Pushing my way through the people crowded around the little stilted shack, I couldn’t help but notice the blood. It dripped freely from the wide slats in the bamboo floor above, and there was a large pool of it already on the ground beneath the house.

Minutes earlier, I had been eating my lunch when two ladies and a man came running down our driveway. They climbed our steps and breathlessly told us that the man’s daughter was in labor with her first baby, but the baby was not coming.
“Please come quickly!” they had pleaded. “Please take her to the hospital in your truck!”

Stuffing the last bit of bread into my mouth, I ran to grab the keys. Soon they were carrying her to the truck and laying her on a mat in the back.
“She is my precious daughter!” her mother said softly with glistening eyes. “I am so scared for my daughter!”

“We can pray,” I said, squeezing her hand in sympathy.

“Yes,” the mother replied, “perhaps God will allow her to live. We must pray.”

What seemed like half the village crammed into the truck, and we took off. I drove quickly, trying hard to dodge the potholes. We soon arrived at the little clinic in the neighboring town. The laboring mother was quickly whisked to an empty delivery room and the door was shut.
The young woman’s husband paced back and forth and then tried to make light conversation with the other men who had come. The ladies huddled together telling stories of babies and labor. I silently prayed that God would spare this mother and baby.

After quite a wait, the midwife came out and whispered something I didn’t understand to the group of ladies. Immediately, the ladies all ran to the room. They were all smiles and laughter, relief written all over their faces.

“All must be well,” I thought. “The mother and baby must have pulled through.”

The door opened, and a small, slippery baby was handed to the women who quickly wrapped it in a towel, covering its face. I thought this was very strange. They hadn’t even bothered to wash the baby, and I hadn’t heard it cry. I also thought it strange that, as soon as the baby was wrapped, a woman carried it off quickly to catch a motorcycle ride back to the village. I had never been at a birth here, and I wondered if this was just some strange custom. I asked if the mother and baby were well.

“Yes, they are well. There are no problems at all,” was the reply. “It was a beautiful baby boy!”

“Where have they taken him?” I asked.

“Back to the house, of course.”

A while later, the young mother and her I.V. bags were carried back to our truck. The ladies were telling her about her beautiful boy.

“He is dead already,” the ladies told me casually as we began our drive home. “He was born dead. Thank you so much for taking us to the clinic. You saved the mother’s life.” Smiles of relief were on every face.

I was shocked. “Thank God for taking care of the mother,” I exclaimed. “But the baby died? I’m sure the mother and her family will be very sad about this.”

“They are not sad,” the ladies told me. “They are happy that their daughter and wife has life.”
As the mother was lifted from our truck, she received the news that her baby was dead. “She was a beautiful baby girl,” they informed her, now that they really knew the gender of the baby. I looked at the mother and imagined the shock and disappointment she must be feeling. I looked for the tears but all I saw was a grateful smile on her face as she weakly whispered her thanks to me for taking her to the clinic. Not a word escaped from her lips about her baby.

Later in the house, I took my turn looking at the baby. She lay so, so still, and yet she looked so perfect, so beautiful. Tears slipped from my eyes as I looked at the little girl who would never have a chance to live and love. People crowded around, each in turn pulling back the blanket that covered the still, cold baby. Some just looked, some touched softly, some tried to arrange the blankets. “Her hair is long and black. Look at her tiny nose. See her beautiful hands? Oh, she is a beautiful baby girl!”

The baby’s father lingered for a long, long time. He shed no tears, but I felt deep sadness emanating from him. The grandmother also lingered long. The older men and elders gathered around with their prayer beads and said a prayer over the baby. The older ladies of the village prepared white cloth to wrap the body. They lined it with pulled-apart cotton balls. Outside, the young men were digging a rough grave under a tree near the house. Nearby, another group of men were making a rough little wooden box.

I went home feeling sad. Now that I had begun understanding the language and had become closer to the people, I had begun to see a true picture of life here. I don’t know what the infant-mortality rate is here, but it seems to be very high among our people. I constantly hear about babies who have died. It is rare to find a family who hasn’t lost at least one baby. One lady who recently lost a baby told me she’d given birth to seven children, but only two had lived.

Life is tough here. It is all about survival. Who can stop to deeply mourn every tiny life lost and still remain intact enough to survive? But there is One who grieves each little death. Each little life that is swept away pains His heart of love. When the burden of grief is too heavy for these people to bear, He carries it. He literally bears their grief and carries their sorrows. And not one child dies without His infinite pity and tenderness.

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