I held my breath as I approached a little shelter perched beside the muddy road. It was little more than a small, table-like platform with four feeble posts at each corner rising up to support a flimsy roof. One side had a makeshift barrier to provide some shade, but it did little to keep the rain and dust out. I caught a glimpse of my friend Harleem’s black hair. As I walked closer, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I hadn’t seen him since I’d left for furlough five months earlier.

Two years ago, Harleem broke his back and lost the use of his legs. He has been an invalid ever since. Prolonged periods of lying on his mat caused huge bedsores to open on both hips and at the base of his spine. Many nights, he would lie awake screaming in pain as the metal pins the hospital had inserted into his back aggravated the nerves. We bought Harleem a mattress and tried to help as much as we could. We also bought him a net to protect him from the flies and mosquitoes that plague our area. Before we left for furlough, we bought him 30 kilograms of rice along with painkillers, gauze and tape for his bedsores.

When we left on furlough, Harleem was on his bed under his brother’s stilted house. Now they had moved him out to the roadside. It was hard to know if they had moved him away from the house out of concern for the flooding that inundates the village every rainy season or whether it was out of frustration and feelings of hopelessness over his condition. The strain of looking after their brother was taking a toll on the family.

“Peace,” I said as I greeted Harleem.

“Peace,” he replied as he raised his head. One glance made it plain to me that his condition had deteriorated. His face was swollen, and his once-muscular frame had faded away to little more than skin and bones.

“How is the pain?” I asked as I peered around the flimsy wall.

“It is very painful,” he said.

“How about the bedsores?” I continued.

“They’ve gotten bigger,” he sighed as he lifted the cotton wool he had placed over the wounds. “I want to go to the capital for surgery on my back,” he continued with pleading eyes. “These metal screws are giving me too much pain.”

I thought of the last time I had taken him to the capital for surgery. With great anticipation, we had laid him on the back of our truck and driven the four and a half hours to one of the country’s main hospitals. Much to Harleem’s delight, the staff took x-rays and admitted him. But his hopes were dashed when it became apparent that his family couldn’t make it to the capital to watch over and care for him. I remembered the disappointment on his face when I told him I would have to take him home.

“Maybe we can come back when your family is free to watch over you,” I had said in a feeble attempt to give him some hope.

Now he was pleading to go back again. I was amazed at his perseverance. “Perhaps we can,” I replied. “Perhaps we can.”

Over the next few days, I wrestled with how to make it work. Perhaps we could find someone to watch over him during his stay at the hospital. In this country, the family is expected to watch over and provide for the sick. The hospital staff only passes out medicine. If the sick have no family, they must find a friend or hire someone to watch over them. Harleem would need to stay for several weeks. There was no way I could stay away from our project for so long. “Perhaps we could find a church member in the capital to watch over him,” I thought. “We could pay them a good wage.”

I contacted a friend in the capital, and soon he had asked a church member to watch over Harleem for a reasonable price. “Praise the Lord!” I thought. “Harleem will be excited to hear the news.”

Plans were quickly made, and soon we were on our way back to the capital. But this time the trip was very different. Harleem’s cries of agony from the back of the truck reinforced my trepidation that he couldn’t persevere much longer. Finally, he tapped on the back window to get my attention. I quickly stopped the truck and ran back to him. His face was contorted with pain. “God help me!” he cried.

“Just hold on a little longer,” I told him. “We are almost there.”

Soon we pulled up to the hospital. Harleem was taken into the examining room and given intravenous painkillers. After a quick evaluation and some x-rays, he was whisked away to a dormitory-like building where he would stay until they determined what could be done. The air was heavy and damp as I followed the nurses wheeling Harleem to his bed. Sick people lined the walls. Some had minor injuries; others were on the brink of death. One man in particular caught my attention. Hideous burns had peeled the skin off the inside of both legs. “What happened?” I asked.

“An electric shock,” the family responded.

As I thought about the sickness and suffering within those walls and the lack of what we would consider even basic health care, I marveled at these people’s resilience and optimism.

My attention was drawn back to Harleem. My friend and the man he had asked to watch Harleem were talking. Finally, my friend looked up at me and said, “He won’t do it. This man is too sick, and my friend is too scared to look after him.”

“But you don’t have to do that much,” I protested. “All you need to do is bring him food each day and help him to the bathroom. I could even get him a container to use so he wouldn’t have to go to the bathroom. Then you would just have to empty it. I will even buy gloves to protect you from germs.” I could see my pleas weren’t going anywhere. Finally, in exasperation, I said, “Look, Jesus helped the sick and poor, and we need to help them too!”

My friend looked at me helplessly. “I can’t force him to do it,” he said.

We were back at square one. In desperation, my friend and I began asking other people. First, we asked a lady across the room who was looking after her sick son. Then we asked another church member, even the cleaning lady. “We will pay you good wages,” we entreated. But to no avail.

With all of our options exhausted, I picked up my cell phone and called the village chief. “If Harleem’s family can’t watch him, I will have to bring Harleem home. Could you ask the family if they could come?”

Soon the chief called me back. “They can’t go. Bring him home.”

My nightmares had come true. How could I break the news to Harleem? I walked over to his bedside.

“I have to take you home, Harleem,” I said. We can’t find anyone to watch you.” The words sounded cold and cruel. They were. I knew what he was thinking. This surgery had been his last hope. It had been what had kept him going from day to day. It had given him the strength to fight on through the agony. Now all his hopes were dashed in an instant. What else did he have to live for? In his drug-induced stupor, he nodded his head in resignation. Five hours later, in the dark, we pulled down the dusty, narrow road near Harleem’s old shelter. The shelter was gone.

“What are these people thinking?” I asked myself. “Couldn’t they have waited to hear from us before they tore it down?”
Two men emerged from the blackness and climbed down the ladders of their houses. We carried Harleem on his mattress and set him down on a platform under his sister’s house. Then I returned home.

When I returned to visit Harleem, the sight turned my stomach. Flies were landing all over his body. His face was dirty, and dry sputum was caked around his mouth. The mosquito netting we had bought him was tossed in a heap beside him. “Couldn’t someone at least have draped it over him to keep the flies off?” I thought. Quickly, I walked around the yard looking for sticks on which to hang the net.

“Do you have any sticks to hang the net on?” I snapped at a nearby gathering of people. They glanced around, barely bothering to help. An older man joined me in the search, and soon we had the large mosquito net draping over Harleem’s bed.

“I also need a cloth to wipe Harleem’s face,” I said. Someone bought a scarf. I dampened it and wiped his forehead and mouth.
“Someone needs to do this every day,” I told the people who had gathered around to see what I was doing. “It’s easy to wash his face, and he needs fresh water to drink. Don’t be afraid. I even bought a box of gloves you can use.”

As I headed back to my motorcycle, a neighbor lady said to me, “His family has thrown him away.”

Later that evening, after my family had gone to bed and all was quiet, I fell on my knees beside my couch. I was tired and felt emotionally exhausted. As I knelt before God, the neighbor lady’s words played over and over in my mind. His family has thrown him away . . . his family has thrown him away. Could there be anything worse than your own family giving up hope and throwing you away?

My tears flowed as I began to pray. “Oh God, help Harleem know that not everyone has thrown him away. Help him know that You have not thrown him away and will never throw him away.” Tears turned to sobs as I pleaded with God to reveal Himself to Harleem. I felt so inadequate to tell Harleem what he needed to know. “God, please reveal Yourself to Harleem in a dream or something,” I pleaded. “Help him know You are there.” It felt good to pray and weep.

Slowly, I was beginning to understand and treasure the time God was giving me with Harleem. I was beginning to see what Jesus meant when He told His disciples “Inasmuch as you have done it to one of the least of these, my brothers, you have done it unto Me.” God was impressing me with the fact that, in ministering to Harleem, I was ministering to Jesus Himself. I picked myself up off the floor with a new appreciation for the opportunity to minister to those in need and fell into bed exhausted.

The end came quickly for Harleem. Fortunately, in the days before his death, his niece and her husband began to care for him. I also had the opportunity to talk with him about Jesus and the hope He offers us. I shared that God could forgive his sins if he asked Him to. I encouraged him to hold onto Jesus. As I talked, Harleem would nod his head. I don’t know what Harleem’s nods meant. Whether he called upon Jesus or simply understood what I was saying, only God knows.

The call came early Friday morning from our language teacher. “Harleem died last night,” he said.

Though I had been expecting Harleem to pass away, it was hard to hear the words. I thanked my language helper and hung up the phone. I walked to the bathroom and began to weep. I reflected on the times I hadn’t ministered to Harleem like I should have. The times I had not wanted to shake his hand because I was afraid of his infections. The times I had not washed his wounds because I had thought his family should do it. I thought about all the times when I had let him down. My weeping turned into deep sobs as I realized that, in my failings to minister to Harleem in his dark hours, I had failed my Lord. It was not a feeling of condemnation, but rather one of missed opportunities—like having someone very special pass near me, and I didn’t fully recognize and value them before they were gone forever.

“Oh Jesus!” I cried, “Help me never to let any opportunity of ministering to You, in the form of the needy, pass me by.”
Harleem was buried in a little plot not far from his little shelter. Some said this was where his parents were buried. Others said he was not allowed to be buried in the large graveyard because he had not performed the Salat—the Muslim practice of praying five times a day. As I talked with his niece’s husband, I told him that even if man hadn’t allowed Harleem to be buried in a special spot, God knew where he was buried, and that’s the most important thing.

Let us resolve never to let an opportunity to minister to someone in need pass us by. It may be the only opportunity we will ever have. And, in ministering to the needy, may we find the joy that comes in ministering to Jesus.

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