This photo was taken by my friend and fellow writer Meg. The baby at my fingertips is not well. He has fluid on the brain, a hernia, and a hole in his heart. His flaring nostrils, the rapid rise and fall of his swollen chest, and the lugubrious roll of his eyes from side to side all indicated he was in distress. Every few seconds he would clench my finger with his tiny hand, causing me to feel the feverish heat of his frailty.
And there I stood, staring at his quiet, fading existence, thinking, "All I can do for you, little one, is pray. Even if all the operations modern medicine has to offer were available to you, would your weak, damaged frame ever be able to endure them all? Only our Heavenly Father can allow the healing to take place."
Why does man have a tendency to resort to prayer only after everything else has been tried? If we doubt what we pray, how can it happen? Do we underestimate the power of He who dwells within us?
The only thing I had to offer that child was indeed the greatest thing anyone could have done for him. I prayed, faithfully.
The following day, he was flown back to Liberia with his mother and the other children. There they will await the news of whether they will receive heart surgery in Israel. I knew not his condition when he departed.
