The hospital was the hardest place to go. We went to the children's ward to a government hospital located in Mbabane, the capital of Swaziland. I knew it would be nothing like the hospital where BJ spent the end of his life, but I was still nervous. It was my second time in a hospital since he died, and my first in the children's ward.

The first thought that struck me as we walked the dirty hallways weaving in and out of doors, and then through the children's wing, was that BJ had everything in the medical world -- up-to-date technology, current knowledge, cutting-edge procedures -- and still he died. In this filthy African hospital, where children came to be healed, it seemed much more likely to me that they would meet death instead.

The battle for life and death in this place was almost tangible.

There were four rooms in the ward. In the first, filled with nearly a dozen premie babies wrapped in layers of blankets since they didn't have incubators, I just sobbed. As I watched through the glass into a separate section of the room, I saw a cockroach crawling around on one of the sheets. Mothers sat with their bundled babies. I went to pray with one mother and child, touching the incredibly soft head of hair poking out of the blankets, and simply had no words. I prayed silently while I cried, until I could muster up some feeble English words aloud. The mother looked at me with a gratefulness I did not deserve. Her baby was 7 months old. I do not know if he had AIDS. I do not know if he was expected to live.

The second and third rooms also held almost a dozen children each. Many were gaunt. One little girl was so expressionless, I rubbed her back for about 10 minutes. I could feel her spinal cord, and her ribs through her shirt. Even the sticker I gave her hardly phased her. The stickers, however, did seem to be our ticket in with many of the other children. In spite of their conditions, or where they were, they rewarded us with huge smiles upon seeing sparkly stars and brightly colored animals placed on their hands, foreheads, and noses. One of the guys on our team played a game with one of the boys throughout our time there. This boy kept following us around, and eventually, his shoes were covered with stickers. The stickers became an outward symbol for us of the Holy Spirit. We couldn't stay for more than a few hours with these chilren. But we prayed His Presence over them, knowing He would linger much longer than time allowed us.

The fourth room was filled with both babies and small children. Some were sleeping in cribs, others were eating at a long table in the center of the room, others were walking around. This room was really no bigger than the others, but was even more populated. This was the room for children with disabilities. One young child had seizures in his sleep, which we witnessed. He also had some kind of tumor on his head. Three babies slept side-by-side in a crib. One kid moved around in a wheelchair. A little girl at the table remained a bit cranky and aloof throughout us being there, but did seem to enjoy playing with her three stickers. Another sweetheart walked around, happy to acquire stickers, go hide them somewhere, and then come back for more. There were not nearly as many parents or attendants in this room. A few of the medical staff were clustered in the corner, seemingly on break, but these kids did not have the adult support with them that those in the other rooms had.

All we could do was pray. For as long as we were at this hospital, we prayed. Over children, their mothers, their health, the filthy conditions of the hospital. But most of the time, when I looked up and around, I saw more than half of my teammates bent over a bed, heads bowed. It was all we had to offer.

Undombi had more. She was the woman who took us through the wing, the pastor of a local, thriving church. She spoke their language, and she shared with them in powerful ways. In each room we entered, she told the children and their parents a Bible story, preached, and prayed over them. She does it every week. Some of these children are dying. Some of them will live. But every week, Undombi visits the children and brings them a message of hope. The LORD has moved her to fight for LIFE in this place where Satan would spread death, and she is fighting in the LORD's strength.

Oh, that we would be moved to really see the peril and tragedy in our world! Sick and dying children in Africa -- they need so much prayer. But even in our own country... Satan's tools are different, but his object is the same. He is using materialism and apathy to kill us slowly. To steal our joy, to destroy our spirits. When will we open our eyes and fight for life for our brothers with a passion like Undombi for these children? Oh, that we would even be moved to pray...

The enemy has come to steal, kill, and destroy. But I have come that you may have LIFE... John 10:10

Lauren