Kent and I heard Juwil’s heart-wrenching cries before we saw him. He paced there in the dark of night in front of the morgue, throwing his arms in the air and clutching them to his body, moaning his anguish. I stood watching him for a moment, praying for strength and words that would comfort him. But how does one comfort someone who has lost all hope?
I have seen the inside of the government hospital morgue too many times—a dreary, grimy little house at the back of the hospital property. A dirty, white-tiled slab on which to lay a body. A rough-sawn lumber bed for family members. Cold, dirty cement floor. Green vines block the light from the wooden-louvered window. No pictures on the walls, no beauty, no warmth. It is no place to spend the night.
When a patient passes away, hospital personnel move the deceased and their family to the morgue. No one accompanies them there; no staff to help them cope with the shock and grief. The whole process conveys a strong sense of coldness and dismissal—out of sight, out of mind. It is a scary place to be alone, particularly if you are a Palawano who fears the dark and harassment from the spirit of your recently deceased loved one.
Darkness had already fallen when I received word that Milisa had died. Fortunately, I was already in the lowlands not far from the government hospital, so I headed there immediately to offer the family a ride to the trailhead leading to their village. I knew they would rather not spend an agonizing night in the morgue.
As I approached the dingy building, I saw women through the doorway, standing in the light of one bare bulb. Upon entering, I shook the hand of a man I didn’t recognize at the door and spoke to the two women, Milisa’s mother and sister. Both of them fell into my arms, crying their sorrow. I silently prayed, Oh, Lord, the grief of those without hope! Please give me something to say! But what I found helped the most was just standing there and holding them.
Once they had composed themselves and had described Milisa’s final moments to me several times, I went over to the body. Pulling back the blanket, I saw the emaciated face of a young mother of five. I had met Milisa a number of times through the years when she hiked from her distant home to our jungle clinic to get help for her sick children. She was always sweet and cheerful. But now she was gone, leaving five children between 3 and 12 years old motherless.
Her husband Juwil hadn’t yet gotten the news of her death. He had gone home to check on the children and get more supplies, and he was expected back any moment. I suggested to my companion that she try to contact Juwil to prepare him for what he would find upon his return, and I went home to get Kent to drive us out to the trailhead leading to their village.
Just as Kent and I were returning to the hospital, I received a text: “Juwil just arrived.” We found him in shock and abject misery. He kept saying to Milisa’s body, “Why did you have to leave now? You shouldn’t have left all your children without a mother. Why, oh why, did you have to leave? Why have you left me?” He pulled his hair and cried in desperation until Kent put his arm around him and said, “Juwil, I’m going to pray to Father God and ask Him to comfort you.” Only then did Juwil calm down.
It seemed fitting that there was rain that night. Milisa’s body was on a mat in the back of the pick-up, under a tarp. It was a sad, quiet trip to the trailhead. As we waited there for more people to come and help carry, I listened to the sporadic conversations and pieced together more of the story.
Milisa had been sick for about a week. Juwil had requested the help of a witchdoctor from a distant village, paying the equivalent of $2.50 for his services—a lot of money for a Palawano—but it didn’t do any good. By this time Milisa had slipped into a coma. A local government official took her and Juwil to the provincial hospital in Brooke’s Point. Juwil then called me. “Minan, we are here at the hospital. Milisa is very sick. Can you please help us?” Sadly, it was too late for us to help Milisa. If he had brought her to our clinic when she first got sick, we could have helped her. But she died from typhoid meningitis four days after arriving at the hospital. Another casualty of ignorance.
I always struggle with death. Who doesn’t? Most of all, I struggle with the finality of those who die in spiritual darkness. What more could we have done, either to reach them with the Gospel before they passed away or to lengthen and give them more time to hear and accept Jesus? How can we spend the necessary quality time with the hundreds who come to us from outlying villages, usually with urgent needs? It isn’t that we forget about presenting the Gospel to them, it is just that often the urgent health needs of the present take away time and energy from the spiritual needs. Oh Lord, help us to stay focused and efficient!
Thinking back on this most recent encounter with death, I have gained new insights. To me, the morgue represents the state of the Palawano people, and even the world at large. It is a cold, dark, dingy, lonely place overgrown with vines threatening to cut off even the few rays of sunshine trying to shine through the window louvers. It is a place of hopeless despair for those who die, and a place of heart-wrenching pain for those who remain.
As a missionary, it is my privilege and opportunity to go to this dark place and enter into the pain of those who live there. To offer my arms to hold them and my heart to love them. To journey with them through the darkness, bringing hope because I see a Light they do not yet see. To be there when the questions pour out, and the tears flow unchecked. To not be afraid or unnerved by the darkness, but to embrace others with the sunshine of God’s heart. To be His mouthpiece. To just be there, even as He is always with us. I think this is the essence of being a missionary; the essence of Christianity.
