The scent of death permeated the small hut as I entered, my eyes adjusted to the darkness. I heard the whimpering of a child. My eyes followed the sound and I saw a two to three year old child, naked, skin and bones, crying, whimpering and stretching. A woman hovered near the child, trying to comfort, she was naked, and her breast dried up from feeding once too many times. I felt the moment, the ache, the pain, I sensed the hopelessness, the resignation to what was seemingly inevitable death for another nameless child in Southern Sudan.

I sat down near this dying child, feeling all kinds of emotions. Here I was inside of Southern Sudan, in the triangle of death, as it was called. Hunger, disease, war was just a way of life. A war that had lasted for 40 years, the Arabic North (Khartoum) wiping out the African South, as the world stood by. I was not standing by, I was right here, in the midst of it all and yet I felt so helpless. I had no more food with me, I was scheduled to fly out in a few hours, back to Logichokkio, where I could be safely back in my UN tent, take a shower, have a hot meal, drink a cold coke. It seemed so unfair, so futile, and so hopeless.

My hands moved toward the child. How does one show care and compassion at a time like this with nothing like medicine, a hospital, and a doctor nearby? What does one do, what can one do?

I simply put my hand on its quaking, dying body; the eyes of the mother met mine. I could hear the mother say "Do something-now, help my baby." In my natural self, I was simply Jon, another human being struggling with all the forces of life and death, pain, sickness as everyone around me. Yet, as my hand was on this child, another reality came to me, the reality of life eternal, of a God who was not simply in the distance, but moved with compassion to those who could not help themselves like this little child. This was not a time to discuss the why of suffering. This was a time to heal, to mend, to restore, to allow the creative life force of God to flow through this human vessel called Jon into this nameless child that represented thousands of other suffering children.

I felt foolish for even trying to believe that this dying child could recover from the state it was in. There was nothing but skin and bone, and yet how could I just walk away and avoid this moment in time that I was led to be a part of. Yes doubts flowed through me; yes I questioned whether anything would come of it. There was no time for cynicism, or a discussion on the validity of prayer, of the reality of miracles. I did not chant, I did not shout, I did not pray endlessly. I simply asked for a miracle on behalf of someone who could not ask for themselves, this dying baby.

Amazing how things work in our minds and the past flashes by us in such moments as this one. I was back at Harbor View Hospital in Seattle, standing at the side of a grieving father looking helplessly as his daughter was already dead but machines kept her body functioning for seven more days while the mother came home from overseas. An endless procession of people came in the room, praying on behalf of this teenage girl. One man in particular came in shouting commanding God to raise her up, he kept getting louder and louder, and in the end there was only the quiet pumping and noises coming from life support equipment and monitors.

I closed my eyes, speaking simple words; some might call it a prayer of faith. It was not a magic formula, an empty ritual; there was a presence in that hut. I asked to be a channel of healing, of life, of seeing a little child whole. My heart filled with love for this child whose name I did not know. My hands on this lifeless body were immaterial; there was divine presence here in this hut. I prayed for the creative power of God to be released through me. In my mind I saw the child whole, playing, running, skipping. I felt a flow of energy move through my body into the body of the child. I was simply thanking God for what he was doing. This was no magical incantation, but an ancient rite repeated once again, no matter what the background, no matter what our belief system all of us in moments such as these, when we can do nothing else, simply pray. My eyes opened, there seemed to be a light glow surrounding the child. The crying seized, the breathing turned to normal, and the body quieted, tears of thanks rolled down my eyes.

I had not done anything. I had simply reached out to a dying child and whispered a few words. Why was this child touched while others died? Was it my prayer? Was it coincidence? Or are there still moments where miracles exist in real life and not just on TV or in the movies. Am I a healer, the answer is no. I am simply a person who was available to make the divine love and compassion real to a child and mother who had suffered so much.

I uttered a prayer of thanks and sat there quietly for some time before going back out into the heat of the Sudanese sun. All around me there was pain, suffering, but inside of me there was and is the reality that divine love released through us can make a difference.

I took a quiet walk amongst the thorn-bushes that surrounded the camp; many thoughts passed through my mind. The thought of being that wounded healer who in spite of his own wounds could reach out to others. Not only had a child been given life, but this crusty man in mid-life saw the reality of divine life once again, not in dry theories but in life-changing power.

The words and sounds of the hymn Amazing Grace floated around in my head, song so ancient and so meaningful that transcends cultures, time, and even religion. "It is grace that has brought us thus far, and grace will lead us home

The plane came, I was able to get some food-supplies, which I dropped off at the hut with promise for more, the mother shook my hand. We looked into each other’s eyes, countless of words were exchanged without any needing to be spoken. I walked away, thankful, humbled, amazed at the graceful ways of God.

Medical Care African Style

Every time I drove in Africa, the thought of having an accident and needing emergency medical treatment was on my mind. I had seen enough roadside carnage, bodies simply by the side of the road, in most cases they were still uncovered after a hit and run accident. That is not to say that the driver was responsible for the accident he or she simply disappeared before some angry mob carried out their sense of justice.

If you did have an accident, the care that you might get would leave any Westerner cringing at the sight of needles that had obviously been used before, lack of medicine and bandages, doctor’s on staff and whatever else one can imagine.

At Mulago Hospital a large sign greets the visitor, "Report anyone asking for a bribe." Well, try to get any decent care without a bribe. To begin there is a shortage of doctors in Africa since many of those who have graduated have been lured away by South Africa with a program that will make them a lot more money than they could in a place like Uganda where a doctors visit runs between three and five dollars.

If you go to the hospital at night, you are really out of luck. The first thing you have to do is to pay transport cost for the doctor to come, and an added incentive for him to get out of bed. Once he is at the hospital, there is the lack of equipment, the absence of medicine. (Most of it is stolen once it reaches the hospital and often sold at one of the private clinics owned by doctors. When one speaks of private clinic you have to envision a simple room with cement floor, a counter and maybe a curtain, there are of course better places, but for the average African they are rare.)

If you are admitted to the hospital, the story really begins. You better bring a mattress and bedding, toilet paper, have food brought by relatives, medicine has to be purchased and brought to the hospital, be ready to pay something extra for care. I have seen a man sleep on the springs of the bed with no sheets, mattress or anything else. He was lucky however; he was in a hospital.

If you go to a clinic, a doctor’s office, be ready to bring your own needles if you are getting a shot, or want some blood-work done. Many times needles are re-used and in Africa that spells death. Many of my friends brought their own plasma with them in case of emergency and had a supply of needles, medicine and anything else that would make things a bit easier in case of emergency. The last time I went I needed two things, some malaria medicine and a check whether I did have malaria, which meant a blood test and an HIV test for a visa. In both cases I had to have blood drawn. The lab was simply a room with some equipment, the latest I was told, and a bench for people like me to await the results. While I was there a young woman was told she had HIV. There was no counseling and no privacy, she was simply told in front of the other awaiting results. She began to cry and my heart went out to her.

Life and death is part of an ancient cycle in Africa. Life expectancy is short by our standards and the casket makers are busy on Entebbe road in Kampala. All daylong one can see bicycles, trucks and cars taking away another casket, many of them are for children. That is why the African lives out the moment, the here and now. When death comes, there is a time of grief and life starts over again. Even in times of war, the African sees death not as we do, but as part of the cycle of life. While we are here we live to the fullest, not depending on the accumulation of things, but on the heart and soul to celebrate each moment.

If you want to buy medicine, you can do at the pharmaceutical stands from early morning until midnight. No, prescriptions needed. Tell the pharmacist what ails you and he or she will tell you what’s best. How do they know? Well, call it luck, or whatever since most of them have no pharmaceutical training of any kind, but go by their feelings, sell what is available, and whatever other reasons. Often medicine is counterfeit and simply some chemical cakes that are not helpful to the ailing patient, so it is best you buy a brand-name in a package, that is if you recognize the brand name since much of the medicine is made in another third world country.

The West sends medical aid to Africa, but often it is things that cannot be used like the time I visited the small clinic in a Nairobi slum. The place was a clinic run by a nurse, a school, an orphanage and a teaching center for people to use contraceptives in order to avoid AIDS. To begin with, I had to chuckle as Anne Owiti proudly showed me around. In her office where boxes and boxes of condoms made in Europe. Just in front of them was a table with a Bible and next to it a male sex organ made of wood to demonstrate how to use a condom. The contrasts were simply overwhelming, and I thought, "Only in Africa is this normal." IN the same place was a brand new refrigerator. I turned to Anne and said, "You do not have power, do you?" She laughed, "Maybe someday." I knew that soon the refrigerator would be in someone’s house. Yes, this was Africa, and the dear ladies from the European club never checked whether there was a way to plug in their nice, new refrigerator...jon