Touched
When we arrived, Razmah was still sitting in the same place she was sitting a year ago. Both of her legs were folded to one side and she sat crookedly in the center of the room. Her eyes were still distant and a little glazy. Her lips and front teeth were still stained deep orange from frequent chewing of betel nut, an ancient homeopathic stimulant. And her arms still hung limply in her lap. It had been a whole year, and she had not visually changed at all.
Three years ago, Razmah was a healthy, active middle-aged woman. Then she had a stroke. From that point on, her husband has been searching for a cure. A poor fisherman, he had devoted much of his income into all types of traditional and non-traditional medicines. Last year, he came to our group of Western tourists and begged for any kind of medical help that we could give. We had nothing, but we prayed for her several times and talked with her about Hope.
I will admit, as broken as I was for that woman and her desperate husband, when I returned home from that trip, my memory of the couple faded, as did my prayers. It was only after returning back to the island this year and entering my host family’s house that I remembered the couple. The husband came to greet me there. We sat and laughed and small talked for awhile, and then he said, “I remember when you came to pray for my wife last year. Please come again. She is still not well.” So we went.
It is easy to engage in conversation with a bright-eyed, sharp-witted, English speaker. It’s another thing to talk with someone who seems to not really see you and responds infrequently with slurred Indonesian. Razmah’s husband shared about his attempts to help his wife during the past year, including taking her to a hospital which had a stroke clinic on the second floor. With no elevator, the clinic proved to be yet another disappointment to the family.
As we continued talking with Razmah, one thing was clear. She had lost hope. She had lost faith that anything could change. Though muscular physical therapy would be helpful, it seemed like heart therapy was the bigger need. In some way, I could empathize with her exhaustion. My year in transition back to Bandung had been terribly painful and had been a daily struggle to search for joy and renewed faith. So I began to tell her my story, and about the things that God had revealed to me. I shared with her how the Father had been teaching me about how our deeds and works can’t affect His faithfulness to and pleasure in His children. And I told her what I had been learning about surrender versus a continual striving to muster personal strength to find happiness. Even as I talked, I knew the process wasn’t yet complete in my own life. I wondered if I really had the right to talk on the topic at all. The conversation went on a little longer, with the woman listening and the husband processing and sharing a little. It seemed like our time was coming to a close, and I asked if we could pray for healing for Razmah’s body and heart. There was such a willingness in the eyes of the husband. Razmah slowly nodded too.
As I sat there with Bora and Neti, my good friend from the island who had come with us to visit Razmah, I wondered what everyone was thinking in the quietness. It had been rather distracting at the beginning of the conversation with kids running in and out of the house. But God had prompted SoYeon to take all of the kids outside to play, and I was so thankful for the stillness in the home. And out of that stillness, Neti looked at me and said, “It is clear that God sees a bigger picture than we do. And I think He calls us to live with thankfulness in each step of our journey with Him, trusting with simple faith that He knows the reasons for each step.”
My throat tightened and my eyes welled up with tears at Neti’s understanding of that aspect of God. It was humbling to hear those words from a girl who had grown up in a tiny fishing village and who was not yet in the Kingdom. It reminded me of Ecclesiastes 3:11.
He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men;
yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end.
As I got the breath to respond to Neti, gearing up for a deepening conversation about the Kingdom and eternity, Neti’s father walked in and loudly interrupted, “Do you foreigners have any drugs that can make this woman better? We have tried everything and she just doesn’t get better.” The beauty of the moment shattered, and we tried to regain focus and share with him that what we could offer was prayer to the One Who Can Heal. He seemed unimpressed, but we continued without his consent. I reached out and put my hand on Razmah’s knee as Bora began praying. I was startled mid-prayer when Razmah lifted her arm and put it on my shoulder. And as we prayed together, our tears dropped into a common puddle on the floor.
Oh Healer of Hearts! The One who Sees Us! May Your Spirit continue stirring in the hearts of Razmah, her husband and Neti. And may eternity well up in their hearts and minds, so that they cannot help but seek Your Son as the path into the Kingdom.
