Innocent

     As many of you know, there is a little baby here who has stolen my heart. His name is Okory Innocent; he carries a name, which could not fit him better. We brought this little one back with  us from Lira. He was three months when we brought him and just had his four-month birthday on March 1st.
   Innocent and his mom, Eunice, have been with us for the last month due to a severe shunt infection that Innocent has been fighting. The joy that he has brought to my every day is mirrored by the desire Unique has to return home.
  Eunice is 21 years old and Innocent is the second of her children. The older brother is 2 ½ years old and is home with Eunice’s mom while the father works.
We had hoped that Innocent would be able to be discharged this weekend and they could head home; however, today, we were making ward rounds and the doctors let Eunice know that the cerebral fluid came back today clean! This means that an operation can take place soon… next Thursday or Friday! I saw the light that had appeared in Eunice's deep eyes when she heard of the clean CSF fade as she realized she would be here for one more week…
   The doctors continued on and I faded back to sit with my friend. She would not look me in the eyes as tears began rolling down her face.. “ I just want to go home,” she kept saying. I saw the joyful, sassy, helpful, strong mamma begin to melt into the young girl that she is. I sat with her for a few minutes before Emma Wegoye came back to sit with us. He explained the infection and that there is truly a light at the end of the tunnel. Eunice had a hard time accepting these words, feeling she had heard them before… the previous 3 weeks.
     I took Innocent from her (sacrificial I know) and asked her to walk with me. Innocent was naked wrapped in a bed sheet and Eunice in the same outfit she has had for 4 weeks. We walked around the grounds in silence but the pain was undeniable. There was no need for translator; Eunice was fighting fear, sorrow and anger. She feared that her husband would have found another wife during her absence, sorrow that her baby was sick and even sorrow that she had this baby with such a “big head” and anger that she could not go home.
   As we sat, Innocent laid in my arms looking around inquisitively, his eyes big and his mouth wide open hoping to be fed. He lay in my lap dependent on my protection of him, dependent for food; to be carried, to have his infection treated… this little life of Innocent.
  And then it hit me. The weight his little name carried. Innocent. The word name that could describe each child sleeping in the ward and the mothers lying next to them. Innocent, the truth in the trial accusing each mother of being cursed for having a baby with a big head, Innocent, the adjective describing the life of the young ones born into a rejecting community.
   My heart began to break. Broken for my little man who has a long road ahead of him to overcome the stigmas attached to him and broken for his mom who lives with the label of “cursed” for birthing Innocent.
   My mind is still churning as I try to process these thoughts. I am drawn to think of the way I love people but more than that, the way I love and accept their stories. These mothers are heroes. They are the mothers who are stepping up against the lies of their society and saying that their baby has worth. These are the mothers who think their baby is worth it, so worth it that they are even wiling to risk loosing everything they have in order to give their child a chance. Their deep eyes have stories. Their callused feet and dirty hands tell the story of the miles they have walked to provide water for their families, the gardens they have tilled in the blazing sun to feed their children.
   I must admit I don’t always think of these “behind the scenes” sets when I hear of the mother who has 3 kids at the age of 21. I jump to the “horror” of such a young mom and fail to think of the value her children bring to her… they are her worth. So what does it mean? I guess that I have a lot of learning to do. That there are stories going unheard due to my judgment and fear. My fear of feeling uncomfortable when I hear of their poverty, their struggles.. When “their” gets replaced with “our,” I fear the discomfort of realizing that the similarities are greater than the differences. Yes, the chapters of their lives have looked very different than mine thus far, yet when the video is replayed the theme is the same. I am living my life dependent on a Savior who died to give me life, just like them.