Every morning during wound care, a line of boys comes into the clinic. They’re all of different ages, but you couldn’t tell; unless their wounds are fresh, they’re all laughing and joking with each other, whether they’re 80 or 8. (RICHTER!!!!)  They’re funny little things, and they use the same verve that got them into trouble to carry them through it.

They’ve got wounds everywhere on their bodies, but it’s the expendable limbs that get hit the worst – the stuff that flails about and gets banged up, likes legs, and arms, and heads. A frequent source of fresh injuries is the bicycle; children sit on the back, and their legs dangle; soon enough a leg gets caught in the spokes, and a new boy limps into my clinic.

Dinka boys try not to acknowledge pain. They can’t, or their mother or father (or in fact anyone who happens to wander by) will shush them up. One of my favourites, Wur, got pushed by another playful boy into a machine for grinding groundnuts. When his mother brought him here, he was quietly holding his bloody, mangled hand. He barely winced as we cleaned and examined it. He didn’t cry until we began to amputate his finger – I guess he was hoping we could save it, and was distraught when he saw we couldn’t. But now, he greets me with a smile every day, and stalked me to church once (now I’ve just got to get him inside it). His wound is healing well, and I’m sure to say “apath apei” (“very good”) whenever I remove the bandage.

Once, I removed the bandage of an older boy who spoke English. As I cleaned it, I was very careful, sponging instead of scrubbing, to avoid tearing the tender new flesh. He took it as an insult, demanding why I was being so soft with him. He must have been surprised when I laughed aloud at that. If only he had seen me in Basic Training; then he would know how hard I can be on my boys.

Sabet’s nephew is younger than the general crew. He has Sabet’s name, and Kate and I call him “Ka-Sabet” (“ka” is a prefix for “small” in Swahili); and he’s perpetually in here. As his broken arm heals, he breaks his toe. As his broken toe heals, he tears the nail off. But he HATES the clinic. Several men have to carry him inside if he even suspects he’s getting an injection; I once followed him around for 15 minutes promising “tuom alieu” (“no injection”) when I only wanted to wipe his wound clean. He trusts me now, but I wouldn’t dream of being the one to give him an injection ever; he has, reserved just for them, the most piercing scream on the planet, in all the ages that have passed and all that will ever be. All my other boys cover the ears and giggle, and all the patients waiting outside wonder what we’re doing to the child.

Another of my boys is quite old. I don’t know how he got his wound, but it’s on his leg, just like all the other boys. But he’s outgrown the need to hide pain. He’ll whine, and grab his leg, and instruct me to wait until the pain wears off. Yet he’s very sweet, and he always thanks me for cleaning his wound, which took much longer to heal than similar wounds on other boys, because of his age. It closed up today, and we said goodbye to him, hopefully forever.

And then, of course, there’s Superdude. For the longest time I didn’t know his name, and didn’t want to; you’ll agree that Superdude is quite apt, if you look at the picture at right. He wears a cape tied round his shoulders, and he uses a cane – it’s probably his crime-fighting weapon, and the limp is just for show. When he first gashed open his shin, he sat on the line all day, waiting his turn, even though it counted as an emergency and he could totally have been seen first. And Superdude is perpetually telling us how to dress his wound. For some time, he kept demanding an injection because he thought it would speed his recovery. Finally I stuck him with a very painful (but very effective) drug. I couldn’t help giggling as his limped away, mewling; it must be his Kryptonite.

You would think it would be hard to get my ka-boys to show up every single morning to have someone poke and prod at their wounds. Here’s the secret; as much as I like boys, they also like me. I smile at them, and learn their names; when I’m cleaning their wounds, I sing and talk with them, helping them with their English, and learning Dinka from them. Soon I’ll be proficient enough to discuss sports :-).  They jostle one another for the chance to have me be the one to dress them. I haven’t got them trading valuables for the privilege yet, but give me time… though I suppose I’ll need candy to accomplish that feat…

And none of them know that whenever they win, and I’m their wound-dresser, I’m really just looking for an excuse to lay hands on them and pray for them. Their wounds will heal without my prayers, and they’ll go back to their normal lives; but I pray that their lives will never be normal again. If you get a chance to be one of my boys, I pray that one day you’ll become one if His boys too. And so I spend the rest of the day with people of all ages, most of them pregnant women. And I wait patiently for the next morning, so again I can see, and smile at, and serve, and pray for, my rambunctious, goofy, shy, outspoken, never-seem-to-learn, always-have-learned-something-new, laughing, wonderful, hilarious boys.

I held a brand new baby in my arms the other night. A new life, one that God chose to give. How perfectly crafted he was – and rightly so, for his mother is beautiful. All her years, all her hard work, the nine other children she gave birth to, none of these had decreased the beauty God gave her when he created her. Her husband clearly had taste, for his other wife was similarly tall and beautiful. She spent the whole night with her “sister wife”, and I’ll never forget the look of wonder in her eyes as she watched me wash the tiny form of her stepson (stepson? Is that right?). A valuable experience for her, because in her womb another life was growing, and in a few months, it is her child that I will carefully wash.

We named him Zebulun, after Jacob’s 10^th son. I say “we”, but I didn’t really have any part in the naming. The team did – nine people who came on a short-term mission trip from the Rancho del Rey church in California. Their coming brought new life as well… new life to them, many of whom had never left their comfort behind. It brings a fresh spirit to you, to see more of the world that God has made, and more of the people for whom He died. You know this, if you’ve ever done it. Their coming brought new life to us, who begin to grow weary in doing good; their joy, their wide-eyed innocence, their sweetness, their willingness to do whatever the Lord says; they ministered to me, for I know that a month ago I was in their shoes, and I hope I brought a freshness to those who were here before.

Each member of the team gave his or her testimony in staff devotions as the week went by. And one by one the messages the Holy Spirit had lain on their hearts, the experiences through which He had brought them, ministered to the men and women who work in this ministry. And one morning, they gave an invitation, and for the three people who responded, new life began. I praise God! I want to dance, and caper, and laugh, and sing; for in heaven, the angels are doing so, and I want to join them. For three new siblings, who would not do the same?

Psalm 104:30 says that when God breathes, life is created, and He renews the face of the earth. The previous verse talks about the other end of the cycle, for when He takes away their breath, they die and return to dust. The team left, their time here came to an end. One day I will leave, and I’ll have to face what they’re facing now, a return to the normal life; to the temptation to care for comfort, to resist the call to prayer, to worry about what I will eat and drink and wear, to desire to accumulate things and ignore people. I pray this experience will never die, but will keep bearing fruit, bringing life.

I held a baby in my hands the other day, but this one was not brand new. “Macerated stillbirth” is the technical term; she died before she ever came into the world. She was almost perfect, but not quite, though her mother, Gongich, is beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that as Kate examined her earlier that day, I was just staring at her face; I sketched her profile in an idle moment, while Kate searched for a heartbeat she would never find. All the platitudes, all the spiritual band-aids come to mind; the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. They filled my head as I wrapped her still, soft body in a blanket and put it aside to give to Gongich’s family to bury later. I would never put a live baby aside like that.

Ecclesiastes 7:13: Consider what the Lord has done; who can straighten what He has made crooked? I certainly can’t; there was nothing I could have done to save that child. But I couldn’t have made her either, couldn’t have crafted those pink toes or that soft hair. And I trust the God who made her, who made Zebulun, the One who orders life and death. I remind myself of the truth: that He is good, that He is just, that He is loving. And then I look around, and there is evidence all around me: in the family that rallied to Gongich’s side; in Sabet, who prayed for her in a language I don’t understand; in her ability to continue to smile.

 I don’t fear my own death; my family knows that when I die, I want my funeral to be a party; rejoice  for me, because I’ll be in heaven. So I rejoice for Gongich’s daughter, that she got to skip the burdens of this life and go straight into the Father’s arms. Sometimes I’m tempted to be jealous of her. But no, life isn’t all burden. Though she never had to battle with sin, neither did she feel the wonder of learning that her sins are already paid for. So I’ll just carry on, hoping that I can continue to help in the Father’s work, that I can see others come to know that wonder: God loves me, and died for me! Wow! His death has brought so much life. For every stillborn child I hold in my hands, I’ll also get to hold a live, crying Zebulun. And everyone I see come to new life in Christ will never lose that life. And best of all: in heaven, there will be no more death.