When I think about my time in Guinea Bissau, what I remember most are the faces. I remember the soft smiles of curious children, the puzzled faces of a baby looking at white people for the first time. I remember the faces of the women the most. I remember their smooth and dark skin, their eyes often hallowed and hurt. Many were apprehensive, searching in our own eyes for our intentions. And yet, in a sea of dark and narrow eyes, you would find a set of hopeful ones. Eyes that sparkled brighter than anything else in the whole country. Eyes of hope and longing, eyes that would say ‘thank you’ and that didn’t harbor shame or bitterness. The pure hearts were my treasure of this country. When I was overcome by the reality of death and disease, of abandonment and neglect, of pain and suffering, I searched for the eyes of hope. I searched for the mama who would recognize my own pain and confusion, to tell me that it was okay, that it’s all fleeting and there’s gold deep inside of us being refined in these moments. In them, I saw Jesus. The man who wept with those who mourned and laughed with those who rejoiced.
I imagined Jesus with me often.
The labor room was a small and dark room. They had one window near the ceiling that would usher in the sunlight streaming past the trees. Often the days were cloudy. There could be anywhere from 2 to 10 women in that room at a time. They were given a small bed near the ground and were expected to bring their own buckets that they would tuck under the bed and bring out whenever they needed to poop, pee or vomit. Some women slept, many moaned in agony, others would have the strength to get up and pace a few steps back and forth. When they saw us, a group of foreigners in various colored scrubs, they stared; as they often would anywhere we went. And with warm smiles and open hands, we approached the women, especially those who seemed to be in more active labor, and offered to assist them.
The Guinean women LOVED counter pressure. Liv and I were partnered together with one mom during a night shift and would rotate between who would fan her and who would apply pressure to her hips. When the contraction came, she would wrap her arm around us as if to push our whole bodies into her hips. And when the contraction would stop, we would still be wrapped around her waist, but she would leave her hand on our back, as if to say, ‘stay here’. She seemed to enjoy the comfort of touch, of the embrace, reminding her she wasn’t alone and her body was safe in our arms. We were there to protect her and her baby.
The labor room was often where I pictured Jesus. When I would have a mom sprawled over my lap or resting in my arms, I pictured him right beside me, stroking her hair and whispering to her in her native tongue. Sometimes I imagined him across the room, sitting with another mom, rubbing her back like a tender and loving father would. I remember when I acted as a doula for a mom who went into a c-section. I had already established a relationship with her and I knew she was frightened to go under the knife. She cried through most of the procedure, silently but with strength. When I held her hand, I knew Jesus would’ve done the same, almost as if He had stood in that same spot countless times with all the lonely and frightened moms before her.
When we said goodbye to everyone in the hospital, I wrestled with God on why we didn’t see miracles. We prayed incessantly for resurrection life, for babies in the womb to have their hearts beat again, for our team to see no death. And yet, serving in that hospital, I saw the most death I ever have in my entire life. I questioned my own faith in God to do the miraculous. I wondered if I should’ve prayed more and fasted for the babies in that hospital who passed inside or outside the womb. I wondered where God was and why he abandoned them. What a horrible thought to have. So much so that I debated including this part of my journey in Guinea Bissau in my blog. But I think it’s important to understand where my head was at in order to realize - God has been, is, and always will be, there. I wonder if we start getting so caught up in what our God offers us, that we forget to see The Man Himself. Yes, He is the God of hope, of peace, of life, and joy - yet when all those things seem so far away, He is the only bridge back. Circumstances will tell us that there is no hope, peace, life and joy left when a baby dies in her mother's arms. And oh my goodness, is that so easy to believe. I can hardly imagine another grief quite like it. But if we really look for Him, His presence is often right beside us. He is Hope. He is Peace. He is Life. He is Joy.
I cannot speak on behalf of the grieving mother, I can only pray to never know that loss. But I do know that God redeems the hurts of our hearts. If it’s not Him, what do we actually have to offer any of these women? If it’s not a Creator, a Father, a Friend, a Healer, a Protector, the Perfect Man, what will you say to her? This life is very fleeting, my friends, far too fleeting than any of us can imagine. Perhaps the true victory is standing amidst the pain, the grief, the death, and still proclaiming He is Good. He is God. He is my Hope and He alone. His Presence is the miracle.
I still have faith for miracles, I pray all the more for it, because I know it’s His nature to do so. In fact, I pray that you have faith for God to do abundantly more than you expect. I only want to end with this; I refuse to let the circumstances of this world tell me who my God is. That may very well be the heartcry for the rest of my life. I hope to encourage you in that same thought as well.
Much love to you and much love to the people of Guinea Bissau,
Jaylin
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