I’m still in my own story, dragging it around with me like a heavy chain, thinking it defines me.  It is only when I let go, like a leaf leaving a tree, that I escape and experience myself in the present.  I think of this as I visit Sr. Freda’s hospital today. There is something mysterious about healing.  I think it requires letting go and accepting the present pain, struggle, hope and change.

The “Fire” trees are in bloom and the hospital compound stands out, an island of scarlet in the grey surrounding bush.  The front of the hospital is smothered with flowers and there are a number of benches.  Two old men sit in the shade of a mango tree, their  heavy eyes watching whatever life that might be likely to pass.  They seem older than they are in their tattered gowns.  Men often sit here as they wait for specific times of year, for when there is no rain, there is little for them to do.

As I step inside, I immediately feel the hospitals crispness and yet it did not feel like a scary place.   Of course, it has, like most hospitals, that sterile, bleachy smell, but it also is the coziest hospital I have ever been in.  The walls are white and the floors tiled, but every now and then, like the sun restoring warmth and color, you come upon a wall painted with  a tree or an animal.   In the pediatric ward, a room with four beds, the walls each have a painted animal, a giraffe, an elephant, a puppy and a monkey.  Sr. Freda believes the painted walls  help bring comfort to children and soothe their fears, which goes a long way towards helping a young child heal.

She invites me to come with her to the maternity ward where a young woman has given birth to twins.  Her mother and father sit on the bed across from her, holding one of the twins, while she is trying to get the other infant to nurse.  She is a very young woman, with her hair a bundle of braids.   Her infant is clasped close to her breast.  Sr. Freda leans over and gives the baby a loving pat and talks to the mother softly in Swahili.

 The woman looks at me shyly, and Sr. Freda introduces me.  It is a pleasant moment, and everyone is excited by the twin births.  But after we leave, Sr. Freda explains to me that the one baby, the smaller one isn’t nursing. She won’t take to the nipple.

 I remember the many nights I woke to a crying child and how at first my daughter, who had been in the hospital for surgery the day after she was born, had a hard time nursing.  I would put a bit of honey on my nipple to entice her and after a few times, she began to happily suck away.   I offered this suggestion to Sr. Freda.

That night as we sat at dinner I could see that Sr Freda is clearly exhausted tonight.  I watch her as she sprinkles some water over her face.  It glitters as it trickles over her violet skin.   I suddenly feel alone, like I was pushed back from her as she thought about the details of her day.  It was as though she had formed a kind of shell around herself so that she might pray for that small child.   Outside, clouds of dust swirled through the compound as a wind picked up.  I could hear Kucca in the kitchen and the sound of a pestle and mortar, each beat resonating with my heart.

Sr Freda momentarily left the room and when she re-entered, she had a big smile on her face.   “I had a call from the hospital.  The baby has begun to nurse.”  She gave me a hug and joked, “Clearly, a little honey and prayer goes a long way.”

Tonight, as I lie in bed, I think of motherhood and how we all have secrets to share about taking care of babies and wish their was a book of Mother’s Wisdom.  I remember being terrified as a young mother and turned to Dr Spock’s book, Baby and Childcare.  He encouraged mothers to trust what they knew, but still I found he  ran a tight ship when it came to scheduling feeding and sleep.  Many nights would find me frantically reading while my daughter frantically cried.  I’d read and read and read and my daughter would rebel, rebel, rebel.  We both tired ourselves out with  nights of crying until I began to catch on to what my daughter was trying to tell me and eventually found the courage to trust my own instincts.  I didn’t throw away Dr. Spocks book, but rather adapted things to what I found true for me and my first born.  She started me on the path of listening.

It is like that here.  Sister Freda listens with her heart,  trusts her instincts and adapts her years of medical training with her own wisdom.   So much compassion can be expressed by a simple room with a cheerful  painting, painted by a local artist right on the wall, unframed by notions of what a hospital should look like.