I think I might never come home. Never one to make overgeneralized or exaggerated statements that have little reflection on reality, I probably will in fact come home. But this week makes me question how life can go on as I used to know it, when there are little boys like Abraham out there to be loved. Yesterday I took care of Abraham, an 8-year old who had to be readmitted to the hospital after a hernia repair, due to a post-op infection he got from "excessive playing". An inguinal hernia repair is a relatively simple procedure; Most patients go home the day after surgery, as was the case with Abraham. I am not completely sure about Abraham's home and family life, but I get the sense that nobody would have stopped him from spending the day running around screaming and laughing and playing football. Thus, he ended up back with us this week with a large wound and needing antibiotics. And thus, I have found the reason God invented smiles.
Abraham speaks Liberian English, which as I may have mentioned previously, is as far from what we call English as any other foreign language. (On a completely unrelated topic, if you are interested, my friends Mark & Peggy are physicians on the ship, and their most recent blog has a detailed description of how to take a Liberian Health History which might be amusing to some: http://mercyinafrica.blogspot.com/2008/03/you-can-understand-me-yea.html). So, there is a language barrier. Not that it matters even a little when connecting with a child. They say that 80% of communication is non-verbal (I like quoting statistics that I make up, but are probably somewhat close to the real statistic, which, is probably made up as well, but at least is made up by someone with a lot of credentials). Anyways...what a fantastic example of how we can relate and communicate without words. After a day of colouring rainbow Cliffords (the big red dog doesn't have to be red in Liberia), and building lego castles, and making bizarre faces at one another and trying relentlessly to understand (most times unsuccessfully) what the other was saying, I think we are in love. He barely screamed at me at all when I did his dressing change, which I can only imagine is more than a little bit painful. And then as he was falling asleep last night, he asked he to pray for him. He gave me kisses and held my hands in his and fell asleep. It's hard to imagine anything touching my heart more.
It's hard because as much as I would like to just soak up the love and feel incredibly privileged to be a part of his world for a time, I want to do more. I want to offer more to Abraham than just some special moments for a couple days in our well-stocked, comfortable, air conditioned hospital. I want to make the reality that he is going to return to next week a little better. I want him to have a family that loves him and that takes care of him so that he never gets hurt and feels safe. I want him to have food and clean water to drink so that he has a functioning immune system. I want him to have enough money to go to school so that he can become a contractor and build grown-up lego castles.
I know that he probably won't have all, if any of those things. I know that even if I devoted my life to trying to make his life better, he is one child of millions, which makes it feel futile. But I also know that "it makes a difference to this one".
Amongst the myriad of advise and counselling and words of wisdom imparted on us when we were starting our time here on Mercy Ships, one story stood out for me. I can't even remember the specifics of the woman's situation, but I remember that her story was horrendous. She had lived through war and seen atrocities that we would find incomprehensible. Every single thing that had happened in her life had sent her the message that the world is a bad place. Not a thing had ever happened to her that would convince her that someone loved her. Until someone came and selflessly cared for her and took on her problem as their own and helped. She said it was the first time she knew she was loved. Knowing you are loved can change your entire perspective on life. We aren't here to prove that we love the people of Liberia. I believe we are here to prove to them that God loves them, and that he hasn't forgotten them. We can't solve all of the problems. I don't think we can even solve all of the problems for Abraham, who is just one little boy. But if fixing his hernia and spending the day smiling and playing with him convinces him that there is someone out there that loves him and cares for him, then I want to spend all of my days doing just that.