When There Is No Physical Healing. At An Orphanage In China.

It lay.  A world away.  Wrapped in grace.  The kind that finds one in the cold.  And brings it in.  And holds it endlessly.  Regardless of the cost.

And we sit.  Encircled around this ministry.  God brought us to.  Hearing the details.  Of a little one.  Having surgery.  Fighting for victory….in a world that sometimes just seems cold.

A nurse came.  Diagnosis.  Not good.

And I hear how a man came claiming Jesus, saying this baby would be healed.  But, it resulted in bleeding.  Internally.  Instead.

And why with a gospel that brings victory and deliverance.  Does healing not always look, like we think it should?

And I have witnessed Jesus raise from the dead. I am one.  Resurrected.  From death.  To life.

But, I am finding, the key isn’t the rising.  It’s the waiting. The trusting. His entry.  Like Lazarus, at the tomb.  Empty.

Waiting for His last breathe.

And oh how we too are doubters, unbelievers crying out, “Why didn’t you come? If you had been here, he would have been healed.”

Yet, He did come.  He was near.  Present.  Listening.  Even when He was far.  And why is it so hard to comprehend.  The omnipresent, ever sacred, goodness of God? 

His purpose?  Only that we might trust.  As He chooses how to heal and how to divide….

The intentions of man’s heart.  Even when we don’t understand it.

The meeting over.  The somber news.  I rise and walk into this baby room.  Seeing children scattered, like the pieces I once remember, lost in me.  Without a home.  Without a name.  Without a family.  The orphan I was, mirrored in these children’s precious faces….

Before He found me.

And I pick one up.  Embracing my calling.  And the wholeness of my redemption.  Complete.  Seen in these lost ones wanting….more than healed bodies.

And I ask for one of their names.  Their God given name chosen prior to their abandonment.  Before their birth.

But, they tell me they don’t have one.  Only a Chinese name.  Looking for identity.  A future. A family. Despite their pain.  Despite their physical fight for health.

Until the Spirit draws me near.  The slowly breathing one.  Struggling to find God on a couch wrapped in love.  Trying to hold on.

And the thought of not touching this child, breaks my heart.  I cannot only see the smiling.  And happy, and joyful.  Those only wanting….a home.

I must see the broken.  I must.  Yes, I must.  Remember who I was, I am.  Without Christ.

And almost simotaneous.  My breath slows down with the rhythm of this wrapped tight, alone one.  The long.  Slow.  Intentional breath.  The one I want to recite pants of hope with….

“Live.  Live.  Live.”

I can almost not bare it.  Sitting with a mix of hope and anguish.  With a mix of wanting it’s health and yet, it’s freedom from the pain it must be exhibiting.

Stroking, dark hair.  Touching it’s cheeks.  I wait on the Lord and ask, “How do I pray?”  “Lord, how do you pray for a dying baby, in the middle of this orphanage, in China.”

I slowly hesitate.  Then pray.  “Lord, relieve it’s pain.  Either heal it immediately, or take it close to you, so that it won’t have to suffer from so much pain.”

For mom’s hearts always break at the thought of a child.  Left.  Lost.  Struggling for life, in the arms of an orphanage.  And the Saints that leave it all, to bring comfort to those.  Like this one. Waiting to die.

And my “states” life.  Shrinks.  In the shadow of death.  This fear of no evil.  Where God resides in His fullness.

Here.  With the unseen.  The forgotten children.  From China.

And as the sun sets.  And rises again.  I get word.  This child died. 

All emotion stops.  The reality of a lost life, I cannot fathom.  Filter through this Mother’s mind…..

Who spent the last decade of my life.  Waring to save children.

And it’s not till I get home. This chaotic distraction that blinds us from the purity of a gospel, sacrificed to serve a dying world.  A lost generation.  A broken people, crying out for Jesus.

And, it hits me in the car.  Alone.

I didn’t even know it’s name.  I can’t even recall if it’s a boy or girl. Tears fly down my face.  I look up to heaven.  Shout with an unashamed cry. Humbled in repentance, in agony over this nameless one…

“I don’t even know it’s name!!” I shout to the heaven’s always listening.

Then, I get angry.  Really angry.  Wrestling with my mind to try to figure out if I can remember, bare minimum, this child’s gender.

As if, that alone, will somehow elevate the tender reality of it all.

A child died. Not one who lived long, then died.  Or fought and lost to cancer.  Not a child who grew up to get married and have children….

But, an innocent.  Precious child.  One who had the hope of a lifetime there before it.

Why? 

Jet lag blending, aggravating my devastation.  A child died. 

And yet, it’s name is void from a mind that only recalls that precious breath….

That last breath.  Up.  Down.  Up.  Down.  Struggling within its chest.  Simultaneously beating with mine. 

And yet, my breathe goes on.  And this child’s does not.

Thoughts flood at the apparent injustice of it all.  Why are the most valuable.  The most precious.  The most worth fighting for….

Why is the precious.  The ever precious found in the humble seed.  The one who died, sprouting this indignant fire inside me…..

Why did it take a child, a child’s death, to stir this angst of righteous in-fury within me?

Was I too proud?  Too strong? To see the reality of the world before me?  Am I smaller?  Weaker?  More gloriously broken now to feel what Christ feels for the world?

The children.  Dying.  Daily.  And we.  Here in America.  Not seeing them.

When He too.  Came like a baby.  Naked.  Needy.  Wanting.  People.  Instead of high towers, proclaiming His kingdom and Lordship.

• Is it that our eyes might see?  
• Is it that our hearts might melt?  
• Is it His Word that He wants to use to divide the intentions of mere selfish men?  
• Does He want to make us more like Him?
• Humbling us?  Drawing us?  
• Leading us to be sold out, for the Kingdom?

Why do children die in China.  While we go on….Buying Starbucks.  Devastated if our houses or cars or clothes aren’t perfect.

Where did we replace what really matters, with the superficial.  A superficial god, we shrink to fit our circumstances….

So that we might feel better…..

About children dying.  Lives broken.  People hurting.  And how we don’t have to bend down to help them.

But then….

I see Him.  in the hurricane of my jumbled emotions.  The humbled greatness of Our King. 

And how He knelt before the least of these….

Disregarding prestige, to wash like a servant, sinner’s feet.

And how China has changed me.  Eternally.  Rising, most gloriously weakened by the reality of a gracious King….

Honoring me, by showing me those closest to The Father’s heart.  Those most beloved.

Witnessing a child leaping….Into His welcoming arms.  So that my heart too could be broken. 

And my prayers might be answered. To see only as Jesus sees. Even if it means witnessing….

A baby’s weakened last breath.  And all the feeling that comes with that….

When I don’t even know it’s name.

But, He does.  And maybe that is enough.