Little Francis

A few days ago, I went visiting and found my favorite little friend lying on a rice bag in his compound, burning up with fever. His name is Francis; he’s four (or so his mom says—you can’t really be sure); and he truly is the light of my roommates’ and my Lopit life.
He’s on our compound almost all day every day, always with this amazing smile and cute little giggle. He used to wear a raggedy read turtleneck with shorts that had the butt ripped out. But sometime ago I gave him one of my t-shirts, which actually disappeared until Christmas—at which time it became his everyday attire. I guess that’s how it works here—the kids change clothes on Christmas. And that’s pretty much the only time. Hehe. Anyway, now he parades around in my tshirt (it’s HUGE on him) and an old (but new-to-him) pair of jeans—complete with a butt. We always joke that’s going to take a while to get used to, having a seat in his pants.
He’s my friend and helper. He hands me my clothes pins one at a time when I do laundry and empties our compost bucket proudly and without complaint. So when I saw him there, lying limp, some kind of motherly fear/panic came over me. (This is a predisposition I’m not always convinced the Lopit mothers have. They often resign to, “If Jok—the bad god—wants him, he’ll take him anyway.)
Pattie and I took his temp and it was 40.3 C and climbing. (We didn’t keep it in the full time, for fear he’d bite it.) I checked my bush medicine book for the Celsius to Fahrenheit conversion and about freaked out when I realized he was near 105 F.
The clinic is closed because the workers haven’t been paid in ages and would rather drink with the holiday visitors from Juba and Khartoum than take care of the cholera and other woes. (See previous blog about needing reliable Christian nurses… ugh.) So it’s just Pattie and I, armed only with OTC headache medicine and this stupid bush book.
And, oh yes, prayer.
But I forgot about that part somehow. I ended up picking up his hot little body and carrying him back to our house. And as he half clung to me, half sunk onto my shoulder, I told God, “I refuse to let this child die. I refuse to let you let this child die.”
Quite the ridiculous thing to say to the Creator of the universe and my only source of hope and strength, eh? What am I? What is man, that God is mindful of him, that He cares for him? And where was I when He laid the foundation of the earth, that I dare pit my will against His?
The thing is, God will be glorified. And He will be glorified how He wants to be glorified. And having that mindset is far different from the fatalist, animist mindset because there is hope in the true God and I can raise my petitions to Him. And that’s what I should have been doing as I carried Francis back to my house, stripped him, put him in a basin of water and battled his fever.