God Knows Her Name

London woke me up by bounding in my room and announcing, "Mom's going to check on a baby. Do you want to come?" 

I couldn't say no to that, so I jumped in some clothes and headed out the door shortly after. 

I heard the story of the child on the way to the village. The mom already has six children, she had a seventh child who died at birth, and now this baby makes the eighth. It's a girl who was born in her village hut on Saturday night, prematurely at seven months of pregnancy, and weighing in at around 3 pounds. They had taken her to the hospital, who turned them away saying there was nothing they could do. 

It's now Wednesday morning, and we have a baby who would be in a NICU under critical monitoring (if she was born in America) that has been living in the African bush for four days. I didn't know what to expect. 

When we arrived, all the traditional greetings were given, and the family brought chairs for us to sit in under the shade of a nearby tree. They brought out a suitcase and set it gently at our feet. The father gently opened the lid to reveal a suitcase full of colorful cloths, which he tenderly unwrapped to reveal the tiniest living infant I have ever seen. 

She looked like she still needed to be in the womb. She was too tiny, her skin was too soft, her limbs too fragile. I couldn't believe how little she weighed when they placed her in my arms. It was a miracle that she was even alive. 

I quickly counted her heart rate. 100 bpm. Her respirations. 52. She was limp and floppy, with no signs of life except the irregular pattern of her breathing, evidenced by deep retractions on her tiny abdomen.

"Is she eating?" we asked. In response, the father pulled out a needle and syringe, which he used to draw up 2cc of D5 solution and forced it into the baby's mouth. She gave no response. I have no idea how long they had been doing that. "Does the mother have milk?" I asked, to which she responded by pulling up her shirt and easily expressing milk like it was just waiting to come out. "Bring a spoon! That's what this baby needs!" We showed the mom how to draw up the milk in the syringe and feed it to the baby. Then, as calmly as possible, we made the most obvious decision. "We want to help you get this baby to Ouagadougou today where she can receive the care that she needs." 

As the mother packed her one small sack, we waited. "What is the baby's name?" Geoffrey asked. 

"She doesn't have a name yet," Rebecca replied. 

After a brief moment of silence, I spoke, "God knows her name."

"That's it!" Suzanne immediately exclaimed, "That's her name!" 

Here in the village, that's how people name their children. There are no Suzies or Mikeys or Ellies or Joes. You meet people named God Is Good or God Helps. If the family is not Christian, you are just as likely to find a child named Day of My Suffering or Another Mouth to Feed. Names mean something here. 

And so we gave the baby her name, Namwin Borra Youor, meaning God Knows Her Name. 

They wrote it down instantly in the health record book that all babies receive when they are born in Burkina Faso. And then then we gathered around the baby as a family to pray. The family is a Christian family, a part of our church movement in the surrounding villages, so we joyfully asked Jesus to save the life of this child for the glory of God. 

Then off to Ouaga we went. I had only been gone for two days and found myself returning. Funny, I thought, yet absolutely delightful. This is why I have come. 

Just a few days ago, I was asking the Lord to show me what I am supposed to do. He told me that he would reveal it to me one day at a time, and I just have to live with eyes wide open to see each day what he wants me to do by the opportunities he puts in front of me. I believed him. But today he proved it.

Oh how faithful is our God. 

All the way to Ouagadougou, we fed Namwin Borra Youor one milliliter of expressed breast milk just about every hour. For the third feeding, she opened her eyes and smacked her lips, vigorously swallowing as soon as the milk touched her lips. Her heart rate was up to 120 and her respirations down to 40. She stretched her legs and arms and even made a cooing sound. She looked like she had life in her, and the strength to keep fighting. 

When we arrived in Ouagadougou, I turned around and asked the mother and the French speaking family member that we brought with us (since mom only speaks dagara), "Is this your first time to Ouagadougou?" I could see by the shock in his eyes that it was. "Yes!" he proclaimed with childish excitement, and I tried to imagine what it would be like to spend your whole life in the African bush and then see Ouaga, a city of 2 million, for the first time. 

We pulled up to the pediatric clinic and the doctor was waiting for us. The first thing the did was weigh her. She was .97 kg, which is just over 2 pounds. The doctor then wrapped her in a special warming blanket (no baby warmer or heat lamp here), gave her an antibiotic shot, and hooked her up to oxygen. That's it. Here's the NICU. 

The doctor also called in a specialist, a woman who works with premature babies, who was going to spend the night with Namwin Borra Youor and her family. When she arrived, she took over the show, and I immediately placed confidence in her. "This baby needs to eat," she said, "and we need to alternate breast milk with special premature formula." With that, we were off to the pharmacy. 

In America, everything you need is right there at the hospital. Not so here. Every supply that you need must be found, purchased, and brought by the family. Even down to the gloves that the doctors and nurses wear. 

So the doctor and specialist gave Suzanne and I a list, and we went searching for a pharmacy to buy infant formula, vitamin enhanced medicine, syringes, and an NG tube. 

After visiting three different pharmacies to get every item on our list, we returned to the clinic. Of course the electricity was out, so we used our cellphones to light the way for the specialist to drop the feeding tube. Once in place, Suzanne and I felt good enough about the situation to leave, so we said goodnight and trusted little Namwin Borra Youor into the hands of the doctors, specialist, and ultimately into the care of Jesus. 

The next day, Suzanne and I hit the road back home. Namwin Borra Youor was doing well, and the doctor plans on keeping her at the clinic for a while and then keeping her in Ouaga for a longer time so that she can follow up easily. She will get a heart work up today. We pray she will continue to grow strong so that she can be a miracle testimony to the care of the Lord.

Our work was done, but I kept thinking about that empty piece of land up on the hill in our city and our dreams for a center for infants in distress. With a few resources, we could do for that baby what was done in Ouaga. Maybe even more. 

So our work is not done; it is just beginning. A center for infants in distress is on the horizon. Please continue to pray for God Knows Her Name. And praise God for miracles! God alone can sustain such a tiny, fragile life in such a harsh and crude environment. I saw such a miracle with my own eyes, and I am ever amazed and thankful to be here. In Africa. In a place where the struggle is real and the presence of God is tangible and touchable.