Hot Water Bottle and a Dolly


           This story was written by a doctor who worked in Central Africa.


               One night I  had worked hard to  help a mother in  the labor
          ward; but in spite of all we could do she died leaving  us with a
          tiny  premature baby   and a  crying two  year old daughter.   We
          would  have difficulty  keeping  the  baby alive,  as  we had  no
          incubator.  (We  had no electricity  to run an   incubator.)   We
          also had no special feeding facilities.  Although we lived on the
          equator, nights were often chilly with treacherous drafts.

               One student midwife  went for the box we had for such babies
          and the  cotton wool the baby would be  wrapped in.  Another went
          to stoke up the fire and fill  a hot water bottle.  She came back
          shortly in distress  to tell me that  in filling the bottle,   it
          had burst.  Rubber perishes easily in tropical climates.  "And it
          is our last hot water bottle!" she exclaimed.  As in the West, it
          is no  good crying over  spilled milk,  so in  Central Africa  it
          might  be considered  no good  crying  over burst  water bottles.
          They  do not  grow on  trees, and  there  are no  drugstores down
          forest pathways.
               "All right,"  Is aid, "put the baby as  near the fire as you
          safely can, and  sleep between the baby  and the door to  keep it
          free from drafts.  Your job is to keep  the baby warm."

               The following  noon, as  I did  most days,  I  went to  have
          prayers with any   of the orphanage children who  chose to gather
          with me.  I gave the youngsters  various suggestions of things to
          pray about and  told them about the  tiny baby.  I  explained our
          problem about  keeping the baby  warm enough, mentioning  the hot
          water bottle.  The  baby could so easily die if it got chills.  I
          also told them  of the two year  old sister, crying   because her
          mother had died.   During the prayer time, one ten year old girl,
          Ruth, prayed  with the  usual blunt conciseness  of   our African
          children.   "Please, God," she prayed,   "send us a water bottle.
          It'll  be no  good tomorrow, God,  as the  baby will be  dead, so
          please send it this afternoon."   While I gasped inwardly at  the
          audacity of the  prayer, she  added  by way of a  corollary, "And
          while You  are about it,  would You send  a dolly for  the little
          girl  so  she'll  know  You  really  love  her?"  As  often  with
          children's prayers, I was put on the  spot.  Could I honestly say
          "Amen?"  I just did not believe that God could do this.  Oh, yes,
          I  know that He can do everything.  The Bible says so.  But there
          are limits,  aren't there?   The only  way God could  answer this
          particular  prayer would  be  by  sending me  a  parcel from  the
          homeland.   I had been in Africa almost  four years at that time,
          and I had never, ever  received  a parcel from home.   Anyway, if
          anyone  did send  me a  parcel, who  would put   in  a hot  water
          bottle? I lived on the equator!

               Halfway through the afternoon,  while I was teaching in  the
          nurses' training  school, a message was sent that there was a car
          at my  front door.  By the time I reached home, the car had gone,
          but there, on  the veranda, was a large  twenty-two pound parcel.
          I felt tears pricking my eyes.

               I could  not  open  the parcel  alone,  so I  sent  for  the
          orphanage children.  Together we pulled off the string, carefully
          undoing each knot.  We folded the  paper, taking care not to tear
          it unduly.  Excitement was mounting.   Some thirty or forty pairs
          of eyes were focused on the large cardboard  box.   From the top,
          I lifted out  brightly colored, knitted jerseys.   Eyes  sparkled
          as I gave them out.  Then there were the knitted bandages for the
          leprosy patients, and  the children looked a little  bored.  Then
          came a box of mixed raisins and  sultanas that would make a batch
          of buns for the weekend.

               Then, as  I put  my hand  in  again, I  felt the...could  it
          really be?  I grasped it and  pulled it out -- yes, a brand  new,
          rubber hot water bottle.   I cried.  I had not  asked God to send
          it; I had  not truly  believed that He  could.  Ruth  was in  the
          front  row of the children.   She rushed forward, crying  out,"If
          God  has sent  the bottle,  He  must have  sent the  dolly, too!"
          Rummaging  down to  the bottom  of the  box,  she pulled  out the
          small, beautifully dressed dolly.  Her eyes shone!  She had never
          doubted!  Looking  up at me, she asked: "Can  I go over with you,
          Mummy,  and give this  dolly to that little  girl, so she'll know
          that Jesus really  loves her?"  That  parcel had been on  the way
          for  five whole  months.   Packed up by  my former  Sunday school
          class, whose leader had heard  and obeyed God's prompting to send
          a hot water  bottle, even to the  equator.  And one  of the girls
          had put in a dolly for an African child five months  before -- in
          answer to the believing prayer of a ten year old to bring it that
          afternoon.

          "Before they call, I will answer!" Isaiah 65:24


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