.haitian hospitals.

"We're going to the hospital..."
When Pastor Joelle said that, I think I panicked. What was I going to do in a hospital?

I don't talk to strangers. I don't do funky smells. I don't do needles and I really don't do bodily fluids. Sick.

Convinced this was some kind of joke, I was waiting for the other option available to our group. None came.

As we walked into this tiny Haitian hospital, the first thing I noticed were droplets of fresh blood in a puddle beneath a chair in the waiting room. The second was a young man wrapped in urine-stained bandages and tears streaming down his cheeks. The third was a 3-year-old child whose face appeared to be melting off from an apparent burn.

Mounds of people were crammed into tiny rooms with hardly any supplies or nurses. Family members crowded around most beds wiping away flies and sweat. The smell was heavy, the walkways were small, and there was no privacy despite obvious pain.

The overwhelming sense of death and hopelessness was suffocating.

I felt helpless. I just wanted to heal them. I wanted to take their pain away. I wanted to give them hope when I didn't even know what was wrong. I wanted to kill every fly that crawled across their skin, wipe away their sweat, and sing them all back to health.
I didn't know what to say to these people and I definitely didn't speak Creole. Waiting for further instruction, I watched my scuffling feet and stared at the ground.

Finally, Pastor Joelle found his way inside and with a smile said, "Go ahead to start. Do. You know."

"No, sir. I don't know and I'm going to need you to clarify."

My pessimism fortunately wasn't verbalized and I could feel the Lord shake His head at my attitude. It wasn't that I didn't know what to do ...I just didn't want to do it.

As a representative of the Lord, I needed to put aside my discomfort and offer some kind of relief to the hurting people in that room.

Before I chickened out, I grabbed one of the translators and headed towards another room of the hospital. Just then a blood-curdling scream ripped through the entire hospital. Everyone froze. I closed by eyes and did my best to shake it off. Death. I knew that scream meant death. Urgency shot up within me as I practically dragged our translator to the next room.

We walked around to different beds offering prayer, and I was surprised at how many people were receptive and willing to have us pray for them. I noticed one woman lying alone on the other side of the room and knew I needed to go to her.

As I knelt down next to her, I felt the need to sing. I wanted to groan in disapproval, but knew that arguing with the Holy Spirit wasn't going to get me very far. So I sucked it up and asked her if I could sing her a song. I closed my eyes through the first verse, almost afraid of what her reaction would be. She just looked mean with a seemingly permanent scowl etched into her face. But when I opened my eyes during the chorus, she was lying there with her hand over her heart just swaying to the music. Her eyes were closed and she obviously had forgotten about her situation, at least for a brief second.

Relief and purpose swept over my entire body.

Why do we question Him? Why do we feel the prompting of His Spirit and try to balance it with logic before we act? I was too afraid of what people might say to me if I walked up to their bed and they weren't interested in what I had to offer. Why did it matter? Wasn't that one woman's comfort worth rejection from the rest?

Service in locations like Haiti helps to remind me if how much really exists outside of me and my life, outside of Birmingham, outside of the United States...There are too many people hurting, in need of hope, for me to be pouting or focusing on me and my discomfort. I hope I can continue to find ways to get uncomfortable for Him everyday and to remember that it really isn't about me.