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It was an uncomfortable week.
One Saturday morning Seth received a call from his close friend. It was the call we'd been hoping that wouldn't be, his three week old baby boy had passed away in his mother's arms earlier that morning. The baby was born with hydrocephalus, just like our sweet Atira. When the baby developed pneumonia his parents, having little knowledge of the hospitals in town, took him to the larger, but much more poorly equipped hospital. A hospital without backup generators meaning that when the power goes out, everyone on oxygen basically dies. When his parents brought him to the hospital on Wednesday, they were told that there wouldn't be a doctor in until Saturday.
I went to go visit his mom Saturday evening. Her eyes matched a worn out heart, her words heavily veiled yet completely transparent. She'd lost a part of her heart, a part of her heart was buried that day. I deeply regret that I'd forgotten to get a picture taken of her baby the weeks prior. Now the only picture she has of her little one is in her heart. She'd asked about Atira and her health and how her shunt was operating. As I shared of the profound and the miraculous we've seen in her little life, I couldn't help but wonder what was going through my friend's heart. Sometimes this life just doesn't make sense. Her son, was born stronger than my daughter. My daughter, though, was born in a state-of-the-art hospital, equipped with doctors and nurses who are among the best of the best (in my humble opinion).  But in the early hours of that morning, my friend held her son in her arms as he breathed his last. No doctors standing by. No machines alerting of the status of his life. Nothing. When I went home I held my sweet Atira, stroked her soft face, relished in her extra special kisses, and wept. Sometimes, it's hard to live in such contrasts. But I guess better to live in them than to pretend they're not there.
Two days later I was talking with the half-sister of my house helper. She was hiding outside our gate. I was surprised to find her there and asked what she was doing. She said she was waiting for her dad to walk by on his way home. Her mom has left her, and her 11 other siblings. Her mom got upset, fed up with life, tired, worn-out and just left. She's been gone for three months now. Her step-mom beats her. My little friend says she hopes her mom comes back. I hope too. And I pray.
In the hardness of this course culture, I too often forget to be tender. I forget that what is reality isn't reality at all, but a thin film covering over a thirsty empty soul. I remember reading somewhere that you should treat everyone with the same tenderness as with a newborn baby. You just never know what road they've walked, or the condition of their feet as they walked along. My heart breaks sometimes as I consider how poorly I do this, how poorly I love, how short my compassion, how deep my pride.
It was an uncomfortable week.