Hospital visits

For the last several days I've been preparing meals which Jonathan has been delivering to one of the preachers who is in the Hospital here in Jinotega. He and his family live in a town about an hour drive away, and food is not an automatic part of your care while staying in the hospital here. Today I went with Jonathan to deliver the food.
Even if I had photos, I couldn't really provide you with a sense of the place. First, I walked in knowing that this is one of the more respected hospitals available in this country--and it was a place that could still shock my "Nicaragua adjusted vision". It made me realize that I am not nearly as accustomed to the standard of living here as I might have thought.
Once again, the clearest description I can give is that here, it is still 100 a years ago.

Nurses in white stockings and those origami folded hats.
Patients sharing beds.
Dozens of beds in a room.
Patients being treated in hallways.
Crowds and crowds and crowds waiting with that stillness that comes from long waiting.
A smell of deep sickness.
Shocking wounds and disfigurements that will be stabilized but never "corrected".
Battered, ancient medical equipment.
Vendors selling water and food to patients and family members.
Funeral services available.

It was a bleak place.

Jonathan mentioned that he had been passing the children's orthopedic ward sometimes twice a day to visit our brother, and always noticed one girl who laid in the bed alone, with no family member evident. He decided to bring her a book. So he also brought some for the rest of the kids in the ward.
He handed half the books to me, and we headed in opposite directions to pass out the little books.
I smiled, and spread the books like cards for kids to choose from, and chatted briefly with family members, asking their permission to approach their child. When I finished distributing my stack, I turned to look for Jonathan--and he was still speaking with that first girl.

Speaking soft and gently, smiling comfortingly--nodding to a boy across the room to acknowledge that he'd be coming to see him too.

I passed out all my books and missed the whole point.

We have sat in devotional circles with hundreds of visiting workers this summer and said to them "The job you are here to do is important but not most important. The work is your ticket to meet someone, to show them love. Don't be afraid to put your shovel down to connect with someone."

I have made the speech every week--
But I passed out all my books and missed the whole point.
I cooked all those rice and beans and didn't sit with them while they ate them.
I washed sheets and brought medicine to people who were sick in the night, and didn't stay to see they fell asleep.

As I watched a toddler with a cast on his pelvis smilingly try to crawl towards Jonathan--I could see he was crawling toward the smile as much as the book.

And I passed out all my books and missed the whole point.

You don't have to be in a desperate, decrepit hospital in Nicaragua to find people who need attention.
Don't pass out all your books and miss the chance to smile comfortingly, or speak gently.