A LITTLE GIRL'S PRAYER

One night I had worked hard to help a mother in the

labor ward; but in spite of all we could do she died

leaving us with a tiny premature baby and a crying

two-year-old daughter. We would have difficulty

keeping the baby alive, as we had no incubator. (We

had no electricity to run an incubator. We also had no

special feeding facilities.

Although we lived on the equator, nights were often

chilly with treacherous drafts. One student midwife

went for the box we had for such babies and the cotton

wool the baby would be wrapped in. Another went to

stoke up the fire and fill a hot water bottle. She

came back shortly in distress to tell me that in

filling the bottle, it had burst. Rubber perishes

easily in tropical climates. "And it is our last hot

water bottle!" she exclaimed.

As in the West it is no good crying over spilled milk,

so in Central Africa it might be considered no good

crying over burst water bottles. They do not grow on

trees, and there are no drugstores down forest

pathways.

"All right," I said, "put the baby as near the fire as

you safely can, and sleep between the baby and the

door to keep it free from drafts. "Your job is to keep

the baby warm."

The following noon, as I did most days, I went to have

prayers with any of the orphanage children who chose

to gather with me. I gave the youngsters various

suggestions of things to pray about and told them

about the tiny baby. I explained our problem about

keeping the baby warm enough, mentioning the hot water

bottle. The baby could so easily die if it got chills.

I also told them of the two-year-old sister, crying

because her mother had died.

During the prayer time, one ten-year-old girl, Ruth,

prayed with the usual blunt conciseness of our African

children. "Please, God," she prayed, "send us a water

bottle. It'll be no good tomorrow, God, as the baby

will be dead, so please send it this afternoon."

While I gasped inwardly at the audacity of the prayer,

she added by way of a corollary, "And while You are

about it, would You please send a dolly for the little

girl so she'll know You really love her?"

As often with children's prayers, I was put on the

spot. Could I honestly say, "Amen?" I just did not

believe that God could do this. Oh, yes, I know that

He can do everything. The Bible says so. But there are

limits, aren't there? The only way God could answer

this particular prayer would be by sending me a parcel

from the homeland. I had been in Africa for almost

four years at that time, and I had never, ever

received a parcel from home.

Anyway, if anyone did send me a parcel, who would put

in a hot water bottle? I lived on the equator!

Halfway through the afternoon, while I was teaching in

the nurses' training school, a message was sent that

there was a car at my front door. By the time I

reached home, the car had gone, but there, on the

verandah, was a large twenty-two pound parcel. l felt

tears pricking my eyes. I could not open the parcel

alone, so I sent for the orphanage children. Together

we pulled off the string, carefully undoing each knot.

We folded the paper, taking care not to tear it

unduly. Excitement was mounting.

Some thirty or forty pairs of eyes were focused on the

large cardboard box. From the top, I lifted out

brightly colored, knitted jerseys. Eyes sparkled as I

gave them out. Then there were the knitted bandages

for the leprosy patients, and the children looked a

little bored. Then came a box of mixed raisins and

sultanas-that would make a batch of buns for the

weekend. Then, as I put my hand in again, I felt

the.....could it really be? I grasped it and pulled it

out-yes, a brand-new, rubber hot water bottle I cried.

I had not asked God to send it; I had not truly

believed that He could. Ruth was in the front row of,

the children. She rushed forward, crying out, "If God

has sent the bottle, He must have sent the dolly,

too!" Rummaging down to the bottom of the box, she

pulled out the small, beautifully dressed dolly. Her

eyes shone! She had never doubted. Looking up at me,

she asked: "Can I go over with you, Mummy, and give

this dolly to that little girl, so she'll know that

Jesus really loves her?"

That parcel had been on the way for five whole months.

Packed up by my former Sunday school class, whose

leader had heard and obeyed God's prompting to send a

hot water bottle, even to the equator. And one of the

girls had put in a dolly for an African child-five

months before-in answer to the believing prayer of a

ten-year-old to bring it "that afternoon."