Handful of Seeds

I didn’t know what to say, so I just sat with her in silence, holding her hands as tears welled up in her eyes. 

When I received report that morning, the nurses told me that she was in active labor and progressing normally. Yet when I went to assess her and find fetal heart tones, I could not find the heartbeat. I spent ten minutes searching over her entire abdomen, my own heart rate rising with each passing minute until I was forced to call the doctor, who did an ultrasound and confirmed what I had been so afraid of. 

So the doctor and I shared the hard news that she had already figured out from our worried expressions and hushed tones. As tenderly as possible we explained the medical information to her and her family, and although I wanted to leave the room and escape the pain of it all, the doctor and I pulled up chairs and sat with them awhile in their pain. It’s hard to know what to say in those moments, even in English, nevertheless in French and in a different culture. But maybe she didn’t need words at that moment, maybe she just needed someone to sit with her and not flee from her pain. 

I was at her bedside throughout most of the day, and although she did not deliver during my shift, I worked again the next day and was able to see her again before she was ready to go home, all dressed in her Muslim attire with bags packed. 

Her husband was present that morning, so I introduced myself since I hadn’t seen him the previous day. He pulled me aside and sincerely thanked me for my care to his wife. 

I was completely humbled that in such a painful time as this, he would stop to thank me. Me who felt as though I had done nothing for them. Me who felt so powerless and broken for him and his family. Me who did not deserve such gratitude. 

But somewhere along the road of suffering he had felt love, and he attributed it to me, so I attributed it back to where it belongs. 

“Do you know where this love comes from?” I asked him, and his eyes awaited my response. 

I told him that it was not by random incidence or haphazard chance that his wife came to this Christian hospital, but that Jesus wants them to know that in difficult times like this, that he loves them and wants to be the solution in their pain. 

“Jesus loved me so much that he gave himself as a sacrifice to pay for my sins. This love allows me to love others. The love that you have received here is not my love, but his.” 

He nodded and accepted this, and again thanked me for my words. 

I thought about a little girl I know in Burkina Faso who is almost two years old. When she started talking, she could only say a few things: mama, papa, the names of her siblings, and “Jésus t’aime.” Jesus loves you. She said it to everyone. The child can barely talk but she is already telling everyone of Jesus’ love. 

She has even inspired us adults on my Burkinabé team to be more active in telling people about Jesus’ love, so we call her method “Gabby’s evangelism.” It’s simple. It’s just telling people that Jesus loves them. That in a hurting and broken world, his love is available to them, and that it will satisfy the cravings in their hearts for wholeness and true love. 

Perhaps my Muslim patient and her husband will return home and ask “who is this Jesus that loves me so?” and embark on the journey of seeking him. Perhaps God will use this season of suffering to bring them closer into relationship with Jesus. I know he’s really good at doing things like that. This is my humble prayer for them as I often wonder if I did the right thing or if I should have said more or less.

Then God reminds me that he is responsible for the changing of hearts and the saving of souls. He sends the rain and produces the harvest. What he has entrusted to us is a handful of seeds, and he is sending us out into a field to sow them, to tell others the simple but powerful and life-changing truth that his love is healing and it is available to all who believe.