Epilepsy, Fire, and Faithfulness

She knew she would not be able to eat her lunch; nshima and relish packed carefully that morning. But if she did not do it, who would? Everyone else refused to go near the man, with his rotting flesh, his septic skin, this living human being who smelled like death.

A man cooking nshima; the open fire is very
dangerous for people with epilepsy

He was epileptic, she knew that right away, because so many people with epilepsy walked in with burns like this, with limbs that had caught on fire, and stayed in the flames during the seizure. Like so many others, he was cooking his food, over the open flames, when the dancing lights of the fire set off another fit, and he had no control as his arm began to cook, instead of his meal. 

The difference with this man was that he did not seek treatment right away. In fact, it had been weeks, and the burns had melted away his flesh, the dirt had infected his body, and the wounds were now septic. He was alive, but that flesh was dead, and he smelled like a rotting body. He was covered with dirt everywhere; he lived alone in a compound.

My language partner was the only nurse at the clinic who would tend to him; she washed his body, she cleaned his wound, she wrapped the rotting flesh in clean, white cloth. And then she spoke to him, encouraging him to go to the hospital, telling him that there was hope for his arm. He just needed to trust her. And as he waited for transport to the hospital, she offered him her drink, brought from home. He sat, and he sipped, and he waited. And finally, he left.

Amayi Soto wondered about him, and prayed for him, for weeks. And then, a few days ago, she saw him on the street. He walked up to her and smiled, showing her a clean, healed arm. At the hospital, he received a skin graft, and despite the presence of a few scars, his arm was whole again. 

Amayi Soto did not just care for the man medically; she gave him her own drink, she spoke to him with kindness, she offered him hope. And when no one else would touch him, she did. She reached out her hand, and she helped to make him well.

Sometimes, I wonder how it is that I have the blessing of knowing her, how it is that God brought us together, every week, to study Chichewa and talk about our lives, our faith, our families. But I am so grateful for this women, who inspires me with her faithfulness, with her love, with her compassion. Even though she has lived with poverty, pain, and disease her whole life, she has never given into complacency. Instead, she keeps on reaching out, she keeps on touching the untouchable, and she keeps on living as Christ’s hands and feet in this world.

I am so grateful to know her and to learn from her, a bit about Chichewa, and a lot about love.