Oh, child. Can’t you see?

“I don't know how God is going to help me," Sammy groaned, doubtfully. It was 1:24 a.m. He was experiencing a rough night on a sea of coughs and gasps. I was awakened by his broken voice a few minutes earlier when he came in, requesting a handkercheif. After the initial pang of annoyance at having my own sleepy voyage interrupted, I stood at the head of his bunkbed, stroking his hair, and stifled a small laugh at his statement. Honest, but oblivious. "Oh, sweetie, He is helping you. I'm here. Let me see if I can give you some more medicine.” I returned to my bedside in a fuzzy yet familiar way to get my glasses. I felt amused at his doubtful little attitude. It was fuzzily familiar… It reminded me of something that happened once…

When I was the sufferer. It was a little more than 12 years ago and 2,900 miles away. My memory is pretty foggy of that time, with most of my swirling thoughts being terribly, negatively self-critical. I was in deep depression in the heart of Central America, "failing" in a role I'd wanted to play all my life. No pressure.

 "I just wish I could have a break. A little vacation. A chance to get better and catch up,” I muttered, desperately. I sat in our comfortable, clean apartment, perhaps the only one in the mission with its own washer and drier, perhaps the only one with a warm shower. Looking back at the experience, I wonder if Hermana Story felt that slightly-annoyed-amusement I felt in my 1:24 a.m. interaction with Sammy. 

"This is your break. This is your vacation. It's happening right now. You can get better. Can't you see?' 

For months, that woman reminded me to take my medication. She sacrificed her own comfort and pride to help me in ways you don’t expect to have to help an adult. We still did missionary work but she had the extra loads of doing all the contacting and teaching, and even making sure I crossed those busy Honduran streets safely— I didn't have the presence of mind to do so. She held me when I had panic attacks. I think perhaps the only positive thing I felt in that time was the compassion and love from her. I will be forever grateful for how she helped me when she was companions with me and my depression. 

As I brought Sammy’s rice bag warmed to perfection and a warm lemon-honey drink, he immediately proclaimed, "I don't think this is helping." Is this a taste of how Hermana Story felt? Is this how God feels? 

"On child. Can't you see? I am right here. I am helping you right now. I have a plan. You can trust me. I will not let you fall.” There are times I do not see his compassionate arm reached out to me. But He is still there. And sometimes He might be a little amused at my doubtful desperation.