Barely as tall as my collarbone, Miksan is a dear friend. She loves visiting my house and telling me about her children (many now adults) and her innumerable grandchildren. Sometimes, she drops by the school office to say hello because she is in the area. She often reminds me which of her children I am also the ‘mother’ of because of the medical help I was able to give them. Cheerful and always looking for a reason to laugh, she and I tease each other — me offering to give her some of my girth in exchange for her petiteness. She and I share the love and joy of family, though she has surpassed me by far in the number of children she has birthed . . . and the number of children she has lost.

Today, I am grieving for Miksan. Just as her daughter was bringing a new baby girl into the world, she died during labor (see back cover). I grieve with Miksan, knowing that while grieving the loss of her precious daughter Marsili, she grieves afresh the loss of her other children who passed before. I grieve with Marsili’s husband and children, who have lost a loving wife and mother. I grieve for a baby who will grow up not knowing her mother. I grieve over all the brokenness that is the reality for so many people.

As my heart cries with Miksan, my heart continues to cry for the Palawano people. My heart cries for those who still have not heard of the “blessed hope” we have in Jesus — the hope of a new and eternal life where sorrow will be no more. My heart cries for the brokenness that the Palawano experience in their families, their relationships with each other, the hardships that they endure day by day, and the deprivation of their souls.

Still, my commitment to be available, to be used as an instrument that brings the love of Jesus to a hurting world, is renewed.

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