Many months back I wrote about a sweet little girl named Kamala. I think her picture is up on the flikr site somewhere too . . . . Born a twin, her mother abandoned them both at birth. Her father, a soldier, is on duty and thus completely unavailable. The twin, Kiiza, was born healthy and typical, but little Kamala came to us with severe issues from birth. She has a severe case of cerebral palsy and microcephaly and we think it’s likely that she’s blind and deaf too.
I first met Kamala in the nutrition program. Her father’s sister had bravely come far from home to care for the twins. I was won over by Kamala from the moment I laid eyes on her. Since she had aged out of our nutrition program, I bought her a goat to provide her with needed milk. A friend agreed to sponsor her and pray for her and I brought her protein powder I was receiving from the states and tried to think how better to help her.
These physical conditions are terrible in developed countries, but here in rural East Africa they are a fate worse than death, perhaps. With no real hospitals or any kind of therapies available to her, Kamala is simply a mouth to feed and a body to wash. Her hope of any kind of a life is really not there. Each time I would go to visit her I would find her lying on her mat quietly and peacefully grinding her teeth or sucking on her lips. Her family was gentle and kind to her but they had no way to do more.
Now Kamala is dying. She is simply refusing to eat . . . Her body has given up the fight. When she eats anything it comes right back up. She can only handle small portions of water that keep her alive for the time being. Kamala is a little skeleton of a girl now. Though she is two years old she only weighs about ten pounds.
The last time I saw her, I knew she would soon die. I went up today to visit her, to pray over her and say goodbye, to encourage her caregiver. She is even skinnier now. Her little head is just jutting bony plates against each other, her torso a mass of bones and skin and her arms and legs unbelievably tiny.
I asked permission and went inside the hut to pray with her. My translator stood by me, listening and assenting as I asked Jesus to take her quickly, not to let her suffer much longer. I cried like a baby as I held Kamala’s hand and stroked her head. I didn’t want to hold her, it looked too painful for her body. I thanked God for the beautiful gift of Kamala’s sweet and patient life. I thanked Him for what she teaches us about the beauty of trust and of neediness.
I cried all the way home. My poor translator sat beside me trying not to look as awkward as he felt. We talked about crying. About the cultural aversion here to crying. I talked about how healing I think crying is, about how crying lets the sadness out. We talked about why people are afraid to cry here and in America. Why men think it’s not macho.
Then tonight I told Naomi and Quinn about Kamala. They had begun to love her too. Naomi started to cry when we talked about her and quickly said “let’s not talk about her anymore, otherwise we’ll be sad.” And so WE talked about crying, the three of us. Talked about sadness and tears in this culture. Talked about why Kamala came to this world. And again I cried as I reminded them that someday we’ll see Kamala in heaven and she’ll be able to see and hear and laugh and dance and she’ll say to us, ‘ thank you for loving me.’
Pray for my sweet Kamala not to suffer. There is something so precious about standing in the shadow of death and knowing that the one you touch will soon be holding hands with Jesus. Something incredibly heartbreaking and yet confirming about being in the presence of one who is near to leave us for something we can’t manage to get our minds around. Sweet Kamala thank you for sharing some of your life with me. I love you, baby girl, and I’ll see you someday when we’re both standing with Jesus. And I just can’t wait to see you smile for the very first time.