After a long drive down a bumpy road to a village on the river, our team spilled out of a van onto rocky ground atop a hill on the river’s edge. A flurry of commotion. Tiffany hands me a life vest. I’m going? The Isaiah 6:8 question comes to me in the most practical, tangible way, and I answer: Here I am, send me.
In one giant whirl of a moment, we’re in a canoe headed over the muddy, rushing river where families wait with sick babies on the other side.
Photo by Davis Goslin
It takes a few trips to get back and forth across the river to get each child and family across.
We load into an ambulance, operated by the Baby Rescue Center, to transport the babies, children, their mamas, and some siblings.
Mothers cling to babies, scared. While staff has done their best to explain that we are going to a medical center to give babies the medical care they desperately need, some of the people have never ventured down the mountains.
It must be 120 degrees or more in there, and the sweat literally splashes on the floor of the vehicle.
I sit next to sweet Noe (pronounced similar to the English name Noah). He is 13 years old. His arm, smaller around at its widest point than my wrist. His sister, worried, leaves her hand on his chest.
He does not walk. He cannot talk. His eyes move back and forth as we ride, with only a few soft sounds. I recognize his sounds and movements as similar to those of children I know with Cerebral Palsy. Later, we learn that this is his diagnosis, along with severe malnurishment.
After the bumpy ride, we arrive at the center and begin to carry the babies inside.
Seven babies in all rescued. Just this day. Each day, more come, clinging to life.
In the Rescue Center, doctors examine the children.
Sweet Noe weighs in at 42 pounds.
My three year old weighs more.
Friends, I’ve come undone.
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Get your questions answered and learn more about Operation Rescue Center from us right here. Thanks for helping us spread the word.
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