Myson
Last Friday, 8:30 a.m., a knock on the gate.
Open to me the gates of
righteousness; I shall enter through them, I shall give thanks to the LORD. Psalm 118:19
This is typical, as any missionary in any country might
testify, the knock comes many times a day.
Most times, I honestly have to check my heart and be willing to let my
agenda for the day be interrupted.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I had determined that day to be a cleaning day, because we
were hosting about 15 local missionary kids that afternoon for a teen bible
study. There were just 3 hours between
drop off and pick up of the kids to tackle the major mess that had accumulated
after returning from America the week before.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Since our nutrition clinic has opened, the word has spread
in the community. This is exactly what
we WANT, but I’ve quickly learned that I need to set some boundaries with
receiving patients at all hours of the day and night. Clearly posted on our gate, written in Creole: CLINIC HOURS OPEN TUESDAY AND THURSDAY 8:30
AM TO 11:30 AM. However, this doesn’t
stop people from knocking on a Saturday morning at sunrise or a Wednesday
evening at sunset. Still, every time I answer and quickly assess
the situation to see if it can wait until the next open clinic day.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Upon opening the gate, I met a panicked father holding an
obviously sick baby. Clearly, it could not wait. I gathered as much information as I could in a language I’m still learning.
His 5 month old baby had been sick for 3 weeks. Diarrhea.
Upon first glance, it is clear to me that this baby has a condition
called kwashiorkor—a severe form of malnutrition caused by an abrupt stop to
protein in the diet. Dad confirmed: since the baby had been sick, they had only
been giving him water. No breastmilk, no
formula. The baby seemed to be in
extreme pain as I moved him from his father’s arms to my lap for further
assessment. Rapid breathing. Dry lips.
Pale skin. Swollen face, arms,
and legs. I didn't take time to question their choices in feeding the baby. I only knew that that this baby had hours to live if we
didn’t intervene.
The solution for
kwashiorkor isn’t to just begin feeding a baby—this alone can kill them due to
a condition called refeeding syndrome.
The care of babies like this little one in front of me is delicate and
has to be managed in a hospital by experienced professionals. Electrolytes need to be monitored. Fluid levels managed. Precisely dosed nutrients administered. I had nothing to offer this family but to be
a liaison to others who could help. I
felt totally out of my league.
One of the greatest things about our local community is the
network of resources available to us within other ministries. After shooting off a couple of messages over
Facebook messenger, a local clinic operated by long-time American missionaries graciously
agreed to receive this family. The baby’s
mother had arrived at our gate by this time, and we joined hands and prayed,
calling out to Jehovah Rapha, the Healer.
Dad said his baby’s name was Myson, like “my son”, and the look in his
eyes told me the whole story of his fear for his baby boy. His SON.
Hearing him say his name-- “MySON”--stabbed
my heart. Oh my soul.
Shame on me for ever feeling like a knock on my gate is an interruption
in my plans.
Once arrangements were made, the baby and his parents took off
on a moto for the 10 minute ride to the clinic.
As soon as the gate banged closed, my tears began. I knew this little one’s life was in the
balance, and I was so glad I answered that knock.
They arrived at Haiti Health Ministries by 10:00 and were warmly
welcomed and quickly assessed. The diagnosis of kwashiorkor was confirmed,
and lab tests showed the true extent of his condition. A kind nurse made quick arrangements to
transfer the baby to a hospital to the west of us, in a city called Ti Goave,
the best facility to manage children with malnutrition of this caliber. By noon, the family was again on their way to
the next stop for help. I breathed a
sigh of relief to know that the baby was in good hands.
Twice, over the next 24 hours, the father returned to our
gate with slips of paper, indicating different prescriptions that the baby
needed. He had made extraordinary efforts
to get what was necessary for his son, traveling multiple times back and forth between
the hospital and our place, over an hour each way via tap tap, the public
transportation system in Haiti. By God’s providence, I had in my medicine
cabinet what he needed and was able to give it to him.
By Saturday evening, though, the communication stopped. Attempts were made to reach them on their
phone, but because of a nationwide gas shortage and the resulting lack of city
electricity, the phone battery was always discharged. Dad
did not knock on our gate again.
Monday morning, while returning home from taking kids to
school, I was surprised to see the family on the street. Their house is less than 30 seconds from
ours, and I drive by their gate every single day. Dad
was standing outside the gate, mom was clinging to the inside of the gate. There was no baby in their arms.
It took me a second to realize what was happening. I naively asked, “koman bebe a?”—how is the
baby? Dad replied, “li te mouri.” He died. His
stoic reply stunned me. His words punched me in the gut. Utterly shocked
and unable to understand what the dad was trying to explain in Creole, I made
an appointment for them to come the next morning so we could talk about what
happened with an interpreter.
I pulled away and screamed and pounded my fists on the
steering wheel. Jesus! Oh Jesus!
How did this happen?? The weight
of this news felt like more than I could bear.
The little bit of information that I did comprehend was that Myson had
passed away Saturday evening, about 32 hours after I had seen him, held him,
and prayed over him. While the father
was at our gate, collecting powerful antibiotics he hoped would save his son,
the mother was holding her baby as he took his last breath.
Tuesday morning, the mother and father arrived early for
their appointment, with their older son Michael in tow. This sweet child was a beautiful reminder of
the life remaining in this heartbroken family.
I was glad he was there, because his chitter chatter brought joy, although a nasty cough revealed that he was sick
too. I was able to listen to his lungs,
check his ears, feel his belly to make sure everything was okay. He had an ear infection and an infected rash,
so amoxicillin and skin cream were given before the heart work began.
How do you begin this conversation with a grieving
family? I landed on, “tell me about what
happened after you left here on Friday morning.” The mother sat silently looking at the floor while the father
relayed the events of the next day. His
words hung in the air, “if the hospital had received us as quickly as you
received us, and Kay Sandy (the American clinic) had received us, my son would
still be alive.” For reasons we don’t yet understand, there was a delay in
little Myson receiving the care he needed.
While this hospital has an outstanding reputation in this field, the
family waited nearly 24 hours to see a doctor, for the baby to receive an IV,
and for anyone to take them seriously.
They had in hand very clear documentation from Kay Sandy that stated
that this was an EMERGENCY, as well as a bag full of IV fluids and supplies
that might have saved his life. However,
because student nurses couldn’t get an IV after multiple attempts, they simply
gave up and the family had to wait for the shift to change. The system failed. The baby was dead. The dad was defeated. The mom was numb.
There’s no medicine I can give to fix this. There’s no phone call I can make to gather
help. It’s just me, mom, dad, wiggly Michael
and my translator sitting in grief in my little bare Leve Kanpe clinic
room.
I felt desperate for Jesus to come and bring comfort in this
situation, and had asked Him early that morning to give me a Word for this
mother and father. As the Spirit led, I
was able to open my Bible and read the Scriptures.
Psalm 147:3-4 He
heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. He counts the number of stars. He gives names to all of them. (and Isaiah expands, “not one of them is
missing.” 40:26)
Just as God often did in His teaching of man, He used
examples from nature that we see around us. He graciously gives us what our eyes can see until our heart can catch up in understanding these difficult things. This passage about the stars was a powerful expression of love to this
family as we talked it through. It was
real to them. It made sense to them. Because there has been a long period of
blackout from coast to coast, the night sky has been brilliantly bright here in
Gressier. No electricity = no light
pollution. Millions of shining stars are
visible as we look up each night. It’s the
one blessing in the midst of a really difficult situation in our country.
If God numbers the stars, and gives them all names, and not
one of them is missing from His sight, how much more did God love little Myson?
Indeed, though the situation at the
hospital seemed terribly out of control, and not at all the result we had hoped for, not once did God have His eyes off His
precious creation. It’s okay that we don’t understand it. We can’t find any good in it. We definitely don’t want it. We wrestle with it. We question it. But still, “The Lord gives, and the Lord
takes away. Blessed be the name of the
Lord.” (Job 1:21). This is hard stuff.
Love was felt in this bare room
that day, and grief was shared. It was
holy and sacred. We cried together and
wrote Myson’s name in my Bible next to Psalm 147. We won’t forget his sweet face. The only beauty I can share from this whole experience
is that Jesus was present and met personally with us that morning. And that is enough.
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The night before that knock on the gate, I had cried myself
to sleep, fighting doubt and big questions like: What are we even doing here? Are we even making a difference? Is any
of this worth it? Are we relieving
suffering of the people? Is Jesus
glorified in our work? Is the Gospel
made known through us? I think any
person in missions or ministry battles similarly at times.
And then,
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Another opportunity to love.
Another opportunity to set aside my agenda. Another opportunity to be interrupted. Another
opportunity for heartbreak. Another
opportunity to speak Jesus to hurting people.
Another opportunity to help carry burdens and share in sufferings with
our neighbors.
Open the gate. What's waiting on the other side may change you.
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