Instead I have to tell you the story of Fatima, because she's the only thing in my mind right now.
I don't know exactly what kind of cancer is growing in her small body, jutting fiercely out from the place where her right eye should be. All I know is that it's going to kill her, and there's nothing we can do about it.
I sat next to Fatima's mother as we told her the results of the CT scan. Her body stiffened as Dr. Mark began to speak and then, as though her spine had been broken along with her heart, she crumpled. I went to get tissues, put my hand into the cupboard and came out with the a box of the same brand we used back in the PICU at home. And everything was suddenly the same as every other experience I've ever had with this sort of thing.
Mark and I sat there, helpless, tears in our eyes as she wept. She gathered Fatima into her arms, quietly keening the same cry that every mother makes when she's told that her baby is going to die. I sat next to her, mute, as she curved her body around her bewildered child, as though her own life could be an acceptable substitute. As though she could protect her.
Liberians make a hand gesture unique to this culture. They clap and then pull their hands open, usually ending with the palms facing upwards. It can mean anything. I'm tired. I'm hungry. I think what just happened is hilarious.
Or, apparently, My heart is broken. Because when Fatima's mother had gotten over the first bone-shaking sobs, she sat up and did just that. Clapped quietly and then just let her hands fall apart, defeat etched deep into her eyes, tears falling onto the bandage wrapped around her daughter's head.
And then my shift was over, and I left the ward to try and muddle through the rest of the afternoon with the sound of that quiet cry ringing in my ears.
And yet.
Don't be afraid. I have saved you. I have called you by your name, and you are (and always will be) mine. When you feel like you're drowning, I'm next to you in the deep waters. When you walk through the fire, I'm next to you in the pain, and you will not be overcome. Because I love you. And I would trade all of creation just to make you mine. (Isaiah 43)This child, like all the others I have ever cared for, is God's. Created, known, and loved by Him. I am not called to save every life. I am called simply (if I can presume to call such a task simple) to be God's arms holding a grieving mother. God's hands winding fresh bandages around angry wounds. God's heart breaking when His children are in pain.
I think this is what it means when Jesus says Thy kingdom come.
(On earth as it is in heaven.)
