Nothing Hurts Like a Wounded Heart

The day started off with the easy task of loving the six brothers and driving them to their home in Comayagua. But a day serving God doesn’t always turn out to be simple.
We left for our two hour drive across the mountain on a sunny Sunday afternoon. With twelve of us packed in the car, we laughed, played, and some even slept. Joy filled the car on that two hour drive. We reached Comayagua in good time, dropped the boys off, and said our good-byes. Heavy hearts made for a silent trip back to Tegucigalpa aside form a street boy from whom we bought 68 tortillas.
Silently we reached the city, exhausted from emotion. The traffic thickened as we entered the city along the Suyapa road. We drove along behind an old yellow school bus that now transports Hondurans. Observing these busses has shown me that they cram Hondurans into every crevice inside and some hang out the door. A dangerous ride; no doubt.
Then there she was. For whatever reason, she was unable to stay inside the overly stuffed bus. Her body tumbled from the side door near the rear of the bus. She hit the pavement head first with a ghastly bounce just like a rag doll. After several rolls, she came to a lifeless stop face down on the side of the street. My heart seemed to skip a beat and my stomach dropped. A moment of shock struck the car as we observed the scene. Words filled the dead silence but I didn’t comprehend. Next thing I knew, my body had betrayed my fear frozen mind. My hands opened the door and my feet carried me quickly to what I was sure had to be a corpse. A million different thoughts plagued my simple mind. I remember one of them thanking God that David (the nursing student) was just a head of me. We reached her. A pool of blood accumulated beneath her head. She was young. I was sure she was dead. Just after I thought this, she moved her arm and then a toe. Men from the bus created a crowd of chaos around us. Horns, shouts, and a horrifying moan all pounded my ear drums. The blood continued to pour from her head so David took off his shirt to apply pressure. Unfortunately, the majority of the blood was coming from her mouth and nose. Someone had called an ambulance, but this is Honduras and she could lay there for three hours waiting, bleeding. Her best chance was us. With the help of the surrounding crowd, we lifted her and rushed her to the back seat of the Suburban.
In the car, we tried our best to sustain her, to talk to her and to comfort her. In between horrific moans, she vomited blood in the car. I tried to look into her eyes, but they were franticly searching for help. Help that I could not give her. So I prayed. I prayed for her comfort. I noticed the road rash that covered her body and her right shoulder was broken or separated.
We arrived at the Hospital Escuela and it was flooded with people. David and I lifted the girl out of the car and onto a cold, hard, metal gurney. Despite the crowd, we were able to wheel her directly in to the emergency room. Standing by her side praying over her life, security asked us all but one to leave.
The next block of time was spent trying to figure out who she was, since she was in no shape to respond to us. A search for family and friends began. All she had was a beat up bag of clothes and a cell phone with no minutes. Sam, Ashley, and I crossed the street and bought some minutes for the phone. Immediately upon our return, Gina began to make phone calls. I thank God Gina (our Honduran friend who speaks perfect English and Spanish) was with us.
We discovered her name was Betty. She was born and raised in a poor family in Choluteca where her parents still lived. She had moved to Tegucigalpa to work for a family here. She was only seventeen years old. Her brother had done the same and was told of his sister’s condition. She also had a sister that did not live far off. She also made her way in hope that the undefined girl was not her sister.
Now came the waiting. The emotions of the day finally caught up to me. I sat down on the cold, dirty tile floor of the supposed waiting room. Back to the wall, face in my hands, I did all I could to hold back the tears of emotion that wanted to stream down my cheeks. The distraught faces of the emergency room seemed to mirror the hurt I felt. My heart bled for those faces just as it did for Betty. Little bits of news about Betty’s family and friends fluttered among us. One lady told Gina to be careful because Betty was a thief. I didn’t care. I loved and prayed for her just the same. A panicked boy in a yellow polo shirt with a haunting face burst through the door to the emergency room.
It was her brother. He had arrived and confirmed the identity of Betty. Her sister arrived with a man and some children not too far behind him. It was a relief to know that Betty was now surrounded by some familiar faces in her time of need. I couldn’t imagine the feeling of solidarity that must exist in such a state of pain surrounded by only strangers. It was now in God’s hands. We could do no more. We left the hospital weary yet hopeful.
The weak hospital system of Honduras turned out to be no match for the internal bleeding Betty had suffered. Gina caught word the next day that Betty had passed away around one in the morning. It felt like failure. Saying that we did all we could is hardly helpful. All the effort we put forth was void when she died. So all that is left is to pray that God generates good out of the tragedy. Please pray for Betty’s family.