allow for an IV. The little one needed oxygen, antibiotics, and rehydration fluid to try and control blood poisoning, dehydration, pneumonia, and tuberculosis.
Sonu’s immediate need was blood. He simply did not have enough to sustain himself, and without more he would die. Pricking, poking, prodding, and praying, the staff was able to coax just enough blood out of him for the tests required to match type and compatibility. I was handed two small vials of his blood and put them in my shirt pocket. I set out across town to the blood bank to bring back a liter of bright red life.
Taking Risks, Walking in Faith
Here in India, to get blood you have to give it. And so I found myself in a chair with small blood-soaked cotton balls on the floor and a man sticking a needle in my arm. Asking if it was a new needle, his grunt of affirmation did little to reassure me; for a split second I wondered if this was worth the risk of contracting some fatal blood-borne disease. But who else would give their blood for some unknown child? I didn’t have time to try and find a family member. And even if someone could be found, could I really ask that person to take the risk that I myself was hesitating to take? After all, someone had already shed his blood for me. The shedding of blood still seems to be the price of life.
The next day I found myself driving to and from the hospital—willing Sonu to live, pleading with God, giving hope to his parents, consulting the doctors, and always wondering if I was doing the right thing. And as Sonu fought for his life, I fought with my conscience.
“They are poor untouchables sitting in one of the most expensive hospitals in our city,” I thought. “What about current mission theory in regards to money, dependence, and the poor? Should I have taken them to a hospital that they could more easily afford? How much money will this cost me?”
Then the guilt hit me: “This is a child’s life we are talking about! If we had gone somewhere else, he surely would have died. Why does being poor mean that he should not get as good of treatment as myself or my daughters? How can I put a price on the value of a life?”
Then this thought came: “Perhaps it would be better to just let him die. He is in so much pain, and even if he lives, his life will probably be one of incredible hardship—driving a rickshaw or hoping for work as a laborer.”
Guilt reemerged: “Who am I to decide whether this child lives or dies? How do I know what his life will be like? Am I God? Who knows that God may not use this child to start a movement for his glory among his own people one day?”
“But what if he dies?” I wondered. “What if this is all for nothing? Oh God, please spare his life.”
Jesus in Disguise It was midnight and my phone began ringing. I picked it up to find someone speaking rapidly in Hindi: “Sonu just died, please come immediately.” I hurriedly dressed and drove to the hospital. It felt like I had been punched in the gut—I could hardly breathe. I had so wanted him to live. Grief, anger, and relief welled up from within me.