"Lord, You are the healer of this girl. Heal her and she will come to know You are the God of gods and Savior of the people's lives." As Dah Eh prayed, atheist Mah Za felt the Lord heal her body of its terminal disease. She immediately gave her life to Him.
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"They...we...are all still afraid." Those words, from the director of Mt. Zion Orphanage in Port-au-Prince, explained why, two months after Haiti's January 2010 earthquake, none of the children were sleeping inside their orphanage building. Along with two other Heaven's Family staff members, I had come to Haiti to assess the situation at two Christian orphanages that our Orphan's Tear division has been assisting since 2008. This was, however, my first time to personally visit Mt. Zion Orphanage.
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What a sensational, sunny morning for a motor-scooter ride, I thought to myself, as every mile proved more interesting than the previous one. I was following a two-lane "highway," a rural Burmese road that became increasingly narrower and potholed as I journeyed past endless rice fields, villages filled with waving children, and a row of towering mountains on the right that paralleled my track. Soon our entourage turned towards those mountains to follow a winding, upward path—a former road carved into the mountains during World War II, deep into a region that no Westerner had seen in six decades. I felt adrenalized.
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Tharcisse's parents were an easy target. Unscrupulous traditional "healers"—of whom there are many in Burundi, one of Africa's poorest nations—knew that their medicines would do nothing to heal Tharcisse's atrophied legs. That didn't stop them, however, from promising his desperate parents that they could cure their precious baby—for a price. Full of hope, they sold their only asset—a small plot of farmland—to pay for his costly treatments. When that money was exhausted, their infant son was no better.
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"I will go!" With those words, Naomi made a commitment to lay down her life. She had just volunteered to join a secret team of evangelists who move throughout her homeland, sharing the gospel and helping desperate fellow citizens with basic necessities like food and medicine.
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A small child stares through a frosted window, studying a freshly-fallen blanket of snow. He longs to run outside to build a snowman, but a white-coated warden tells him that he can't, because his tattered cloth shoes are inadequate to protect his feet and keep them warm. Besides that, he's suffering from tuberculosis, as are the other 120 children with whom he lives inside the same massive, concrete building. Their home is Cornesti Orphanage, one of 43 such state institutions scattered across Moldova, Europe's poorest nation. Cornesti is reserved for children with TB.
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Outside in the darkness, rain was descending in torrents, pelting the tin roof of my hotel room with a roar. As I lay under a mosquito net on my cushioned bed, I could only think of Mama Jeanine, her children, and their mud house with no roof. I had met Mama Jeanine earlier that day as she was working in a field outside her home village of Mabayi, in Burundi's Rugombo Province. She was helping nine Christian friends hoe a plot of ground that they jointly owned, courtesy of a group micro-loan from Heaven's Family. I learned that she was a widow with five children, and that her actual name was Magdalla Uwimana, but that everyone had been calling her Mama Jeanine since the birth of her daughter, Jeanine. I also learned that she was not a joint owner of the field like the others, but that she always helped them, because together, they looked out for her and her children. They had, in fact, even built her a house.
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How's this for a job description: "Bite the head off a chicken and drink its blood"? That's what Hindu priest Ayyappen Panayil did every day as part of his temple duties in Ponkunnon, India. It was perhaps not the healthiest dietary practice, and after 16 years of performing his daily chicken blood-drinking ritual, Ayyappen found himself suffering from a mysterious illness. Doctors diagnosed him with cancer and gave him only one month to live.
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"When he learned that I had been reading a booklet about a boy who found forgiveness through Jesus Christ, my father tied me to a pillar of our house and beat me with a stick. The next morning he lovingly told me, 'We Muslims should not read such books. They are haram [forbidden]. Because their books are so persuasive, we too will become Christians if we read them. What then will happen to our family? It will affect our whole life." Qississ' father, a Muslim Mullah in southern India, didn't realize how prophetic his words would prove to be as he lectured his eleven-year-old son.
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As captain of the local soccer team in the village of Wamuini, Kenya, Manu knew how to lead his team to victory on the field. Off the field, however, he was leading half of his teammates to be losers in life, setting an example of drug abuse and other criminal activity. His was a path of destruction. That all changed, however, when he met a man named Herbert Amukaya, whose story must first be told.
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