We’re still here in the hospital. We might be able to go home tomorrow but not sure yet. And I’d truly love to go home, but until that time, God has changed my prayers and prayer requests.

I’m praying for the lady across the hallway who lives in my same town and doesn’t have a church home. She’s been very sweet to me and I’m hoping to be able to make a connection with her once she leaves the hospital. Which she says won’t be until at least Friday for her and her 2 month old baby girl.

I’m praying for the room down the hall with motherless babies. There are about 6 cribs in one room - all babies whose mothers aren’t here. I don’t know if they’re orphans or if their mom’s just can’t stay up here with them. I pray for them constantly! There are only two nurses for the entire respiratory wing. They can’t possibly tend to the needs of these poor ones. Today I stood outside the door and saw one baby - probably one year old - lift her head and just wail. I felt so helpless. She had mucus just dripping from her nose. I got a tissue and cleaned her face off, but I wish I could do so much more. I keep praying for the God who loves all His children to send them His Spirit for peace and comfort. I’m praying His promises that He sees them and loves them.

I’m praying for Alexandra, the sweetest little 11 year old girl down the hallway - who has 6 more siblings at home, preventing her mama from being here with her in the hospital. I gave her some chocolate and talk to her as much as I can. She’s soft spoken, and it looks as though her mama French-braided her hair before she came to the hospital, and it hasn’t been fixed or combed or washed since. She gives me the biggest grin every time she sees me, and she often stands at the door of the motherless babies. She clearly has a soft heart for them, probably because she’s in the same situation.
I’m praying for the sweet little girl next door who has this terrible barking cough. I can’t even explain how it sounds. I hear it all night long.
I’m praying for all the poor kids who have to have treatments done that they neither want nor understand. That they’re afraid of and are uncomfortable. All hours of the night I hear kids screaming because they’re scared. And often don’t have a mama to comfort them.

I’m praying for the lady down the hallway who has twins here - both sick. I can’t even imagine how overwhelmed she must be since I feel like one baby is so hard! She ran out of diapers for them today and asked if I could give her some. I gave her half the bag I have and told her I’d give her whatever I have left after I leave.

I’m praying for the girl across the hall who ended up here in the hospital without any credit left on her phone, so she had to borrow a phone to even call someone to tell her she’s here and needs supplies. Her sweet baby daughter has the thickest head of dark black hair, coupled with pretty blue eyes. Her daughter’s name is Catalina.

I’m praying for the nurses who come only two at a time for 12-hour shifts. Who are most assuredly tired and overwhelmed. Who do their best to meet the needs of everyone. Who probably feel unappreciated. When I asked one of them this morning how she’s doing, she was taken aback and thought I was asking my own baby. When I said I was asking her she was surprised and then smiled and softened toward me as she answered. Then there’s the other nurse with an infinity tattoo on her arm. When I commented on it and asked her about it, she softly, lovingly, sadly mentioned it was in honor of her sister. Even a language barrier doesn’t keep me from knowing what that means.

I still pray for Denton. And I still want to go home. But it’s been harder and harder for me to pray for myself these last few days as I’ve gotten to know the needs of others here. I have friends who come to relieve me. I have a sweet husband who brings my other babies up here for quick five-minute visits so I can hug and kiss them, and they bring me food and more clothes and toiletries. I have a sweet daughter at home who remembers to pack socks for Denton and a piece of paper and an orange highlighter for me, in case I get bored and want to color.
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I walk up and down the hallways a lot, softly bouncing Denton and singing hymns. Nobody understands anything I sing. But God does. And I’ll keep using the oddity of my “fat baby” (as the other ladies here affectionately call him) to open up conversations and allow the Lord to work His love on their hearts. I want to go home, but until God says it’s time, I’ll keep praying and singing for my little mission field here.

Derek and I were invited to speak at Redeemer Presbyterian's Missions Conference in Valdosta, GA. He shared at the men's breakfast, and I was able to share at the ladie's coffee. There have been very few places in our life where we felt instantly connected and loved by a community of people. Redeemer is a special place, and the people so obviously love the Lord and each other. It was truly a privilege to feel connected to the Body of Christ at this church. 

But the time leading up to the conference was one of the most difficult times in my life. I had no idea what I had to share with these ladies. But it turned out to be a healing experience for me, and somehow it seems that the Lord used it to encourage others. So I decided to share it here, too. Feel free to read the text or listen to the recording. And remember that you are not alone!