GOD WILL TAKE CARE OF YOU (Part 2 )

A story from when I was 7 years old.

In 2003, I lived with my three sisters and our single-parent mom. Following the departure of her cousin, who had been helping out (in part 1 of this series), another cousin of hers stepped in intermittently to lend a hand with caring for us. This particular day, my mom had to attend a funeral and had asked him to stay over until she returned later that evening.

I vividly recall waking up early that morning, showering my mom with goodbye kisses, and eagerly anticipating the chocolate she promised to bring back. However, my excitement quickly waned upon discovering that breakfast consisted of rice porridge, a dish I never fancied. Normally, my mom would prepare a separate meal for me on such occasions, knowing my aversion to rice porridge. Unfortunately, her cousin ignored me, so I took matters into my own hands.

Grabbing a cracked mug, I filled it with water and placed it in the microwave, hoping to brew some tea. Setting the timer for two minutes, I awaited my makeshift breakfast solution. However, in my haste, I grasped the scalding hot mug with my bare hands, the intense heat searing my palm as I inadvertently spilled boiling water and steam over myself, scorching my chest and belly. Instinctively, I attempted to scratch the burning sensation, unaware that I was peeling away layers of skin in the process. I lifted my nightie and realized that so much of the skin on my chest and belly was gone. My tummy and chest were pink and reddened.

The excruciating pain elicited screams that reverberated throughout the house, prompting everyone to rush to my aid. I was rushed to the hospital and promptly admitted. My mother, alerted to the situation, cut short her trip and hurried home, her anguish obvious upon seeing me bandaged from chest to belly button. I saw my mother breakdown and weep.

During the agonizing weeks that followed, I endured regular visits to the clinic for dressing changes, each session a tormenting ordeal. The nurses, tasked with delicately removing the old bandages to prevent further damage, had to pull them off quickly like striping wax off, to prevent the sore from extending. This process caused me unbearable pain, eliciting involuntary screams and tears. Anytime they pulled one off, I would scream, and they would have to hold me down. Tiny drops of blood would gush out in the process and my mother, unable to bear witnessing my suffering, would often step outside, her eyes swollen from weeping.

As the wounds gradually began to heal, I longed to return to school, albeit with restrictions prohibiting me from participating in physical education activities. The disappointment of being sidelined while my friends frolicked on the playground weighed heavily on my young heart, often reducing me to tears. Imagine telling a 7 year old child you can’t go running with your friends. I didn’t understand why. I felt so dejected especially when my friends would get back to class and recant how much they had fun.

Each day, upon returning home, I would find my uniform drenched at the chest and belly, evidence of the ongoing healing process, and braced myself for yet another agonizing dressing change.

Reflecting on the scars I carry, both physical and emotional, they serve as a reminder of the battles I have faced and had to overcome. While the wounds may have been deep, the healing I have experienced is a testament to being strength-filled by the Holy Spirit and the grace of a higher power.

My journey will serve as a beacon of hope for others facing similar challenges, so that they know that even in their darkest moments, there is light and redemption.

My scars are healed and I only have a memory of how God stood up for me against a plot of death on my life. The burns were so intense I am shocked at how the scars have healed to almost no recognition.

GOD WILL TAKE CARE OF YOU!