He Gave His Blood

February 5, 2009

I walked around the corner to the benches outside the lab. My eyes were met by a thin, but strong Arab woman with a large, gold nose ring sitting on the bench, squeezing a stress ball as the blood flowed from her arm into a blood bag. I smiled at her, and she smiled back at me, not at all shyly. But when I sat down next to her, her smile was replaced by a look of slight shock.

She motioned to the needle in her arm and then pointed to me as if to say, "Are you here to give blood too?"

I smiled, pointed to my arm and then to the blood bag while nodding my head. I couldn't help but laugh out loud when she, in great excitement, started chattering away in Arabic to her relative on the bench next to her. She then asked Anatole, the lab guy, if I was going to be giving blood for her sister, and he assured her that I was indeed going to donate for her sister.

Her smile got even bigger as she looked at me with grateful eyes. I just laughed and smiled back.

I watched her wince as Anatole pulled the needle out of her arm, and I motioned and said in French, "That hurts!" (they use a 14 gauge, small garden hose, needle connected by tubing to a blood bag, and it burns worse to take it out than to put it in). She clicked her tongue and nodded in agreement.

Then it was my turn. Anatole started prepping my arm and searching for a vein. I turned my head because I can't stand to watch the needle go in. The Arab woman nodded her head and motioned for me to look away. Once, I turned my head back because Anatole was asking me a question about which vein he should stick, and the Arab woman quickly shook her head and "told" me to turn my head away, that I shouldn't look. I laughed, but complied and turned my head so that I couldn't see. She put her hand up as a shield just to make sure I wasn't looking.

As I squeezed the stress ball to pump my blood, the rest of the family came over, and she excitedly explained to them what was happening. I just laughed again; I was amazed at their excitement. They starting talking amongst themselves, and then Anatole translated and told me that they were thanking me. It's amazing the conversations you can have without ever speaking any words.

Anatole pulled the needle out when it was finished, and the woman next to me cupped my face in her hand and said, "Merci, merci," probably the only French that she knew.

I sat there for a little while so that I wouldn't pass out, and I just listened and watched the family. At one point, the Arab woman's relative next to her reached over and touched a little bit of my hair. I smiled and turned my head so that they could feel my hair. People here are so intrigued by Nassara hair, it's so different.

There's something so amazing about giving blood in Africa where you can see and know the patient that it's going to help. I have never in my life enjoyed giving blood so much as I do here.

Unfortunately, the woman I was giving blood to is very sick. She had already had two bags of blood before her sister's and mine. She was pregnant with appendicitis, and Dr. Bond had done an appendectomy on her-- very dangerous while pregnant. After surgery she just wasn't recovering, she was in a lot of pain and just looked so tired.

James decided to give her some more blood and take her back into surgery to see if he could figure out what was wrong, which was the reason I was giving blood.

That night, Ansley came into the middle house and said, "Guys, please pray for the little Arab woman. She's just not doing good." James couldn't find what was wrong, and ended up taking her baby out to try to give her a fighting chance at life. We stopped to pray in a group right then and Ansley went back to work.

As she left, I began praying silently to God; I was upset at the thought that this woman might die. "God please, let her live. I gave my blood for her, please don't let it be for nothing."

I stopped, astounded by the depth of what I had just prayed. How must Jesus feel? I can imagine Jesus leading, praying the same prayer for me, "Father, please, I gave my blood for her. Please don't let her go." And then the thought went further.

That's how I feel about each of my children.

Each person that I come into contact with, is someone that Jesus gave His blood for, a gift that He doesn't want to have been in vain. Whoa. Shouldn't my prayers for their souls be just as earnest as my prayers for this Arab woman's life? Shouldn't I be doing everything I can to make sure that my Jesus didn't give His blood for nothing?

All these thoughts have opened my eyes to the value of the people that I am working with here. And the value of every person in God's sight. I thought about how upset, how sad I would be if I had given my blood to this Arab woman, and it made no difference. Then I realized that all I had was a needle in my arm for a few minutes to very cleanly 'donate' my blood. Jesus spilled His blood. It wasn't a pretty, clean process. Jesus gave His blood to the point of death. How much more precious a gift to be wasted, and how much more deeply He would feel the loss if it made no difference in the life of someone He dearly loves.

God, help me to treat people's lives with the value you place on them, let me see with your eyes.