Decisions

On a Sunday morning, a few weeks ago our family woke up ready and excited to make the 1 1/2 hr drive to worship in the village of Nyalakut. The village church had been planning a special baptism service and were anxious for us to arrive. So when Hagen woke up saying he wasn't feeling well, I was caught in the "Good Mom dilemma". Should I stay home with him? Wait on him with Sprite and a thermometer? Should we go anyway? Hoping he will feel better as the day goes on so we don't disappoint the village that has been waiting for a visit from us for months. I hate those moments when I am suppose to be able to make the "right" decision. The one that later on in the day your husband says,"I am so glad you made that decision. You are so wise". At which point I smile and nod humbly. This morning I made the decision to go anyway with the promise of sitting by Hagen on the ride. We were all of 45 minutes out of town when his temperature spiked and he started really not feeling well. (The second guessing of my "right" decision began now) By this point we had picked up an African man who was to attend with us and he had informed Josh that he, Josh, was in fact the preacher for the services today. This now made it impossible to turn back. We arrived at the village and were escorted to the front of the square mud structure where church was held. I tried to sneak in the pillow and bottle of Sprite I had for Hagen as I positioned myself behind the podium, on the wobbly bench that was our seat. The preacher's wife got up and began to lead amazing worship songs sung in a mixture of Swahili and Lugisu languages. I absolutely love the worship here in Africa. As the service went on Hagen began to get so uncomfortable that I decided it would be best to move him to the car. At this point, I am fairly sure it is malaria again and I know there is nothing I can do for him until we get home. I make him as comfortable as someone with a 104' fever can be laying in the back seat of a truck in 90' weather. The village children that couldn't fit inside the building were outside with me, peeking in the windows trying to catch a glimpse of the sick little white boy. I decided to try to talk to them. They decided to just stare at me. So in the highly respectable "Me Tarzan, You Jane" style of communication, I pat myself and say "Denise". Then I point to them awaiting their wonderful African names. They respond with blank stares. I am obviously getting nowhere. Hagen by this time has fallen asleep so I head to the back of the church to listen to Josh and make sure my other kiddos aren't making faces or sleeping as they sit facing the church listening to their Dad preach. As I stand there listening, I feel a tap on my arm and turn to see the children I had been trying to communicate with. They say "Madam, your son is vomiting." My first response, I wish I could tell you was to rush to the truck to aid my puking child. I did respond that way, but only after I said, "Hey! you speak English!" They laughed at me, and I ran to help Hagie. News soon spread about our sick son, and at the end of the service, the preacher got up and addressed the church. He spoke of how when white people get sick, they close themselves and their families in their houses. They don't let anyone in or let anyone help. He spoke of how much we must love them to bring our sick son to them today. He spoke of how important it was to us to bring the love of God to them, that we would not stay home and close them out. They truly felt His love that day. They got to lay hands on Hagen and he was blessed by being prayed for by African brothers and sisters who love the Lord. The humble nod came from me later that night, but not because I made the right decision .... I made the wrong decision that day, by mom standards, but in doing so I realized that my decision in the hands of God is always the right one.