The first day that we went to the hospital in Manzini I had decided that I wanted to go to the children’s ward because I didn’t feel ready to go to the women’s ward. It just so happened that I spent my entire two hours with a ten-month-old boy and his mother. Towards the beginning of our conversation, the woman gave me my Siswati name: Colile, which means “forgiven”. She also gave me her surname, which in effect made me part of her family. The conversation fluctuated from being superficial to rich, but my eyes continued to turn back to the sick little boy whose hand I continued to hold. At one point during our conversation, we began to read from my Bible and I was able to share with her what the confusing passage she picked out meant. She asked for my Bible, and though I wanted to give it to her, I knew that I could not. Instead, my leader Kristen, my teammate Tiffany, and I filled up four pages of notebook paper front and back with Scripture. She still wanted the Bible, but I promised that the next time I saw her, I would try to answer any questions she had and write down more verses if she wanted. In the midst of conversation I had prayed for the precious little boy once, but before I left she asked me to pray again. She had told me that he had diarrhea and sores in his mouth, so as I prayed I believed that God could easily heal this child. I even told my new friend that although I hoped to see her again, I hoped that her son would be better and that they would both be home by the time I returned.
Five days later, we returned to the hospital. I did not see my little boy or his mother, so I played with other children. Eventually I went to the nurses’ station to find out what happened. One of the nurses said, “I think he was discharged,” but she checked the book anyway. She searched and searched, and finally she closed the book, looked at me and said, “expired.” I was stunned. Here I was, expecting that God had performed a miracle and healed this little boy and instead, this precious child had died. I couldn’t understand why God had put me in that position, giving his mother hope and then having her baby taken away. I was mad at God too, mad that the very first relationship I had developed with a Swazi would last only two hours and end with such devastation. This little boy had captured my heart, his mother had become my sisi (sister), and now I was heartbroken. Two days later I found out that eight out of ten patients at that hospital die. EIGHT out of TEN! That means that, although this was the first relationship that I would build that would end in death, it would by no means be the last. I wonder if maybe God was preparing me for what is to come in the next several weeks. The sad truth is that I cannot avoid death here. The truth of the LORD is that death does not have to be the end. Through Him we receive salvation, eternal life, light, hope, joy, grace, mercy, and all in abundance. And though I am still heartbroken, struggling to find answers, I know that our God reigns, even here in Swaziland.
