Kisses from Katie

by Katie J. Davis

  The family’s house was made of cardboard and was smaller than the bed I sleep in at night. On the floor lay filthy old rags on which they slept and a pile of charcoal on which they cooked (when they had food, I guess). I almost dropped to my knees right there when I saw the conditions in which these people were living. No wonder the baby was so sick.

  The baby’s family knew she was sick, but they had no means to help her. They were afraid she would die, so they never gave her a name. Instead, God gave me the privilege of naming her, and I could think of no one better to name her after than my precious mother, whose middle name is Patricia.

  During our one-night hospital stay, doctors diagnosed sweet baby Patricia with pneumonia and severe malnutrition. Her HIV test came back negative and I praised Jesus for that. In the hospital, I fed her high-energy formula and then took her home to continue to care for her until she was well. For the first twenty-four hours, I could hardly stand to look at her. The hurt and the hunger in her lifeless little eyes were simply unbearable. Every time I changed her diaper, it was filled with large worms—big, fat earthworm-sized worms. To add to her misery, she could hardly sleep at night because of the cough that assailed her weak little body.

  As I cared for Patricia, I cried for the things this child had been forced to endure for so long. And I cried because I knew I could deworm her while she was in my care, but the minute I took her back to Masese, the worms would return. But over the next few weeks, through a series of undeniable impressions and events, I knew God was asking me to bring Patricia into our family as my fourteenth daughter and my girls’ beloved baby sister, so we began the adoption process once again.

  This child, whose eyes were once empty with hunger and dark with sadness, now shines and radiates life and vitality. She is simply indescribable, with a personality that is all her own. She is spunky, confident, curious, happy—and sassy like her mother. She laughs and dances her way through every day, enjoys the affection of her sisters, and spreads joy everywhere she goes. Her simple trust and dependence on me is a constant reminder of my dependence on the Father and her total confidence in the goodness of people is a reminder to me of the way Jesus desires us to see others.

  While I was delighted to have Patricia in our home as a new member of the family, I was sad at the same time, knowing I would soon have to take Michael back to Masese. His family had the means to provide for him, they simply needed to know how to do it. He stayed in our home for about a month and, as his condition improved, I began talking with his parents to help them prepare for his return. By this time, I understood his family dynamics, unfortunately. Michael’s “mother” was actually his stepmother, his father’s second wife. Quite frequently in Ugandan culture, second wives do not want to care for the children their husbands have from previous marriages or relationships. Sometimes, women view their stepchildren as “cursed” in some way or as unworthy of food or basic provisions. I didn’t know any details about Michael’s specific situation with his stepmother: I simply knew someone was not taking care of him. So, before sending Michael back to live in conditions that were not beneficial for him, I decided to try to counsel his father and stepmother and let them know which foods would be most nutritious for him, how often he needed to eat, how frequently he should bathe, and other simple-but-important information. As I spoke with them, I knew my heart would break to take him back when the time came, yet I also believed they were going to make a sincere effort to provide better care. I knew that going home was best for him and his family.

  I decided to take him back to his father and stepmother one Sunday afternoon, after taking him to church with our family. That morning, I packed his clothes, plenty of powdered milk, and a supply of multivitamins.

  I cried all the way through the church service as I thought about having to take Michael home. I could hardly bear to think of this precious child, whom I had so fallen in love with, going back to a place where there was no guarantee that his stepmother would not simply sell the milk we sent with him.

  And God spoke so plainly to me. He did not apologize for my heartache; even better, He shared it. He knew. The pain in my heart over having to give up a little boy I had loved for a month did not even come close to the pain He felt when He gave His only Son. And He did that for me. The pain I felt was so unbearable, but it was just a fraction of what He felt when He sent His one and only child to save me, to allow me to spend eternity with Him. He knew. And while it still hurt to put Michael back in a situation where I could not guarantee his care, I knew God was going with him.

  My heart was being broken. The situations with Michael and Patricia and so many other children were breaking it every day. While I never lost my love or compassion for the children, I did sometimes lose my patience with the circumstances in which they were living.

  I remember at times, when I was not overwhelmed with sadness for the children, feeling so angry. I was angry that the culture in Uganda lies to women like Michael’s stepmother, causing her to believe she does not have to care for a child who is not biologically hers, even when she has ample means to do so. I was angry that in the “Pearl of Africa” and, in fact, the most fertile area of this region, an auntie had no food to feed her baby niece or herself. I was angry that these things resulted in such tremendous suffering for these innocent children.

  I was angry because I believed, and still believe, that the God who created the universe did not create too many children in His image and not enough love to go around. And I wanted to do more. I wanted to help them all.

  God whispered that one is enough. He assured me that He would hold the others while they wait for someone to come along and give them their milk and their medicine. He doesn’t ask me to take them all but to stop for just one, because, as I do it for one of “the least of these” I do it for Him (see Matthew 25:40). I felt deep in my spirit that He was teaching me to care for the one person in front of me. Stop for the little boy with white hair and scabs covering his body; stop for the baby girl with feces covering her dress, so weak that she can’t hold up her head. Stop and love the ones right in front of me and trust Him with the rest. He whispered that it would be okay and that I didn’t have to be angry, I could smile because one less baby was hungry, and that was good enough for that day.

  This is a lesson He has continued to teach me. And it is sometimes hard and ugly. Because every time I stop for that one sick child, that one hungry old man, that one new baby girl, my mind races with the statistics of how many more I am not touching, not feeding, not saving. God whispers every time, though, that this one is enough. It is enough that this one is feeling His love and that love is eternal. Eternal.

  Today, that anger is gone, though sometimes I still have to sit with the Father in my sadness and brokenness over all the hurt in this world. Sometimes I still have to cry to Him and ask Him why innocent children must suffer and beg Him to move people to action. Still, we as a family just love the ones with whom God has entrusted us as best we can. We let Him hold us as we hold the little ones He has given us to look after. We do what we can do, and we trust Him with the rest.

  When I have a rough day, or several rough days in a row, as I did around the time Patricia joined our family, I can easily forget why I do what I do. I used to repeat to myself, “Do not forget in the darkness what you have been promised in the light.” When my days are dark and difficult, I am tempted to look around and think, Why? Why do I do this? Why would I take one more child? Why would we live with less so we can give to others more? Why did I leave family and friends to go to a land of strangers? What am I doing here?

  I do not usually forget the answer to all these questions: “For Jesus. Because He called me to this and because He gave His life for me.” This means that it has been granted to me, it is my privilege, not only to believe in Him but also to suffer for Him (see Philippians 1:29). That suffering is not alone, but is with Him, and oh, what a privilege it is just to be able to be in His presence, to share that with my sweet Savi
or.

  This is what it means when I say I do it for Jesus. He loved me first; I love Him back. And sometimes it hurts. But even then it is pure joy to even be considered worthy to share in His suffering. That is the promise: not that He is sorry that it hurts, but that He sees; that He knows; that He is here with us.

  I think of various “ones” with which I have been blessed.

  I think of Michael, who is back at home with his stepmom, healthy now, but maybe still mistreated. God knows that, in Uganda, as a single woman I cannot legally adopt a little boy, so how could my heart be so knit to his?

  I think of a girl named Gloria, whose brain was so damaged from her high fever she may always be in a vegetable-like state. God in His infinite wisdom knew that had I been there a few days sooner, this potentially lifelong damage could have been prevented.

  But then I think of fourteen little girls who have a home and food and a mommy, and who know Jesus. I think of sixteen hundred Karimojong children, modern-day lepers in Uganda, singing about God’s love for them and leaving the school with their bellies full. I think of four hundred sponsored children who sometimes show up on Saturday in new clothes because their parents can finally afford to buy them a new dress or shirt, now that Amazima provides for all their basic needs (food, education, medical care).

  I see thousands of deep brown eyes and feel thousands of little brown hands and I know that even on the hardest day, stopping is worth it. A life changed is worth it, even if only one. God’s love made known is worth it, even if only to one. I will not save them all. But I will keep trying. I will say “Yes.” I will stop for one.

  ONE DAY . . .

  Tuesday, March 9, 2010

  Praise the Lord, O my soul; all my inmost being, praise His holy name. Praise the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all His benefits—who forgives all your sins and heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit and crowns you with love and compassion . . . (Psalm 103:1–4).

  I met Michael in August of last year and felt fairly certain he was on death’s doorstep, or if not, pretty close. His hair was white and fuzzy, his face swollen, his growth stunted, and his skin just about peeling off, all from severe malnutrition. After doing everything I could for him while keeping him in his home and seeing very little improvement, our family decided to move him in with us as we nursed him back to health. What a blessing it was to watch this sweet treasure’s little personality come out as he began to flourish!

  I dreaded the day I had to take him back to his stepmother, who had been the one to so neglect him in the first place, but I was hopeful as I had been meeting with her several times a week to encourage her to care for this little boy. I call it nothing less than a miracle that not only did she begin caring for him, she began really, deeply loving him, a love that he so deserved but had not experienced until he lived with our family. This once shy, lifeless little boy, the one who could hardly get a word out for weeks, now runs after my car every time I drive through his village yelling “Auntie Kate! Auntie Kate! I love you! I’m fine now! I’m fine now!” with the biggest sweetest grin I have ever seen spread across his face.

  Just one more.

  I told myself once that I would not take people from Masese into my home because the need was too great. How would I choose? But God taught me to take just one more. I am inadequate and can do nothing without Him. Even with Him, I can do very little. But as I do what I can, I am able to watch Him do what only He can. The other day a woman named Nakong came up to me with burns covering her body. I wanted to cry thinking of how much help she needed and how many others there were who needed help too. God pushed me forward, “Today, it is her day.” So to the hospital we went.

  And every time it is worth it. I go back to Masese and see Michael healthy. I look in my own home and see Patricia’s eyes dancing. I know Christine is safe in heaven with Jesus. Angelina is healthy and running and playing. Nakong can breast-feed her baby again. We have three new people staying with us now, one of them a ten-pound two-year-old. And I know that they will go back to Masese healthy and changed and I see that God will change the community that I thought was impossible to change. But He will do it one person at a time. He is doing it one person at a time. And that He would use me just blows me away again and again and again.

  I could try to find words enough to praise my loving Father. They would not be sufficient.

  He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand. He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see and fear and put their trust in the Lord (Psalm 40:2, 3).

  17

  HE SETS THE SOLITARY IN FAMILIES

  One day I counted the number of people and animals living at my house. I had fourteen children, ten dogs (because one of our dogs had eight puppies), two goats, one monkey, sweet Christine, and me. That’s a lot of life.

  At that point I didn’t think I could handle one more person, or animal, or urgent situation. I didn’t think our everyday existence or my immediate surroundings could get any more hectic. I really didn’t.

  I was wrong.

  God could have brought me a crying mother holding her four-pound, four-month-old baby girl who could hardly breathe.

  And He did.

  A dear friend and Amazima employee brought her sister, Susan, to our house with her infant daughter, named Happy. At first glance anyone would have thought this little girl was dead, but upon closer inspection I could see her chest, barely moving in and out.

  We rushed her to the nearest hospital, where they put her on IV fluids and oxygen. The next morning we made the two-hour drive from my house to Kampala to take Happy to International Hospital there. This hospital is the biggest and most modern in Uganda, though still inferior to many western medical facilities.

  After much testing, doctors concluded that Happy had a nine-millimeter hole in the wall between the ventricles of her heart. This meant that her heart could not oxygenate blood properly, causing its left ventricle to fail. This resulted in extreme pulmonary distress, which led to a very rapid heartbeat, decreased appetite, and poor weight gain.

  The doctors in Kampala inserted a small feeding tube into Happy’s tiny body, put her on oxygen, and pumped intravenous fluids into her. Their plan was to continue this treatment for a few weeks in an attempt to increase her weight so she might be able to withstand the surgery needed to repair the hole in her heart. They didn’t know whether the operation could be performed in Kampala and told us she might have to go to Nairobi, Johannesburg, or even the United States to undergo it. While that would have been expensive, I was eager to try to raise the money because there was a strong possibility her life could be saved.

  I tried not to be frustrated by the lack of necessary equipment and medical care in Uganda or by the fact that a simple checkup when she was a few weeks old could have identified Happy’s problem and prevented her suffering. Her situation, really, was no different from anyone else’s, no matter what country they live in. All over the world, God is the Healer. He is the one whose mighty touch strengthens and restores people. He is the one who makes sick people well. He is the one who calms and sets free those who are fearful and in pain. I knew that if Happy survived, it would be because God chose to work a miracle in her life. And I prayed with all my heart that He would do so and be glorified through it.

  But He didn’t. He chose a different kind of healing for her.

  The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord!

  —Job 1:21 NKJV

  Lots of emotions; there are too many words to really even write. Above all else, I am resting in knowing Happy is whole and rejoicing with Jesus. Oh, thank you, sweet Lord.

  Yesterday I was sad and frustrated. I wasn’t sad that Happy was with our Creator or frustrated that she had passed away; I know that was His plan. But seriously, she was four months old; she weighed four pounds; and she had a nine-millimeter hole in her heart. The d
octors at the government hospital where treatment is supposed to be free for everyone, looked at her, looked at her mother, saw they had no money, and sent her away. They looked at her sweet face and sent her away. At that hospital, they have a heart surgeon who might have been able to fix the hole! Happy didn’t have to struggle so much. In this country, there is medication that would have helped her.

  Yesterday I was tired; not sleepy, just plain worn out. I knew Happy for about seventy-two hours. Sure, for those seventy-two hours I was able to help her, to comfort her mom, to rock her to sleep. I fell in love with this baby girl who barely had the strength to breathe but clutched my finger with all her might. But why? Why am I constantly falling in love with people I cannot help, people who are taken out of my life so quickly?

  As I read my Bible last night after falling into bed, the Lord continued to take me to the miracles of Jesus. And something I have never noticed before really stood out. The Bible tells us of Jesus magnificently raising Lazarus from the dead, healing numerous deathly ill people, and feeding thousands.

  What the Bible does not mention, but what must be true is that, years later, Lazarus still died. The people Jesus healed were inevitably sick again at some point in their lives. The people Jesus fed miraculously were hungry again a few days later. More important than the very obvious might and power shown by Jesus’ miracles is His love. He loved these people enough to do everything in His power to “make it better.” He entered into their suffering and loved them right there.

  We aren’t really called to save the world, not even to save one person; Jesus does that. We are just called to love with abandon. We are called to enter into our neighbors’ sufferings and love them right there. Maybe I did nothing but allow Happy to struggle a few days longer. But I did love her, and she now has a spot in my heart, a heart that is forever changed.