The Day I Saw Jesus in an African Hospital

This year, we’ve focused on stories inspired by our We Are the World Race Campaign. This month, we’re sharing stories inspired by women on the mission field. (Don’t worry guys, your turn is coming next month!) This month we want to celebrate all things women-in-missions related, and give you a chance to share your story as well. 

Shannon Morgan, leader of the Fall Passport trip to Kenya writes of her experience in an African Hospital. A place full of hardship, she tells us how we never walk alone, no matter what the situation looks like. Help is always sitting within arms reach, visible or not.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, we slink into a matatu, plant ourselves in the raggedy seats, grab the windows and lock our limbs to keep from being thrown across the van as we traverse the bumpiest mountain road in Africa. We are dropped off at Kijabe Hospital, where we spend the day.

We pray with every patient in every ward. In an African hospital, things are shocking. They are blatant. They are inescapable.

And I walk.

The Amazing Baby Center. Little ones twisted with spina bifida, their bodies so tiny compared to their inflated heads. Hydrocephalus.

Men’s ward. Metal protruding out of broken legs. A grandfather gasping as his lungs collapse. Urine in buckets.

All day long, I pray. I hold trembling hands. I breathe in odors that make my stomach lurch. I pray boldly, proclaiming healing, establishing peace.

I don’t see visions here. The visions before me are more than I can take.

Jesus, I know you’re here. Even when I don’t see you.  

My first day in this place, I wept. Six hours walking, teardrops trailing the tile floors. I walk.

Immediately, I see her.

She has huge tears running down her young face. She’s young. Maybe fifteen. All alone, she looks scared, she’s in pain. I walk up to her and ask her name: Jecinta.

I take her hand. Her left leg is in a huge cast. I ask her what happened. In a quivering voice, she tells me of running to class and falling. Her leg snapping. The pain, unbearable, and it won’t stop. She whimpers, buries her face in her hand.

I begin to pray. Her weeping is uninhibited. I know it is more than just her leg that’s birthing these tears.

God, she feels alone, doesn’t she? I keep praying, proclaiming immediate healing and relief over her.

In a surprised, but still openly sorrowful voice, she softly says,

 “The pain… The pain is gone.”

 I look at this little girl. Her leg doesn’t hurt anymore, but the tears are still flowing. I take her hand and pray again.

Soon, my girls join me. And I hear them all speaking the same words: 

Lord, let her feel your love and know how near you are.

They were all praying, not for her leg, but for her heart. I open my eyes.

And I see Jesus.

My four girls all circled around, standing behind Rachael kneeling on the floor, is Jesus.

I see visions. This is not a vision.

Behind Rachael, he stands.

Arms open, palms up, head bowed, lips moving. Praying with us over Jecinta.

He is luminescent.

His body is in hues of blue, white, and grey, like a spirit.

Holy Spirit.

 My breath catches and I can’t speak. No vision has ever been this.

The slimmest second, and suddenly everything has changed.

Oh, if I only had words. My description of him is insignificant and so vague, but what I feel is enough to write a book.

I can’t pretend to understand all the pains of the world. But I now know that he’s at the foot of every hospital bed, palms up to remind us of what he paid for, face bowed in prayer, interceding on our behalf.

Even now, beloved, he stands at the foot of all your hospital beds.

He’s not far and away; he’s not indifferent.

No, love. He’s at the foot of all the hospital beds in your life. He’s speaking Somali to you, in a foreign land when no one knows your language. He’s strengthening the vows of your marriage when death is at the door. He’s grafting newness where the fires of life have deadened you.

Oh, beloved.

He is closer than you can possibly imagine.

 You could be the one to answer the Lord’s call to be a voice for the voiceless. Your hands could hold the hurting. Your voice could spread the name of Jesus. Will you go? Click here see all the places you could go this year!

Photos via mariannecayce, blairkj1, and AJ LeVan.