Will You Pray For Me?

Determined, but quiet, she had followed him unnoticed, around the church grounds following Sunday service. He shook hands and connected with the men, offered up his cheek for a kiss from the women, encouraged the local Pastor and Elders and as we started back toward the truck to leave she reached out and touched his arm.

“Will you pray for me?”

He looked her in the eyes. “Yes, I noticed you earlier. Heidi, come here, let’s pray for her.”

He had preached as I’d never seen him preach before, with a message of persistence and passion to pray “until” just like the woman in the book of Matthew had pleaded and persisted with Jesus for her child to be healed. This woman was just like that woman, desperate for her son, she continued to seek treatment and now prayer for him. The sermon has resonated with her.

“My son has been so sick since he was born. I have taken him from doctor to doctor and they can’t find a remedy for his illness.”

I placed my hand on his little back, the rattle in his chest shook his little frame and he began coughing hard. Maybe pneumonia I think to myself, he needs antibiotics. I know the fear of watching your child struggle to breathe. I know the fear of feeling fever rise in their little bodies. I watch the fever pour sweat down his head. His shirt is soaked.

She lifts his shirt and takes my hand and places it on his chest. She looks deep into my eyes and nods her head knowing I understand as she explains in Creole how he suffers. We listen as the translator interprets for her.

“Yes, let’s pray.” He prays for God to heal this little man, for God to hear her plea and touch his body.   We will stand in the gap and “pray until” alongside her.

“Will you pray for me?”

Her young daughter is disabled. Her eyes are rolling in her head as she attempts to focus, her body is twisted and a hernia extends from her little stomach. She moans and whines, with pain, or is it confusion? I don’t know. The circumference of her tiny arms are still barely large enough to come out of the red zone into the yellow zone on the measurement charts. She fights the “Plumpy nut” struggling to eat and not understanding how necessary it is for her growth.

I can’t even fathom the challenges this Mom faces in getting the care she needs for her daughter. How much support does she get? Do the people understand? How many other children are around with disabilities? Will she ever walk? What future is there for her here?

Her hair is twisted into two ponytails high on her little head and I watch as they drop as she finally gives in to her mother’s embrace and falls asleep.

“She sleeps.” I whisper to her as I put my hand on Mama’s shoulder, and softly rub the little girls leg. She nods her head and smiles, a long, tired smile. We gather around her and hold hands under the Haitian sun, united we plead with God for a timely surgery for her hernia, help for this child, support for this mother. We will stand in the gap and “pray until” alongside her.

“Will you pray for me?”

He invites us into his tiny home. A kitten meows and crawls up the wooden beams of the roof. Ants run rampant across the freshly swept mud floor. We stand in one big circle, hand in hand. It is hard not to notice how little they have but it is equally hard not to notice how much love they have. He reaches for one of two chairs they own and places it in the centre of the room for his wife and their young baby girl to sit down.

“We are only young, and we have two children. Life here is very hard. Will you pray for me? For my wife and I and our children? There is a hush in the room, it is a sacred moment for sure as we pray for the couple, as we pray for the children, as we plead with God for their future. We will stand in the gap and “pray until” alongside him.

“Will you pray for me?”

He stands before us presenting the weeks activities and his appreciation for all we do as sponsors and major donors. His pants and shirt are well pressed, He looks very sharp and we say as much. He has a huge smile on his face as he recounts various stories of the week together. I feel tears welling up in my eyes and I do my best to hold them in.

He doesn’t know how we’ve been watching him all week. How we’ve noticed that when we were busy hearing peoples stories, or busy listening to projects presented we would see him in the background, playing with the children beside the truck. He doesn’t know how much it resonated with us when we saw him slip three bottles of Sprite from the back cooler to a crowd of children, and then we watched as his face light up when we told him to give the rest away. He doesn’t know that we noticed he knows every child’s name and they are excited to see him when he arrives.  He doesn’t know that we found out he teaches Sunday school at his local church, on top of all he does for his community. He doesn’t know that he is a hero.

The work here is hard, overwhelming and sometimes it seems hopeless. The least we can do is stand in the gap, support the work and “pray until” alongside them.