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TITLE: David's Mother By Lea Peters 05/14/05 |
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I watched as children of all ages squeezed themselves into the rundown classroom; light made its way into the space through dingy windows. Mothers strained to watch their children through the narrow doorway as they began to sit down on the floor. Most of these mothers had fled their homes, losing children, husbands and other family members in the violence of the war that had caused them to flee. It was almost as if they feared to let their children that remained out of their sight; this fear was almost tangible. I tried to imagine what it had been like for them, losing loved ones, losing children. I tried to imagine what it would have been like for me had I lost my children, my family in a civil war. Witnessing the suffering of these people, these mothers and their children, motivated me along with the women of our church to find a way to get God’s Word, food and whatever else we could find to help alleviate the suffering of these people. The war had made them refugees; the government had settled them temporarily in this school that was run by Muslims. By God’s grace, we had favor with the school’s leadership and were given full access to the children. As was our custom every day, we began to teach the children a lesson on the love of God. While teaching the lesson, we prepared to serve them a hot meal. The mothers helped us with organization and discipline as we set about to the task of teaching and feeding the hungry children in the camp. They always refused to eat until their children had eaten; this is the heart of a mother. We taught and fed 1,500 children on that day and every day for six years. The children would file into the classroom; we then taught them and fed them in groups of 200 until everyone had eaten. This was our life, this was our calling; we were all mothers.
One young mother caught my attention on this particular day. She was caring for her child, David, who was suffering with hydrocephalus (water on the brain). I had known her and her son for several months and visited them almost every day when we came to teach and feed the children. In the West, this child would have been easily treated and lived a normal life. In Central Africa where countries are at war, treatment was nowhere to be found. As an infant, David had received treatment for this disorder; some Catholic sisters had found a way for him to have a shunt placed in his head to help drain the excess fluid. With the passing of time, the shunt needed replacing; but the doctors in the village he had come from had all either been killed in the violence or had fled to save their own lives. On this day, she had come to the classroom to collect David’s meal for him because his condition prevented him from joining in with the other children. David was her only child who had survived the massacre in her village; he was all she had left in the world. During my visit, I noticed that his head had swollen a great deal since my last visit only a few days prior. His head was well over double the size of what it should have been. Everyone knew that David would, without a miracle, go on to be with the Lord – but we didn’t think or talk about that. The pressure on his brain from the swelling had caused him to lose his sight four months earlier, his head was too swollen for him to even sit up, so he lay down on the ground on a blanket waiting for people to come and visit with him. He smiled and rocked his head from side to side, laughing and enjoying every moment he had a visitor - he was oblivious to the suffering that surrounded him. When I asked him if he knew about Jesus one day, he replied, “Yesu ni mwokozi wangu, Mama amenifundisha upendo wake.” (translated – “Jesus is my Savior, my mother taught me about His love”). I entered the familiar, dark, odor-filled room, where David’s mother met me. She squeezed my hand tightly as I greeted her, tears flowing freely down her cheeks – words did not pass between us. Jesus was coming to get David soon. This mama loved Jesus and served her little boy in the confines of a disease infested camp; singing to him, talking with him, not leaving his side except to collect his meal every day from our cooking pots outside. She told all of us how she saw David as a gift from God, not a burden, and how her life, which to others may have seemed to be poor, had been made rich by one little boy.
A few days passed and I went once again to visit with David. The room was silent, all eyes on me as I walked to the familiar spot where David had laid for so many months. David’s mother greeted me with her familiar smile and handshake. Together we looked down on the empty spot where David laid no more. The government, she explained, had his body buried quickly after his death. There was no time to inform me of his decease. Every mother in the room surrounded us as we talked about David’s life and what it meant. Most of our words were feeble attempts at comfort, the only words that brought meaning to the whole situation was David’s mother, the woman who was herself grieving. She looked at all of us and said, “Being a mother is a gift. David was a gift to me and now I have given him as a gift to God.”
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