I slipped out of the truck and made my way to the girl who would be my first patient, Daprina. She had been accidentally shot in the foot with an air gun, and the wound had become badly infected, necessitating a trip to the hospital. I shyly greeted her in Palawano, “Menungang Meriklem!”
I found myself mildly surprised to hear the appropriate response, “Menunga gasi,” as communicating in another language was still new to me. We took Daprina to the hospital, where she had the bullet removed and received antibiotics. Daprina then stayed at our project farm so that her foot could recover before the five-hour hike home.
During the time she stayed at the farm, I visited her daily. After caring for her foot, I would sit with her to learn Palawano. Despite being unable to communicate much, we began to bond, and I looked forward to these visits every day. I learned about her family, too; she was only 25 but already had six children.
I unexpectedly got to meet one of her children a few days later. Chris, her nine-month-old baby, was brought down from the mountains with a bad case of pneumonia. This time, I met them as they were dropped off at the emergency room. I watched as the admitting nurse took his vitals, and I didn’t even need to make the conversion from Celsius to Fahrenheit to know he had a high fever. His oxygen saturation was in the 80s, and as they started the oxygen and breathing treatment, I couldn’t help but notice how tiny he was when compared to my nieces and nephews of similar age. My heart began to break as I realized he had several classic signs of malnutrition. I helped get some things that the hospital needed before admitting Chris, and then I was able to leave. I could tell Daprina was stressed, so I stayed with her as long as I could, but there were other patients I needed to help.
As I got ready to leave, I hugged Daprina. I had thought about trying to pray with her before, but at this moment, I finally just did it with the words I knew. “Ama` Empu` . . . salamat para si Daprina and si Chris . . . (Please help Chris to get better soon, and help them to know You are with them.) Dut ngarang i Isus (In the name of Jesus), amen.”
Every day, we would bring food to our patients in the hospital, and I especially enjoyed preparing and bringing food for Daprina and Chris. It was satisfying to see him getting better every day and, as the days passed, to see his previously toothpick-like arms and legs filling out. I worried about Daprina. I could tell she was stressed, and having come from such an isolated village, everything here must have seemed very new and different for her.
I tried to pray with them at least once a day, with as much Palawano as possible. I would fill the rest with English, thankful that God can understand any language — He created them — and having confidence that humans can often understand the sentiment even when they don’t understand the words.
On the third day, when I prayed with one arm around her, Daprina started to cry. At that moment, I wished more than at any other time, to speak more of her language: to tell her it would all be okay, that her baby was getting better, and that Jesus was with her, but all I could do was sit there with her for a few more moments. Though there was nothing special about the words I said, and despite my total lack of ability to say anything else I wanted to say, I knew there was something special taking place. As I absorbed everything about that moment, I knew that I was in the right place and that God was doing something He loves to do — letting His strength shine through our weakness. I knew He had touched her heart in a way I never could, even if I spoke perfect Palawano.
