Community Development

I’ve always enjoyed newborn babies. I love the smell of them, their soft skin, and the sound of their tiny cry. I don’t even mind feeding schedules and mounds of baby laundry. I guess you could say it’s in my blood. Over the past thirty-five years my parents have fostered 129 infants and toddlers in their home, and before moving overseas, my husband and I carried on the tradition by caring for a few little ones ourselves. So when my friend who is a mid-wife at the international hospital in our city told me about the tiny infant, it was an easy decision for me.

The first time I saw little Marefat, I gasped. I had never seen such a tiny child and I was almost afraid to touch her. Her legs and arms were sticks that appeared too long for her body. Her ribs protruded and her eyes looked too big for her head. There were wires connected to her chest and hands and feet, and a feeding tube in her nose.

Marefat was the thirteenth child of her mother and father. The first one lived until three years old and then died from a burn accident. All the other children died in pregnancy or delivery. When Marefat’s mother was pregnant with her, as with her other pregnancies, she developed preeclampsia, a condition that hinders the growth of the developing foetus and endangers the mother’s life as well. When Marefat was born it was discovered that she had an RH negative blood type, another life threatening condition which, in the West, is easily remedied with a blood transfusion. Both of these problems probably caused the deaths of the eleven other siblings. But Marefat’s mum was in the hospital and near death herself at just the time when two doctors from the international hospital were visiting her village. A stroke caused by her condition had paralyzed her and she could not walk, talk, or even eat on her own. The doctors were deeply concerned for both mother and baby and arranged for them to be transported to our city. Although they thought it was likely the baby could not survive at that stage of development, they knew they had to deliver the baby to save the mother’s life. But the baby was a fighter and God had a better plan.

CURE International establishes and operates teaching hospitals in the developing world for the medical and spiritual healing of disabled children and their families. Marefat’s mum delivered her at the CURE Hospital in our city and stayed ten days longer to recuperate. By the time Marefat’s father decided it was necessary for him to return to his village to plant his fields, her mother had regained the use of her legs, but was still very ill and could not take care of her own needs, let alone the baby’s, so she also returned home to recuperate while the baby remained in the hospital.

Studies have proven that if a baby’s physical needs are met but she is never held, or touched, or lovingly spoken to, she can actually die. So ten days after her birth I found myself in the neo-natal intensive care unit (NICU) of the hospital caring for the tiniest baby ever to be born at CURE. Every morning I visited her and spent an hour and a half stroking Marefat’s head, massaging her hands and arms, feeding and bathing her, singing to her, and praying for her and her family. I saw her first smile and watched the weak grip of her fingers grow stronger every day. I rejoiced with her every time the nurses told me she gained a few more grams, and watched her ribs slowly disappear behind the baby fat now growing on her body.

One day, a month after I began visiting Marefat, the NICU nurses told me they thought she would progress more quickly if she were cared for in someone’s home. She was completely healthy by this time, and just needed to grow a little bigger. By that evening I had made a little bed for Marefat on a living room chair and once again I began the routine of waking every three hours round the clock to care for a very special little child.

Three weeks later, Marefat’s father returned to our city to be reunited with his now almost “plump” five pound baby girl. The reunion was sweet, and one couldn’t have found a happier or prouder father. A resident doctor accompanied Marefat and her daddy to their home and later reported that Marefat’s mother was overwhelmed with joy and emotion. He said the entire village was touched by the care of the foreigners for this family.

The mother and infant mortality rate in this south central Asian country is second only to that of the country of Liberia. Marefat’s family lives in a remote village where the mother and infant mortality rate is higher than has ever been recorded anywhere in the world. Tradition, superstition, and lack of education in basic health care result in the deaths of thousands of women and children in that province each year. One of the most common causes of death is caused by girls marrying and having children at such a young age that their own bodies are not yet fully developed and ready to bear a child. In delivery the baby becomes ‘stuck’ in the birth canal, and because there is no proper medical care nearby, mother and baby both die.

Marefat’s story is a wonderful tale of miracles and divine intervention. The kind of story we all cherish, and one we expect to finish with the fairytale ending, ‘and they all lived happily ever after’. But three weeks after writing Marefat’s story I was heartbroken to learn that she has died of diarrhoea and dehydration. My spirit groaned within me as I grieved for her, but my grief seemed like nothing as I remembered her dear parents and the agony they must be experiencing with the pain of losing all 13 of their children. Sometimes, intermingled with my feelings of pity and compassion for them, I feel a confused sense of anger: “how can anyone be so stupid as to let a baby die of diarrhoea”! I repent and cry out to God in desperation for these precious, needy people. “How can so few of us make a difference in a country whose basic needs are immeasurable? What difference can my presence be among 28 and a half million people, some of whom hang their women upside down by their feet, or bounce them in the air on a sheet during delivery, or tie off the baby’s umbilical cord using thread made of cow dung, causing tetanus! I feel so small and overwhelmed.”

And then a still, small Voice gently reminds me that He is the God who fed thousands with the five loaves and two fish of an obedient child. He is the God of hope. He is the hope of the nations.

Community Development

I’ve always enjoyed newborn babies. I love the smell of them, their soft skin, and the sound of their tiny cry. I don’t even mind feeding schedules and mounds of baby laundry. I guess you could say it’s in my blood. Over the past thirty-five years my parents have fostered 129 infants and toddlers in their home, and before moving overseas, my husband and I carried on the tradition by caring for a few little ones ourselves. So when my friend who is a mid-wife at the international hospital in our city told me about the tiny infant, it was an easy decision for me.

The first time I saw little Marefat, I gasped. I had never seen such a tiny child and I was almost afraid to touch her. Her legs and arms were sticks that appeared too long for her body. Her ribs protruded and her eyes looked too big for her head. There were wires connected to her chest and hands and feet, and a feeding tube in her nose.

Marefat was the thirteenth child of her mother and father. The first one lived until three years old and then died from a burn accident. All the other children died in pregnancy or delivery. When Marefat’s mother was pregnant with her, as with her other pregnancies, she developed preeclampsia, a condition that hinders the growth of the developing foetus and endangers the mother’s life as well. When Marefat was born it was discovered that she had an RH negative blood type, another life threatening condition which, in the West, is easily remedied with a blood transfusion. Both of these problems probably caused the deaths of the eleven other siblings. But Marefat’s mum was in the hospital and near death herself at just the time when two doctors from the international hospital were visiting her village. A stroke caused by her condition had paralyzed her and she could not walk, talk, or even eat on her own. The doctors were deeply concerned for both mother and baby and arranged for them to be transported to our city. Although they thought it was likely the baby could not survive at that stage of development, they knew they had to deliver the baby to save the mother’s life. But the baby was a fighter and God had a better plan.

CURE International establishes and operates teaching hospitals in the developing world for the medical and spiritual healing of disabled children and their families. Marefat’s mum delivered her at the CURE Hospital in our city and stayed ten days longer to recuperate. By the time Marefat’s father decided it was necessary for him to return to his village to plant his fields, her mother had regained the use of her legs, but was still very ill and could not take care of her own needs, let alone the baby’s, so she also returned home to recuperate while the baby remained in the hospital.

Studies have proven that if a baby’s physical needs are met but she is never held, or touched, or lovingly spoken to, she can actually die. So ten days after her birth I found myself in the neo-natal intensive care unit (NICU) of the hospital caring for the tiniest baby ever to be born at CURE. Every morning I visited her and spent an hour and a half stroking Marefat’s head, massaging her hands and arms, feeding and bathing her, singing to her, and praying for her and her family. I saw her first smile and watched the weak grip of her fingers grow stronger every day. I rejoiced with her every time the nurses told me she gained a few more grams, and watched her ribs slowly disappear behind the baby fat now growing on her body.

One day, a month after I began visiting Marefat, the NICU nurses told me they thought she would progress more quickly if she were cared for in someone’s home. She was completely healthy by this time, and just needed to grow a little bigger. By that evening I had made a little bed for Marefat on a living room chair and once again I began the routine of waking every three hours round the clock to care for a very special little child.

Three weeks later, Marefat’s father returned to our city to be reunited with his now almost “plump” five pound baby girl. The reunion was sweet, and one couldn’t have found a happier or prouder father. A resident doctor accompanied Marefat and her daddy to their home and later reported that Marefat’s mother was overwhelmed with joy and emotion. He said the entire village was touched by the care of the foreigners for this family.

The mother and infant mortality rate in this south central Asian country is second only to that of the country of Liberia. Marefat’s family lives in a remote village where the mother and infant mortality rate is higher than has ever been recorded anywhere in the world. Tradition, superstition, and lack of education in basic health care result in the deaths of thousands of women and children in that province each year. One of the most common causes of death is caused by girls marrying and having children at such a young age that their own bodies are not yet fully developed and ready to bear a child. In delivery the baby becomes ‘stuck’ in the birth canal, and because there is no proper medical care nearby, mother and baby both die.

Marefat’s story is a wonderful tale of miracles and divine intervention. The kind of story we all cherish, and one we expect to finish with the fairytale ending, ‘and they all lived happily ever after’. But three weeks after writing Marefat’s story I was heartbroken to learn that she has died of diarrhoea and dehydration. My spirit groaned within me as I grieved for her, but my grief seemed like nothing as I remembered her dear parents and the agony they must be experiencing with the pain of losing all 13 of their children. Sometimes, intermingled with my feelings of pity and compassion for them, I feel a confused sense of anger: “how can anyone be so stupid as to let a baby die of diarrhoea”! I repent and cry out to God in desperation for these precious, needy people. “How can so few of us make a difference in a country whose basic needs are immeasurable? What difference can my presence be among 28 and a half million people, some of whom hang their women upside down by their feet, or bounce them in the air on a sheet during delivery, or tie off the baby’s umbilical cord using thread made of cow dung, causing tetanus! I feel so small and overwhelmed.”

And then a still, small Voice gently reminds me that He is the God who fed thousands with the five loaves and two fish of an obedient child. He is the God of hope. He is the hope of the nations.

Community Development

In recent months, the lives of homeless people with whom I work have borne witness to these words. And through their experiences I have been reminded that it is not me who opens the door to hope and a better future but the Lord himself in answer to their cry.

Mira’s story Mira came from a comfortable background. She told me she started drinking vodka because that was what everyone else was doing at work and she wanted to join in the fun. But the drinking had taken over her life and at the age of 47 she was living a hopeless life. Abandoned by her well-to-do brother, shunned by her sister and mother and deserted by her embarrassed children, she sat all day and slept all night against a wall in ‘Drunken Alley’.

Mira had been homeless for about five months. About eight months ago she had been drinking heavily and was then knocked down by a car. She sustained serious injuries and in the end required a below-knee amputation. After discharge from hospital, she found herself on the street.

Stories varied. She said her sister and mother rejected her and refused to have her home; Mira’s sister Marina told me, with obvious disgust, that Mira had not needed an amputation, but had asked the doctor to do it so that she could claim disability pension. She and her mother had not wanted to have Mira home after this as she had already made life so difficult for them.

When I introduced myself to Mira, I bought her something to eat. ‘Do you know Jesus?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I used to go to the church of Jesus Christ.’

When I asked her whether she could still pray, she looked at me as if I was asking her to approach an estranged friend. ‘Mira,’ I said, ‘you only need to come to Jesus and ask him to forgive you and he will.’

Lord, it’s getting colder. Mira will die unless we get her somewhere.

‘Alright, would you please pray for me?’ When I took her hand, she cried pitifully. ‘Please come tomorrow,’ she said.

This is how I got to know Mira. She was always pleased to see me and we always prayed together. I told her that I would try to get her into a home for people with disabilities. Such a task proved to be much more difficult than I had bargained for. First, at Mira’s request, I went with one of my local church members to find her sister’s house. The sister was friendly to us but adamant that she had had enough of Mira and would not help us get her into a home.

‘She doesn’t care about herself,’ she began. ‘She sold the crutches we bought for her for vodka. She does not move from the wall she sits against – even to defecate. She’s lost all dignity. My brother bought her a house after she squandered her own to buy vodka, and what did she do? Behind my brother’s back, she sold that one also! She has no sense of responsibility, her husband is on the street too – though not with her, and now both her children are on the street.’

What a history! I couldn’t condemn Mira’s sister. Would I have felt any different in her situation?

When we visited the brother, the response was worse. Mira’s sister-inlaw would not even let us see him. She told us they had had more than enough of Mira, they had spent such a lot of money on her.

‘Please help,’ we persisted. ‘The social work department can’t do anything for us unless the relatives help and complete these documents.’ Unsuccessful in our pleading, we wrapped up warm and ventured back into the cold night.

Mira cried, ‘You’re lying to me! You are not going to help! I’ll die here!’ I was so aware we were racing against the falling temperatures. Snow was imminent. But no door opened to us.

As we went from one department to another, we heard again and again ‘No, without the relatives’ help you can do nothing!’

‘Mira, our hands are tied,’ I said. ‘I believe God wants you to seriously pray for yourself and that then he will open the door. I believe then things will happen.’ Mira took on board what I said. She started to cry out to God and put her faith in him alone.

I lay awake praying, ‘Lord, it’s getting colder. Mira will die unless we get her somewhere.’

Deliverance Then in the night the idea came.

In the morning, two voluntary helpers and I took Mira (with her consent) in a taxi to a friend’s apartment, where she bathed, washed her hair and was de-liced. In fresh clothes, she looked like a new person and I hoped that the detox hospital might think twice before rejecting her. Soon after we arrived, however, we were turned away because Mira had a temperature of 38oC. They advised us to take her to the general hospital where she could be treated for probable pneumonia.

But once again we were shunted from department to department and eventually advised to try yet another hospital.

An idea came to mind. I pulled out a little green card given to me by the Director of the hospital days earlier. Thinking ‘It’s who you know’ I ventured, ‘This doctor gave me her card two days ago and said if I had any trouble with sick homeless people I could ring her, even at home.’

‘Oh really,’ the on-duty physician responded with raised eyebrows and sudden enthusiasm. ‘We’d better ring her then.’

It worked a treat. Mira was admitted without further argument and she had a complete examination.

After discharge we had Mira admitted to the detox hospital where she remained for ten days until, with the help of a worker from a homeless shelter, we completed all the documents so Mira could be admitted to the home for people with disabilities.

Mira has grown leaps and bounds in her faith. What a changed woman she has become! She is now settled in the home, and her son and Marina, delighted by the outcome of our endeavours, have agreed to go and see her.

Guided by God

At the age of 11 the Lord made it very clear to me that it was his plan for me to go overseas, but he did not lead me there until I was much older. I had not the slightest inkling I would be working with the homeless until a month or two before I left for Central Asia. The Lord began to show me in different ways that my work would be with those in the shadows, his treasures which I would find hidden in dark places.

This work gives me joy, satisfaction, frustration and sadness – and often all in one day. It is not for those who want to see quick results. To make friends and love the homeless is to take risks with your own life. It is not a glamorous position and on many occasions the anger of society at the homeless will also be directed at those that come alongside them, but it is where Jesus loves to be.