Remember the joy of holding your firstborn child? Feeling that soft, smooth skin. Looking into those innocent eyes. Marveling at a life formed by God in your womb. A miracle. The miracle of life. Remember the awe you felt. And the love for that child. Wondering if you could ever love another child as much as you love the child you were then holding.
Your life revolved around the needs of this infant. Feeding, bathing, and making sure the baby received proper medical care. You did all that was necessary to ensure that your child had the best chance possible at a good life.
Now try to imagine for a few minutes that you don’t live here, in a comfortable home with all the necessities for babies at hand, with the doctor only a phone call away.
Try to imagine that you are a Ye’cuana woman, a Ye’cuana mother of an adorable little baby boy. Being a Ye’cuana mother does not diminish your love for your child one iota. You still love your child as much as you did a minute ago. You still want the best for your child. You love this child with all your heart.
And then this chubby baby boy of yours suddenly becomes ill. You’re holding him in your arms when he stops breathing. There’s no hospital. No emergency room. No doctor. Your heart nearly dies within you. And then he starts breathing again and you sigh in relief.
However the relief is short-lived. … It happens again. … And again.
You’re scared. You could take your child to the missionaries but what good would it do? Your husband, the father of the child, claims he is NOT the father of the child. He has disowned the baby. He has gone off and made a boat. He knew that by making a boat while the child was still an infant that the child would get sick and die. But he did it anyway.
There’s no hope now. There’s no way the baby can live. The father has signed the child’s death warrant.
You’re scared. You’re without hope. You know your child will die.
This really happened. The adorable little baby boy did die. He was placed in a rough wooden box and laid in a grave. His mother was left with empty arms. Without hope.
Would you want to live that way? Would you want to live with such fears? Would you want to die that way?
We did not choose our place of birth. We did not choose the culture we were be raised in. That could have been me. That could have been you.
What are we willing to do, and where are we willing to go, to take the hope of the Gospel to those living and dying without hope?
What are we doing to make a difference?