All four walls of our tin shed room are shared. On the other side of one wall is a rickshaw shed. (A rickshaw is a bike with 2 big wheels on the back that support a bench and its also one of the main ways of transportation in Bangladesh). Tired rickshaw drivers come to the shed to eat some cheap food before heading back to the streets. Another wall we share with a family, one with a couple, and on the other side of the last wall lies a busy, bustling, hallway shared with many people who are safe to say LOUD :) Directly across our hallway is another family with 2 children. I do not often see the father of the household, but I often interact with Bilkus the mother and I now call her Apa which means older sister. If our door is open and their door is open we can see directly into each others room and this family is, I believe, safe to say the loudest. So thats a lot of people and you can imagine the noise that comes along with all the people. Its pretty much consistent, the noise, and you sort of get used to it after awhile and tune the majority of it out.
Shompa was in the bathroom and I was getting ready for the day when a much different noise arose above the normal bustle. A pattern of struggling groans coming from the hallway wall. I open my door and see a crowd has started to gather across the hall. People are standing and watching as my Apa groans with pain on her bed. I get close and see her face is limp on one side and know she is having a stroke or heart attack. Her son who is around 9 years old hands me his mothers cell phone and speaks rushed Bangla which my brain interprets after what feels like ages as “Auntie do something! Call my Dad!” I’ve rarely ever seen his dad and his dad does not speak English at all. My first thought was “call 911...oh wait what is the number in Bangladesh for 911?” If you have ever had a moment like this you know how the mind races. A thousand different thoughts rush in and out of your mind in a matter of seconds. The next moments are now a blur of chaotic events in my mind but one that remains clear is running around the neighborhood with Shompa in tow trying to find a pharmacy with a doctor available. While running my thoughts focused on one thing Bilkus Apa can not die. My apa, my neighbor, my friend, she has not heard the gospel. She does not know that Jesus died for her and loves her with a deep, everlasting, unconditional love.
How urgent is the message I carry? That WE as Christians carry? I think of the emergency rush I felt and running with all I have from pharmacy to pharmacy, how does that compare to my urgency in sharing the Gospel? Even though a heart attack is a serious matter, what is more serious? Pain in the present or torment for eternity? There is nothing more serious than the message of the Gospel. I’m praising God for giving me a second chance with Bilkus, she is home now and other than exhausted she is doing fine, but my heart is heavy for my neighbors salvation. Even while I right this, since my room has less of a crowd than hers, my Auntie is praying Namag to Allah. Please pray for wisdom in how and when to share Christ with them and that I will represent Him well in my daily life. Thank you all SO much for your prayers!!!
