I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' no babies

I have seen my fair share of them.  I have never been squeamish about it at all.  You can’t be present for one and not be amazed.  I remember each one and tear up and get cold chills still.  A birth.  I loved it.  Sure I cried more than the baby, but still, I loved it. If you’ve never had any children of your own - you should ask a neighbor, co-worker, hair stylist, parole officer, whoever if you can be present when they give birth.  Offer to pay if needed but you just gotta, at least once.  I’ll come back to the birth stuff later.   

    Several months ago the question was put to a small group of leaders from our church here in Gulu “what else can we do as a group of followers of Jesus to better serve our community?"  The group contains only 2 whites and a dozen Ugandans.  One of the young ladies spoke up and said that she has been going to the local government hospital and praying with some of the patients.  So instead of something “else” to do, something more was done.

photo credit

I have been in hospitals on several occasions (see first paragraph), rarely as a patient though.  But during my visits I have noted that there is usually plenty of doctors, nurses, medicine, beds,  tv’s,  and bedpans for everyone.  Let me try and describe the hospital we visit.  There are about a dozen one story buildings.  The white paint is peeling off each of them, all of the screenless windows are swung open to get relief from the heat.  Each of the buildings has a different “ward” name on it - “medical ward”, “surgical ward”, “turburculosis ward”, “mental ward” etc.  Surrounding the buildings are dozens and dozens of people on grass mats with bags....mostly women, with a few children and men.  You enter the “wards” in the middle.  Its a shotgun style building.  Women’s ward on one end and men’s on the other.  There are dozens of beds.  The bed is more of a cot. A metal frame a little smaller than a twin.  The thin mattress is covered with the leftover material they used on bench seats from mid seventies Chevy Impalas.  The beds are about two feet apart and nothing but air between them.  You can tell if someone has been there for a long time from the amount of stuff under their bed.  There are a few with plastic plates and cups, a sheet, but little else. 

   Now, as for the dozens of people on the grass mats outside, they are living there.  They are a relative of someone in the hospital.  The hospital does not provide food.  If they want their loved one to eat, they have to provide the food.  On the western border of the property is an area about twenty feet by twenty feet.  It has eight posts with a tin roof on it.  There are two dozen small piles of rocks that serve as a stand for the pots. This is the kitchen.  Its used by those caretakers living outside of the hospital wards to prepare food for their “patient” inside.  Most of the people that come to this hospital come from one of the hundreds of villages in northern Uganda.  Coming to the hospital is usually a last resort.  If a man comes, his wife or sister comes with him.  They bring what money they have to survive on during their stay.  This leaves children unattended at home and sometimes if treatment is not available before their money runs out, they just go home.   

   Speaking of treatment - diagnosis and medicines are not always available.  It's a very understaffed, underfunded, and undersupplied facility.  Doctors are scarce and drugs are rare.  Several weeks ago I was walking in and found two guys unloading a supply truck.  Typical boxes, maybe ten pounds each.  These boxes came from a foreign country - probably a different continent.  They spent thousands of miles in transit by boat, truck, train.  The big “FRAGILE” printed on the side, along with the big red arrows showing which side is up.  As a frequent visitor of the hospital I know that medicine has not been there for a few weeks.  But I watched as these two guys threw the boxes from the truck into the supply door as they crashed onto the floor.  I “kindly” asked if I could help them unload and translated the word “FRAGILE” for them. Sorry...rabbit trail. 

   I’m not good at painting but I hope you get an idea of what it looks like.  What we do is pretty simple.  We go up every Thursday, prepare several kilos of beans and rice.  We walk through the wards and we sit, we listen, we smile, ask questions and listen some more and ask if we can pray with them.  Kent, who is the “modeler”, not leader,  but modeler, he threatens us if we get preachy that we will get smacked in the head.   But seriously, we have a very simple purpose show love.  “faith, hope and love...and the greatest of these is...........love. Matthew 25:35-40

“For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

“Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

“The King will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.’

After visiting with them for a while we ask if we can bring them something to eat.  We go and get a big plate of beans and rice for them and a small plate for us and we sit and eat with them.  

When we pray for them we always tell them we are going to pray for them in Jesus’ name.  And there have been many of occasions where there was no treatment or medicine given, but those we prayed for have been made well.....I’m just sayin.   We are then asked “ Eh, you have prayed to Jesus for me and I am now going home to my village, I am not knowing this One, can you visit me at my home?"  Why yes, yes we can.  

This has happened to several of us that are serving at the hospital but I will tell of the two invitations I have received.  

Simon is a 17 year old boy that had broken his leg on a boda (motorcycle taxi).  One of our young men, James (19 years old), had met him in the hospital and had prayed with him over a months time.  After the third week Simon told James that he had heard that it was possible for him to be right with God, he had heard what sin had done and he wanted to ask for forgiveness.  He asked James if he would come and visit him and his family (especially his father) and help him share with them.  The Saturday after Simon was released from the hospital, James and I got on our motorcycles and headed about 40 km out of Gulu.  Power lines disappear about 3 km outside of town and paved roads about 4 km.  After about 45 minutes on the main dirt road we turned onto a smaller one for about an hour.  After about 30 minutes we crested a hill and what I saw on the other side looked like something between  the landscape from The Lion King and Out of Africa.  It was breathtaking.  I spent the majority of my work life parked on Dallas freeways surrounded by concrete in every direction.   Hours a day looking at a sea of taillights.  This was the African savannah.  A stinking amazing.  The last part of our journey was spent off road on a foot path for the last couple of kms.  Out of nowhere a small gathering of huts formed Simon’s village.  There was nothing but nothing in every direction.  No cars, no buildings, no noises,  you could hear a mosquito fart from 2 miles away.  I greeted Simon and he  introduced me to his father Jackson.  

Jackson was a hard looking man, bitter.  His son had told him why we were coming and his defenses were up.  I walked around the village and via translator (James) learned a lot about him.  Jackson had been beat up by religion for years.  He knew what a Bible was because he had been hit with it many times.  The rules. The do nots or God will be angry with you, and don’t mess up because God is always watching ready to beat you down.  I was truly sad for him.  I stopped the God talk and asked about his family.  Asked about his children, if Simon was his oldest how many more he had.  He told me he had a new son born four days earlier.  And by the way, this was a “top-less womens” village.  He showed me the garden he had planted and all of the animals that were his - chicken, ducks, and goats.  He said he was hot and wanted to go inside to talk more.  

He wanted to ask me more questions.  He said he had heard about Satan and about him lying to some of God’s people a long time ago.  He wanted to know where Satan came from.  Now understand, I’m not very smart.  My knowledge has limits that don’t go very far.  Praise God he asked me questions I know the answer to.  After about a dozen or so questions I told him the parable of the “lost goat” (sheep replaced for cultural adaption). After some terrible acting and even some running around by me, he said, “I am the lost goat and God is the Shepard looking for me.”  I agreed and he said, “I want to be found, can I?"  why yes, yes you can.  You don’t see Ugandan men show emotion, so Jackson had to leave the house to avoid being “seen” showing any.  He asked me to write my name down on a piece of paper.  He then took me back to see his new baby.  He told me that they had not named the baby yet, but now he had.  The baby’s name, Okwong Rackley Scott.  

This is the piece of paper that Jackson wrote his son's name on.

We go back every two weeks to Jackson's home.  We now meet with four men - Jackson, Simon and two men from a nearby village that Jackson invited. :) 

This is a picture of our motorcycles where we had to stop, park, and walk the rest of the way to the village.

Michael is a 60 year old man I met in early January.  He had been sick for several months before they finally brought him to the hospital.  Samuel (a Ugandan friend) and I walked up to his bed and sat on the floor beside it.  Michael could barely speak, he was so weak.  We asked if we could pray for him, he nodded in agreement.  After praying for him that Thursday we came back that Saturday to check on him, and saw him again the following Thursday.  By the next week he told us he was going home.  He told us that the hospital had not given him any medicine while he was there and believed that when we prayed for him that is what made him better.  We explained it was not us, but Jesus, that made him well.  He asked us if we would visit him at his village sometime and tell him more.  why yes, yes we can.  

The next Wednesday Samuel and I headed out via motorcycles (note: villages are NOT accessible by car).  We sat and visited for about an hour.  I asked a bunch of questions about his family, life during the wars, the LRA,  what he thought went wrong with the Rangers in the World Series the past two years, stuff like that.   He began to ask us about the Jesus we prayed to in the hospital.  Who was He.  I then gave the worst account of creation, fall, redemption, and salvation ever.  But he got it.  He understood.  He asked if we would teach him how to pray and ask God to forgive him.  After that, he asked if there was a book that could teach him more about God.  Why yes, yes there is.  The next week we brought him a copy of God's Word in his language. We continued to go back for the next several weeks.  Michael kept inviting more and more people to come.  On our third trip back there were 22 people that came.  Again I shared, gave the simplest version of the gospel ever and watched something happen. 

 I teared up. 

 I got cold chills. 

 I watched a birth.

Not of a baby but of a church.  A group of people that have decided to follow Jesus.   A Church where there wasn’t one.  A new Life.