“Oh Jesus!” She cried.
Our truck jerked to a startling halt as she burst out, almost in tears. I, in the back seat, half asleep, was jolted wide awake. A boy, not more than seven years of age, hobbled to the side of the road crying, overwhelmed in pain and shock as a red waterfall of blood gushed from his head. A blue truck sped off by us, leaving a trail of blood behind it. Its headlights, guilty, was broken where it hit the head of the little boy who dashed across the road.
Chaos broke out. Families from hidden makeshift huts rushed out like snails in a rainstorm. The little boy crawled into a wailing woman’s arms. Blood stained the dirt road. Anthany, our missionary friend from Panama who was our driver at the time, Cliff in the front seat and I spilled out of the van. Even in a foreign land where none of us knew the language, culture or medical setup, this situation had no place for feeling at loss as to what to do.
Red crimson blood poured out of the little boy’s head, covering his cheeks and little mouth. His hands and feet, stained with blood from abrasions, became limp. Everyone was crying, crowding round. The little boy started to quiver and I assessed him quickly.
“Doctor! She’s a doctor!” Cliff said, trying to calm the crowd and give me space.
He was lucky. Blessed. That huge truck had come fast down the road towards the little boy and rammed headlong into him when his face turned away. Blood streamed down his face onto his hands and shirt. The countless times during my short stint in the Emergency Department seeing head injuries flooded back into my memory, and at once I remembered the importance of not getting distracted by the gore of the situation.
He was lucky. Blessed. He had turned his face away just before the truck hit him. A deep gash was etched on his forehead. He needed tamponade, and a quick suture immediately.
“Doctor! She’s a doctor!” Cliff said.
He was lucky. Blessed, some would say. The accident occurred right outside a provision shack. An old lady handed cotton to me as I pointed to her the tissue in my purse. I cleaned his blood-stained face, mouth and hands. Suddenly I became unnaturally aware I had no gloves, no suture, nothing but cotton from a shack, wet with water from Cliff’s drinking bottle. A few seconds later, a man swooped the little boy away, the tamponade was lost and blood poured out again, leaving a trail of crimson on the dirt road.
“Dai!” I said, forgetting that Dai was Nepalese and not Khmer for Brother, “Hold on to this and don’t let go!” I gesticulated exxageratedly. It was enough for the man to understand. He was the boy’s father. A small vehicle whisked them away to the nearest hospital.
Meanwhile, our missionary driver friend, Anthany, was missing. She’s a tall, almost 7-foot Hispanic Panamenian beauty. Angered by the cowardice of the truck driver, she had driven up a pavement, sped forward and parked her van sideways to block the way of the truck driver who hoped to get away scot-free. The guilty man had no chocie but to head back to the crime scene. As soon as came out, another man stormed up right to him, held his by his collar and threatened to beat him dead.
The police came shortly. “It’s time to go. We can only hope for the best.”
But before we knew it, Anthany, Cliff and I found ourselves at the local hospital next to the boy’s parents. For some reason, something compelled us to follow this family, to ensure he got his suture, to talk to the hospital doctor, and to leave them enough to pay for their stay. We prayed with the family. I read his X-rays. We talked to the police, and sent the little boy’s family home. The next day, we went back to visit, but they had left. The little boy’s name is Sok Ni.
Looking back, it almost seemed as if God had placed us there. Just that morning, the three of us discussed which roads to take, and hesitated between taking the main or side road. Had we not been delayed and had we opted for the broad highway, the guilty man would not have been brought to justice, the little boy might have bled dry, and we might never have had the chance to step into the lives of this family, to give them prayer, a hug, or some financial support.
In the parable of the good Samaritan, not only did the Samaritan pick the abused, beaten man off the road, he also put him up and paid for his stay. He went the extra mile.
We were reminded, that love goes the distance. Our plans to do a little sightseeing changed that morning, but we had no regrets.
“In reply Jesus said:
“A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he was attacked by robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead. A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side.So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him.The next day he took out two denarii[a] and gave them to the innkeeper. ‘Look after him,’ he said, ‘and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.’
“Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”
The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.”
Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”
Luke 10:30-37
I can’t stop crying here, my heart is bursting with pain and also with joy!! HOw the Lord orchestrated you both to be there .. a detour, a delay is not a detour nor a delay, but one with purpose, one that stopped you, one that stopped your attention and look, one that stopped your heart, one that stopped your hands and feet to be the hands and feet of Jesus .. Praise the Lord for you both, to be a blessing to our little “p’own braw” (little boy) and raw-bok gaht crew-sah (his family!)
i have so many words, so many tears to share with you both .. for what you are about to do, not only stepping into marriage, but to heed the call, to follow the call, to live out the call, to breathe in the call and breathe out the blessings to others is contagious, is encouraging, is heart warming to us, your “bong srey” (older sister), me, and “bong braw” (older brother), Paull!!