One of many stories written by me about my experience in Western Province, Papua New Guinea.
“The mud!” I cried out to the air, “I cannot take the mud
anymore!” We had just walked at least a kiIometer in knee deep, slick mud. My temper was flaring along with my
self-pity. I was not just knee deep in
mud, I was knee deep in me.
I am ashamed to say tears rolled down my face as I sat alone at the back of a bamboo slatted clinic, asking God why on earth He wanted me in missions? In Papua New Guinea? It was the first time I’ve cried facing the astonishing poverty here…. And it wasn’t even about the poverty.
I am ashamed to say tears rolled down my face as I sat alone at the back of a bamboo slatted clinic, asking God why on earth He wanted me in missions? In Papua New Guinea? It was the first time I’ve cried facing the astonishing poverty here…. And it wasn’t even about the poverty.
As selfish as it sounds, I think it was easier to cry for me
than them. If I cried for Western
Province, PNG and all I’ve seen, I knew I would never stop. It is my job as media to tell their story, so I
will.
You see, it wasn’t long after my tears of pity that tears of
pain and anger washed my eyes, spilling over.
I had spent the morning with our clinic workers following up on baby
Umi, a starving three-month-old YWAM Medical Ships (MSA) found on the last
outreach. It wretched my heart to see
her condition, her mother’s hopeless eyes, hear the story of her father’s loss,
but I was at least prepared for it.
What I wasn’t prepared for was Wesley. The minute my eyes fell on this child I knew I
was staring into the face of suffering.
I moved forward to talk to Wesley who lay limp in his mother’s lap in
the clinic. His eyes followed me, but his head slumped to one side. He was too weak to hold it up.
With very minimal use of only the right side of his body, I
knew this three-year-old boy was starving to death right in front of me. His tiny knees were larger than his
thighs. I could see every bone in his
body. He became real when I felt the
touch of his hand.
I had to look away, so my eyes shifted to his mother. She wouldn’t look at me. I saw the same vague, hopelessness across her
face I had seen in others. The light had
gone out. The suffering, too great to
feel anymore.
My chest tightened.
Somewhere inside of me welled up both incredible sorrow and anger. Not
anger directed at anyone, just an overwhelming sense that injustice sat in
front of me in its rawest form.
My mind rebelled.
“This is not right! This is NOT right!” I wanted to shout it until my
lungs were sore. I wanted to shake people
and tell them. No child should starve to
death! No child should have their life
stolen from them!
No, it shouldn’t happen, but it is happening. It is real.
It is unjust. It is far from
okay. But, it is real. Wesley is real.
Tears rolled down my face today. Mud stained my feet. My heart broke.
I can’t shut my eyes to it. I can’t stop feeling. The minute I do, I stop being effective. We were able to help him and share hope. I know the reality is, Wesley may not see
next month. I know the reality is, his
mother’s eyes may never shine again, but I can’t help but hope the impossible
can happen.
This I do know, if we go, we can make Wesley’s story a
rarity. If we don’t go, if we close our
eyes and stop the tears, Wesley’s story will just become another sad statistic
we shake our heads at and walk away.
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