A letter to Ifod and his mama and papa

A letter to Ifod and his Mama and Papa

I saw you in the line at screening.  I could tell you couldn't talk, your eyes wandered and your muscles were small and you didn't have control of them.  Your papa had you on his lap, fanning you in the hot sun.  You seemed uncomfortable, so I tried to help fan you with my paper as well.  The double teaming worked, you looked appeased.  I stroked your arm and asked your name.  I can only guess and mimic what your papa said.  I can call you Ifod, but I’ll rest in knowing your Father knows you perfectly by name.  Your eyes were wide, you furrowed your brow often.  Were you hungry? Did your belly hurt? Was it just too hot for your poor body lying against your papa?  I smiled at you, but you didn’t acknowledge me, I don’t know that you could.  And that’s okay, you didn’t have to. 

I left you in line not knowing I would see you again inside the gate, where our pre screened patients made it through.  Only, it was relayed that I wasn’t taking you to further screening, I was escorting you to our hospital chaplaincy for prayer.  We as Mercy Ships were unable to help you, but I’m thankful your mama and papa agreed to an opportunity to pray.

So as I met you and your family walking toward me, I asked your papa if I could carry you.  I wanted to give papa a rest.  I wanted his hands to be free not because you are the burden, but so that he could see his son in my arms and see someone else loving him that really didn’t know him at all.  I wanted to hold you because your papa deserved a pat on the back for the good job he has done.  He wanted to bring you to us to see if we could help you.  When we said “no,” he wanted to pursue what we DID have in abundance, which is prayer and love- and whether he knew it or not, this brings healing too.  I don’t know what kind of life you have lived, Ifod, but today you are interacting with people who love Jesus.  Your mama and papa deserve credit for bringing you here and walking further to receive prayer.  Ifod, that gives me hope to know your mama and papa have hope.  I can hold you during the minute walk it takes to meet with chaplaincy, and I can cuddle you and rub your back and tell you you are about to go talk to a God that loves you so much, and loves your mama and papa so much. 

But eventually, I do have to give you back.  I have to set you back down in your papa’s lap and leave you to pray.  But, Ifod, you’ve left something with me I don’t think I can forget.  You’ve left an impact that reminds me that all of this is too big for me.  I haven’t given you anything that will heal your frail little body.  I have no choice, but to give you over to our Father that knows and protects us in this life.  My prayer for you is that you have or will see and understand the Lord, Ifod; that He will reveal Himself to you in a very special way because you have parents that know Jesus and have not lost hope because we can’t fix you.  That gives me hope, Ifod, that I will get to meet you again someday where you will be able to acknowledge me.