It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. So writes Charles Dickens, right? Last Monday, I could relate. At the graduation and water dedication, we danced and sang and danced and sang and ate and danced and sang and, well, you get the picture. We got to share in the biggest day in the history of those villagers.
Before leaving, we ventured to the Faith Alive cemetery at the other end of the farmland. Three adults are buried there, people whose families deserted them at the clinic to die. Pastor Ben told us that the staff had to name one of the woman because nobody identified her. Very sad, yes, but I already knew the stories and still feltl joy from the earlier ceremonies. That is, until we looked at a small cement plot next to the three full-sized ones.
“You know Daniel,” Pastor Ben said. “Of course,” I said, not comprehending. Then it suddenly hit me.
This was little Chris’s sister’s grave. The full-term baby that just a few months ago stopped breathing while still in the womb. The pain hit me like the generator fueling the borehole that pumps water. I couldn’t stop crying—not there, not during our silent car ride back to the guest house and not alone in my room. It’s not right for parents to need to bury their child, let alone two infant daughters within the span of one and a half years.
When I saw little Chris the next time, I held him tight and kissed him silly. While there’s pain about his late sisters, I have a new layer of appreciation for this boy’s life. Praise to our faithful God for making a way for heart surgery when there was no way. God-willing, there will be no other small graves at this cemetery.
