"He wants to know if you will come pray for his brother."
It's sometime in the early afternoon on Thursday, the blazing African sun provoking rivulets of sweat to run down my back and neck. Gathered underneath the shade of the single tree in this village compound, my team and I smile and shake the hands of the men and woman who call this place home.
Huts thatched together with bits of reeds and branches lean haphazardly, as if the simple act of merely standing beneath the midday sun has exhausted them. Trash and smoke blow in the breeze, and children play in the red dirt at our feet, torn clothing hanging from their frail bodies, their eyes the only thing more wild than their hair.
The man asking us to pray comes up behind us, and our ministry host has to translate his request before we understand what he is asking.
Immediately, I volunteer, and so do my teammates Andrea and Kayla. In silence, we follow the man towards a dark brown hut, allowing him to enter before us.
I'm instantly hit by the smell. Body odor, dirt, and something sour all mingle in the thick air; and as I look down, I see a small man laying bent on stained blue blanket.
Kneeling down next to him, I look into his face, soaked with sweat and creased in pain. Flies disturbed by our movement begin buzzing around the room, clusters of them settling onto the man's curled feet and hands.
"Can we lay hands on you?" Kayla asks him, watching his face as her words are translated. The man, who's name is James, slowly nods.
The three of us take turns asking God to heal him, asking for complete restoration of his broken body, and then we open our eyes.
"What is it?" we ask, as James suddenly starts to pull himself up into a sitting position, trembling from head to toe.
Our translator struggles to relay his garbled words, turning to us and saying, "He says his feet feel hot. Like they are on fire."
"How does his body feel, right now?" Kayla asks, her hand never leaving his shoulder.
James stares at his feet and legs with eyes wide as golf balls. "He says he feels different. He feels better. No more pain."
It's as if someone has hit a button and suddenly sucked all of the oxygen out of the room. Andrea and Kayla start praising, laughing, but I sit back onto my heels, tears pricking the corners of my eyes until the scene before me is one big grey blur.
God, you just used me to heal this man. So why am I not celebrating?
Did I not believe that you would?
On the van ride back, my heart flies to my 22-year old sister at home in Michigan, preparing to undergo her third brain surgery. From the time we were middle-schoolers, she's battled several chronic illnesses, including brain cancer. Sickness has taken away her ability to drive, to be in the sun, parts of her memory, half her eyesight, and the ability to live life spontaneously as a young adult.
If I had a dollar for every time I've prayed for her, for all the times I sat next to her hospital bed and asked God to work a miracle to heal her, I could have fully funded my entire squad.
But today I crouched next to a man I'd known for two minutes, prayed once for his healing, and God decided to do what I asked?
God, what the hell?
Thank you for healing this man; but what about your daughter?
Am I praying wrong? What haven't I done, or asked for?
Don't you care?
Laying on my sleeping pad that night, I knew I had to make a choice. I believe that doubt and asking questions are both cornerstones to any deeply-held faith. But I could sense that my confused heart was hardening in bitterness, keeping me from rejoicing for this healed man.
Am I still good?
Even if I don't heal your sister, even if I don't give you what you're asking for, even when you don't understand the plan . . . am I still good?
If Alexandra were reading this right now (which she probably is, because she's my number-one fan), she'd probably remind me of one of her favorite verses:
"But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' Because of this, I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest upon me. For the sake of Jesus, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions and chaos. For when I'm weak, then I am strong."
There isn't a resolution to this, not yet.
I'm still very much searching and wondering and at times, grappling, with the concept of God's sovereignty. My potato brain can't wrap around all He is, and right now I only see pieces of the ultimate plan.
Right now, all I can do is keep loving, and continue to believe that at just the right time, He will show up again.
He will.