The Beautiful Mother

A couple months ago, I sat in my pastor's house and listened to his wife tell me the story of the baby I held in my arms. It was their three-month-old son and he had already survived an amputation.

"We noticed he had jaundice," she said. "So we took him to the hospital. They told us he had it severely and transferred us to a larger hospital in Accra."

The larger hospital treated the jaundice with the expected photo-therapy and the unexpected week-long dosage of a strong antibiotic, given through a port in his leg.

"By Thursday, I saw the port was not good, so when the nurse entered the room, I told her. But she just said, 'Oh, don't worry,' and gave the medication through the port as it was. Within just a small time, the baby's leg had swollen and was bleeding from the port. And by that weekend, the toes of his foot were black."

"We have to amputate the foot," the doctor told her gravely. "The foot is dead."

The pastor and his wife are praying people and disagreed. Losing a foot at infancy is never a good thing, but losing a foot in a culture where many cripples become beggars is almost unthinkable. "We want to take him home," they told the doctors, "so we can ask God to heal our son."

They did just that. But less than a week after the child was home, there was no longer any question about what needed to be done. The baby was lethargic and the foot was beginning to smell.

"He wouldn't even respond to pain." The mother shook her head at the memory. "He just laid there and never cried even when they were working on him. So they had to do the surgery."

The amputation was followed by a three-week hospital stay.

"I watched mothers come with their babies and by the time they left, I was still sitting in there with my son." She laughed gently.

Jesus said that a Christian testimony, like a city on a hilltop, cannot be hidden. And Faustina's testimony was not lost in the hospital.

"I wasn't in there very long before the doctors would direct crying mothers to me and tell them, 'Go talk to this woman and ask her what she is doing here. Listen to all she has been through and see how she hasn't lost her faith.' So they came to me."

There was no pride in her voice as she told me this part of the story. No pride, but a deep gratitude for her unusual platform of ministry. "They came to me and I was able to talk to them and tell them about the grace of God that is holding me. I told them all the troubles of my son and how God was able to carry me in this difficult trial. So I was able to witness to them and encourage women even while being in the hospital."

I sensed the depth of this woman's spirit. "God knew He could trust you with this deep trial. I am sure your testimony to all the doctors and all the other women you witnessed to brought God much glory."

She laughed again. "Maybe it is like that."

Undoing the snaps on her baby's sleeper, this woman of faith showed me the stub where a darling baby foot should have been. "The hospital acknowledged their mistake and we didn't see that nurse again. Maybe she has been transferred." Faustina sounded matter-of-fact. Meanwhile, I hoped the nurse had been transferred to another profession entirely.

"So the hospital is going to set up an appointment with another doctor who can see about getting us a prosthesis when the child turns one year. That way he can learn how to walk." The little baby wiggled and whimpered and the mother lifted him to herself.

"Not only do you have a baby who lost his foot and nearly died," I began, "but you also know that this happened because of a nurse who didn't do her job well. When you speak of her, you don't sound angry. Have you forgiven the nurse?"

Faustina smiled again and gave her gentle laugh. "Yes, by the grace of God. God gives me the strength to forgive."

I looked at the baby nestled against his mother, his dark chocolate brown eyes reflecting the love-light I saw in hers. She smiled down on him, making the perfect picture of motherhood. But it was more than that. It was a picture of beautiful testimony of forgiveness and grace.

Rich Man, Poor Man, Beggar Man. . .

"A child who had fallen asleep at school was asked if he had eaten breakfast that morning. He answered, "It wasn't my turn." 
--quote from the USA

Hunger and poverty are real. As long as the earth stands, these two unfriendly companions will hold the hands of thousands, though they are unwanted and uninvited. Knowing that, Jesus said, "You will always have the poor among you," implying that we will always have opportunities to show compassion to the needy.

Jesus was a man of compassion; 

true followers of Christ will emulate His life by showing mercy. 

God has a special place in His heart for the underprivileged, proven over and over throughout the Bible in verses that instruct us on caring for the poor.

Being merciful reaches farther than we can see at a human level, 

as proven by these words:

"The one who is gracious to the poor, lends to the Lord...." Proverbs 19:17

And, those who had compassion on the poor in Matthew 25 inherited eternal life. 

They asked, "Lord? When did we see you hungry?" 

And Jesus said, "When you gave food to the least of these, you were feeding Me."

In light of that, we cannot afford to neglect the poor.

If there are no physical reminders of the poverty-stricken within seeing distance, we will need to be intentional in our efforts to keep the poor before the eyes of our heart. In this blog post three years ago, I shared some ideas our family has used to remember the poor. Another very effective method not mentioned in that post is to move to a place where beggars tap on your car windows or show up at your gate. 

I am interested in being inspired by your ideas. Please tell me: What are some things you have done that help you keep compassion for the poor alive in your heart? How have you instilled compassion for the poor in the hearts of your children? 

Recently, my sister Laura hosted a Hunger Awareness Meal for the youth at their church. To give a visual aid for the imbalance of the wealth of the world, the youth were split into the following categories:

One rich man:

The rich man enjoyed a huge feast that covered not just one, but two tables. 

He had his personal waiter. He also lost some of his chicken to a persistent beggar.

Seven middle class:

The middle class ate their meal in comfort and had a modest menu. 

About 30 poor:

They didn't go hungry that night, but shared a pot of rice and beans. They dipped water from a common bucket and they shared their rice with the beggars.

Three beggars: 

Quote from a beggar when someone
tried to give him only sauce, no rice:
"I can't take that.
It isn't good for my foot."

The beggars were given battered spoons and dishes and sent to beg what they could from the other classes of people. 

If you are interested in hosting a similar event, there are some excellent websites to guide you through the preparations, including how to divide the group and what to offer each class of people. Each site varies in its suggestions, giving you a smorgasbord of ideas so you can host a version of the meal that works the best for you.

Here is a 2-page manual: Hunger Banquet Instructions by Operation Rice Bowl

This one has 30 pages of details, including printable admission tickets, short character sketches to help people relate to the class they are in, and extras like how to safely make 'dirty water' for the poor:  Hunger Banquet by Food for the Hungry

This one includes hunger statistics and quotes from the truly hungry, including the one you read at the top of this blog page: Hunger Awareness Meal by Lutheran Peace Fellowship

The truth is that no matter what shape your finances are in, the harshest form of poverty is the poverty of soul. When your spirit has not been given life through Jesus Christ, you are of all men most miserably poor. Physical poverty with all its heartache is ephemeral, for beggary will be done away with forever and exchanged for the riches of heaven when Jesus comes. 

But impoverishment of soul is eternal. 

Eternity is real. Before this post was ready to be sent, 

I received word that my grandpa passed away. I'm too far away to attend his funeral, but my heart will be there this week. Below is a picture of Grandpa giving bird houses to my children, their only memory of him.

Our Son is Born

A certain young lady in our household takes the credit for her new brother saying, "Aren't you glad that I prayed for a baby? 
God answered my prayers and now we have one!"

Yes, indeed! We are very grateful and thank God for answering so many prayers surrounding the birth of our son. 

The first time I was pregnant, we lived in a village far away from medical help, but I wouldn't have minded giving birth at home. This time, when expecting my third in a city with good healthcare providers, I wasn't half as brave. Thankfully, God directed me to verses like that in Psalm 71:6 where it says He is the one who delivers the child from its mother's womb. In that perspective, I wasn't in the hands of a new-to-me midwife at all, but in the hands of a capable God. 
I believed that even if the birth didn't go according to my wishes, it would be according to His plan, and I could trust Him.

Armed with that assurance, we went to Craddle Care Maternity Hospital where a British-trained, Ghanaian midwife oversaw our birth. God wouldn't have had to, but He blessed us with a positive birth experience and a healthy son.

We named him Riley Elliot. Riley means 'valiant' and Elliot's meaning is 'Jehovah is God.' Our foremost goal for our son is that he will be a valiant follower of Jehovah, our God, no matter what the cost. 

Welcome to the world, little brother.

My sister generously came to stay with us for 12 days. We planned for her to come two weeks after my due date since my other babies were both born late. However, when Riley surprised us by arriving early, Dawn quietly rescheduled her ticket and walked into my living room a week before I expected her to 
--but just when I needed her the most. 

Her presence was invaluable as I relearned how to be the mom of an infant, which is sometimes no small task. 

But, happily, we hear far less crying than we did at first. 
We sure love our little guy.

 

Except he isn't staying so little and, sadly, I have already packed away the tiny newborn clothes to exchange them for ones that looked big not so long ago.

We have moved on to the stage where Riley is able to respond to us with smiles, and where he doesn't feel so fragile, making sibling interaction extra fun.

Riley is growing and changing, but one thing that hasn't changed is our gratitude to God for all the prayers He answered surrounding this pregnancy and birth. 

A Beanie Disaster

What an odd post with which to break my extended silence! I unearthed this antique from my drafts folder and thought you might enjoy a touch of humor. 

You are familiar with Teflon, right? That non-stick coating on cookware that is said to cause cancer and birth defects? I cooked with it for years and never worried about ill side-effects. Then I went to a Princess House party. Princess House sells beautiful dishes and cookware. And their non-stick pans don't have Teflon.

"Did you know that parakeets die if they are around when Teflon gets overheated?" the consultant asked. Knowledgeable ladies around the room nodded in agreement.

I went home and did research. Who wants to cook on something that will kill you? Teflon is safe, according to research I found, unless it gets very overheated. And even then the chances were low enough that I kept my skillet. That was a year ago, but apparently the dangers of Teflon had left their indelible footprint in my cerebral cortex.

A few weeks ago as I was cooking dinner, I fried bacon in my Teflon pan, dumped out most of the grease, and sauteed green beans in the already-hot skillet.  It was when the beans were nearly finished that I smelled something hot. Strange. It was far worse than a burned food smell. This was more acrid. More awful.

I sniffed in the direction of the pan and wrinkled my nose. It must be from the Teflon getting too hot, I thought. This is probably the smell that kills parakeets.

In the vain hope that my beans would smell fine though my pan didn't, I quickly dumped them into a bowl. A few stuck to the bottom of the pan, but I let them there. No child of mine was gonna get a brain tumor from contaminated beans if I could help it.

My kitchen smelled terrible. The beans in the bowl far away from the pan smelled terrible. I pitched the whole lot of them on our garbage heap and quickly made a salad as their replacement. But as I worked, I felt confused. Had the pan really gotten that hot? Nothing had burned. The only thing I could think of was that frying bacon and beans back-to-back kept the pan too hot for too long.

It was when I was washing dishes after our meal that things became clear. Just before I immersed the pan into the sink of soapy water, I saw the culprit. Stuck to the bottom of the pan was a blackened potato peel burned nearly beyond recognition. Sandwiched between the pan and burner on my electric stove, the peel charred out of sight.

Thanks, Teflon. There went my beans.