Help! I’m Tired of Religion by Pearl Adams, Chapter 4
Healing is Yours: Just Sow Seed-Faith
“The lump in your right breast is malignant. I’m afraid the cancer may have spread to other vital organs. We need to perform more tests to be sure. Unfortunately, this hospital doesn’t have the capacity to handle anything beyond what we’ve done. I will refer you to the Specialist Hospital in Freetown, Sierra Leone.”
I pretended to adjust my skirt. I didn’t want to look into the doctor’s eyes. I knew I would see the truth there, even if I chose to reject it. Before I left for the hospital, my pastor, Solo Johnson, called at home and instructed me to reject any report the devil might cook up through the doctor.
He said whatever doesn’t line up with God’s word concerning me would be “returned to sender.” I was sure the comprehensive test ordered by Doctor John Derbe, the Consultant Paediatrician at the Teaching Hospital, Monrovia, would be negative.
Miss James, I’m sorry. I wish you’d come to the hospital earlier than this. We would’ve taken your left breast to prevent the cancer from spreading to other organs.
Like someone in a trance, I stood up from the chair and looked the doctor squarely in the eyes. My many nights of vigil wouldn’t be in vain. “Doctor, I understand that you’re trying to help me. I appreciate it, honestly I do. The truth is that this diagnosis is not for me.
I reject it and will not subject myself to another test. Thanks for your efforts.” The doctor looked scandalized but made no attempt to stop me as I stormed out of his office. Utter rubbish, I fumed.. I saw him in his true light, an agent of darkness assigned to put me under bondage. I would have none of it.
At the gate of the hospital, I put a call through to my pastor. He was not at home. His wife, Serena, was acquainted with my case. She prayed with me on the phone and advised me to come over to their home later in the day.
This was about eleven fifteen. I hadn’t anywhere else to go except home, as I had taken the day off from work to attend to my health. I thought of visiting my cousin who resided close to the hospital, but discarded the idea. I wasn’t in the mood for any pity party. I was fully prepared for this battle.
Still mulling over what next to do, I remembered that a friend of mine, Mary Drew, was on her annual leave. I decided to pay her a surprise visit. Just a short distance from her residence, my cell phone rang. It was Pastor Solo. Apparently, his wife had filled him in on what transpired at the hospital.
Despite the gravity of the situation, he was his boisterous self. His faith in the efficacy of the word of God was infectious. I was encouraged to know that I wasn’t alone in the arena with the devil; Jesus and his church were
in my camp. What more could I ask for? I was whistling as I turned into the driveway of Mary’s apartment.
My host was also in a good mood. She said her boss had sent her “biscuits” allowance. Knowing how close she was to the managing director of the engineering firm she worked as a secretary, it was obvious that the largesse was substantial. I wasn’t envious of her, though. I wasn’t doing badly myself, except for the concern about my health. After thirty minutes of girl talk, she looked at me quizzically. I couldn’t place it. I just stared back for want of something better to do. She sat down on a side stool close to my chair and said,
Daniella, I’m worried about you. I had a dream last night that frightened me. I saw you struggling with a chimpanzee. Surprisingly, you turned on a young man who tried to help you and tore his shirt. Have you seen a doctor about the lump in your breast?
I was tempted to open up to her, but something held me back. I knew Mary to be a very pragmatic person. I knew she would mount pressure on me to go for the test in Freetown. I was determined to stay the course I had chosen, so I gave her my most charming smile and assured her that I was perfectly okay. She just shrugged her shoulder and went back to her seat.
Somehow, the camaraderie had worn off in the course of our discussion. I knew it was time to take my leave. She escorted me to the bus stop close to her house, and left after I boarded a bus for home. I almost regretted going to her house because I felt I had abused her hospitality by deceiving her about the state of my health.
Later in the day, I visited my pastor and his wife. They had some guests, so I had to wait in the visitor’s room occupied by the church secretary, Samson Sawyer. It was there in that small room that I took stock of my life against the backdrop of my predicament.
I was born into a Catholic family in the southern part of Liberia. My late father, Kufor James, was a disciplinarian to the core, and didn’t tolerate what he described as “religious prostitution.” No member of his family was allowed to experiment with “untested religion,” as he called Pentecostalism.
In fact, he almost burst an artery the day mum came back from work with a flier she said someone gave her in the bus, promoting an upcoming program of one of the Pentecostal churches in the city. My father was a die-hard Catholic. Mum, on the other hand, was more liberal. Although she seemingly endorsed her husband’s position, in private, she would encourage my three siblings and me to seek God for ourselves.
Things changed when my father was killed by child soldiers in the camp of Charles Taylor, former president of my country. He had left the village we had fled to after rebel troops invaded Monrovia, to look for food and other essential commodities in a neighboring settlement.
With my father out of the way, the lot fell on mum to give us spiritual guidance. At that time, we didn’t realize that mummy was living on borrowed time. A year after peace returned to Monrovia, she discovered a lump in her left breast. Before we could mobilize resources to send her to a hospital in Freetown, a neighboring country in the West African coast, the lump developed an abscess.
She slumped and died while my younger brother was conveying her to a clinic used by foreign troops mustered by some West African countries to stop the carnage in Monrovia.
Mum’s death was devastating because my siblings and I had no means of livelihood. Eventually, the three boys found their way out of the country to Europe, but I chose to stay back. With the help of some Austrian nuns, I completed my secondary education and was employed as a clerk in the municipal office in Monrovia.
Still feeling dissatisfied with life, I enrolled in a part-time program at the School of Technology, Monrovia, and graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree in Secretarial Studies. It was the school that Mary and I met and became close friends.
After my graduation, I continued with the municipal office, but in a higher capacity, as secretary to its chairman, Dandy Herman. The pay wasn’t fantastic, but the perks of office made up for it. I was a very happy young lady. My three brothers were also not doing badly. Two of them settled in Spain, while the younger boy secured a residence permit from the Irish government.
God added to my joy by bringing me into a tender relationship with Tenton Herman, the step-brother of my boss, a six footer of a young man with the most beautiful smile I’d ever seen. Four months later, he proposed and I asked for time to seek God’s face. My joy was short-lived when I discovered a lump in my left breast. I almost went berserk when I remembered that it was the same plague that had killed my mother. It was at this time that I got introduced to Pentecostalism.
One day, I was in the lady’s room in the office, trying to adjust the strap of my brassiere. Whether it was the strap which got hooked in my dress or my menstrual flow that started that day, I found myself wailing uncontrollably. Just then, a colleague, Esther Dade, sauntered in. I had always envied her carefree attitude to life; hence, I couldn’t relate with her in love. She tried to be friendly and had brought me breakfast twice, which I had politely declined.
On noticing the state I was in, Esther locked the door to the lady’s and reached out a hand to wipe away my tears. I didn’t make any attempt to stop her. After a while, she held me close and said, “You know, God can deal with whatever load that’s threatening to destroy you. We have a program at the church tonight.
Why don’t you come around and meet my pastor?” She sounded so sincere that I agreed to give it a try. We left the office together exactly at 3:00 p.m. I don’t know what she told my boss, because he called me into his office by 2:15 p.m. and said I could attend the program. He said Esther had spoken to him about it.
I wish I could say I enjoyed the service. I couldn’t just flow with other worshippers because everything seemed strange to me. The preaching was, in my estimation, below par. The pastor, a diminutive figure in casual attire, said Christians experience difficulties because they do not love God with their money.
As I pondered on his submission, I remembered my late mother and her charitable works in the Catholic Church. Did God let her die because she didn’t give enough of her substance for his work? Was my father killed by rebels to punish him for not giving enough money to the church? I felt resentment welling up in me, but I held myself in check. I looked at Esther, but she was too engrossed in the sermon to notice my discomfort.
At the end of his sermon, the pastor said, “The Lord has given me a word for those who need a special touch. Sow a seed commensurate with the miracles you crave.”
I stood there, not knowing what to do. When I saw the mass of people moving toward the altar, I decided to try my luck. Just maybe the God of this pastor would intervene in my situation and save me from imminent death. I emptied my purse, except for my bus fare.
After the service, a Christian brother living close to Esther’s apartment gave us a lift. Both of them chatted excitedly as we left the church. Somehow, my thoughts strayed to my late father and his hang-up with Pentecostal churches.
He never lacked something to criticize about their mode of worship, their noise, or their arrogance, as he saw it. Although I didn’t share most of his views, I still maintained a distance when it came to fraternizing with Pentecostals.
I knew without doubt that he wouldn’t have approved of my seeking help in a Pentecostal church, but then, where else could I go? I was also sure that the Reverend Father of my parish would only encourage me to seek medical help. That was the advice he gave my mum. It wasn’t that the Reverend Father didn’t believe in divine healing.
He said, “It is a waste of time to wait for divine healing which God may choose not to honor, when hospitals are equipped to handle health issues.” Although he sounded so bland, what he said made sense. My mum never bothered to go somewhere else for a second opinion. Three months later, the man preached at her funeral. She was loyal to her church and its doctrines to the end.
Noticing how quiet I was, Esther and her friend tried to draw me into their conversation. She held my left hand and squeezed it. “Don’t worry, Daniella, just watch and see what God will do on your behalf. Didn’t you hear the testimonies of people who moved God’s hand with their seed-faith? It’s a very powerful weapon of warfare against the enemy.
I haven’t seen anyone that’s sown seed- faith without experiencing the miraculous. Relax, my sister. All is well.” Her confidence was infectious. I found myself singing some choruses along with them until they dropped me off at my apartment.
After that church program, I checked my breast every day, hoping the lump would disappear. Three months passed without any sign that something spectacular had happened in my body. I didn’t have the courage to complain to Esther. I memorized all the scriptures the pastor gave us at the church, and others beside.
I responded to an altar call at Esther’s church, and joined a service group; all to no avail. Eventually, I booked an appointment to see the pastor, Kelly Knowles. He gave me more scriptures to “eat,” anointed me with oil, and charged me not to give in to the intimidation of the devil. He said Satan’s head had been cut off by Christ, and that he was only wriggling his tail to give the impression that he was still a force to be reckoned with. I went home elated, but God still kept his distance.
By the end of November 1998, three years after I joined the Pentecostals, I was a nervous wreck. I still hadn’t gone to the hospital; neither did I inform my siblings about my predicament. I spent most of my time memorizing scriptures “to build up my faith,” according to my pastor. I doubled my tithe, and gave all sorts of sacrificial offerings. I tried my best to live out the Christian life, with the hope that God would compensate me with healing for my body.
It wasn’t until December of that year that I knew I had been trying to serve God in my own strength. I was out one morning on a walk. At a junction close to my apartment, I looked up; or rather something in me prompted me to read an inscription on a billboard mounted on a wall surrounding an estate in the vicinity. It said, “God is looking for lovers, not people who use him as a means to their ends.” Something about the inscription fascinated me. I had passed that point hundreds of time without taking note of it.
It got me thinking about the course of my life. Of course, I knew deep within me that I had no love for God. Actually, I had never seen him from the perspective of a lover. That certainly was a strange sermon. I hadn’t any difficulty accepting the fact that God loved me.
That, to me, was the essence of Christianity—God sending his son to die on my behalf because of the quantum of love he has for me. I could relate with that. What my mind was fending-off was the idea that God could be in need of love. Almighty God in need of something? That will be the day, I thought.
I was still musing about the matter when my phone rang. It was Camice Dandy, a Christian brother sharing an apartment with my fiancé, Tenton. The tone of his voice suggested that something was amiss. He said he needed to see me urgently. Out of curiosity, I dialed Tenton’s cell phone. There was no reply. I tried the land line; still no response.
As I hurried into the house to prepare for the day, I tried to imagine the reasons for Camice’s summons and Tenton’s refusal to pick up my calls. I thought the two guys were out to play pranks on me, as usual.
I recalled one Saturday morning I got to their apartment only to meet a note taped on the door knob that both of them left for Ghana and would be back in a fortnight. I was trying to fight back tears that welled up in my eyes, when they stole up behind me and attempted to snatch my handbag.
As I whirled around to confront them, Tenton lifted me like a rag doll and threatened to throw me into a neighbouring compound patrolled by two Alsatian dogs, except he saw my thirty-two teeth. I was too annoyed to enjoy their stupid joke, so I kept my mouth shut. In fact, I didn’t care at that time if he threw me into a den of lions!
Seeing the mood I was in, Tenton beckoned on his friend to open the door leading to the sitting room. He deposited me on the sofa, and knelt down beside me. He looked so forlorn that my heart melted. In less than five minutes, the three of us were cavorting around the house until I left for choir practice at about three o’clock.
Since that day, the two guys spared me their pranks. I was all the while on my guard, though. Relieving that experience, I wondered what could be so serious to warrant Camice calling me on the phone so early in the morning on a workday.
I was surprised and a little bit apprehensive when I saw him waiting outside the gate. He wasn’t looking cheerful at all. I became alarmed. Before I could get to the gate, he walked briskly to where I was and held my two hands. The pain in his eyes told me all I needed to know. I had lost Tenton. Tears were flowing from my eyes, even before he said a word. “Daniella, I’m sorry I have to be the harbinger of such horrible news. I don’t know how to break it to you.”
I don’t know where I found the courage. I held his chin and said, “There’s nothing worst than death, Camice. Even that is not strong enough to destroy those who put their trust in God. Is Tenton dead, Camice?” I expected the worst, but Camice turned his back to me, but not before I saw a tear drop on his face.
His voice was muted as he whispered, “Tenton left for the United States last night with his step-brother’s second wife. Please forgive me. I knew they were very close, but I had no idea they were having an affair. Your boss, Mr. Herman, is hopping mad. I won’t be surprised if he chucks off his job and goes in pursuit of the love birds.”
I was too shocked to do anything other than stare at Camice. Without a word, I turned to leave, but Camice blocked my path. He reached out a hand and wiped the tears flowing freely from my eyes. I steeled myself to walk through life alone. There was no way I would ever allow anyone get close enough to break my heart. After what seemed like an eternity, I took my leave of Camice. I assured him I won’t do anything stupid.
The moment I stepped into my sitting room, I did the only thing that made sense. I dropped on the floor and cried out to God to restore my health. Somehow, Tenton’s action paled into insignificance when weighed against the cancer ravaging my body. I made all sorts of promises to God that evening.
Despite all my tears, heaven shut its doors. I eventually fell asleep about eleven o’clock, exhausted and dehydrated. I hadn’t the strength to walk down to the kitchen to get a bottle of water. I woke up suddenly about four in the morning. I tried to get back to sleep, to no avail. I felt pressed to read a book and I eventually settled for the Pursuit of God by A. W. Tozer.
As I flipped the pages, a paragraph caught my attention. It said, “When religion has said its last word, there is little that we need other than God himself. The evil habit of seeking God-and effectively prevents us from finding God in full revelation. In the ‘and’ lies our great woe. If we omit the ‘and’ we shall soon find God, and in Him we shall find that for which we have all our lives been secretly longing for.”
As I meditated on these words, I heard distinctly, “I do not share my glory with graven images. The truth is you want me to heal you because you are afraid to die. It is the fear of death that’s the motivating factor behind your quest for my intervention. You are bitter because Tenton used and dumped you. Don’t you know I, too, hurt when people try to use me to achieve their aims? It won’t cost me anything in terms of strength to bring health to your ailing body. All I want from you is your affection, but you aren’t ready for that.
Are you willing to take up your cross and follow me? Don’t rush into making any commitment just because you need healing for your body, which is but glorified clay. Think about eternity and make an informed decision. I’m waiting for your reply.
“Lord,” I said, intending to let him know I was ready to commit the entirety of my being to him. Somehow, I knew he’d left. I was stupefied. I’d heard some brethren in church talk boastingly of God conversing with them. I had always desired such a relationship with my Creator, but didn’t know exactly how to get across to him.
I read several “how to” books on the matter, but none provided that vital link. Out of frustration, I concluded that either God had stopped talking to people in this generation, or he wasn’t really interested in having an intimate relationship with me
Still basking in the euphoria of hearing the voice of Jesus, I put in a disc by Bob Fitts titled “He Will Come and Save You.” I danced round the apartment with joy in my heart. Finally, I plopped into a chair, breathless with excitement. I had a knowing in me that things would change for the better. I was sure of that.
Without a second thought, I knelt down in the center of my sitting room and surrendered my life to Christ. Afterwards, I sang some hymns from an old hymn book bequeathed to me by my maternal grandmother. She was a Methodist. One of the hymns I sang was “The Old Rugged Cross,” a favorite of my grandmother’s. It ministered greatly to my wounded heart. I was still humming it when I fell asleep.
The next day, I woke up with an unusual appetite for the word of God. Instead of my usual ten minute prayer, I spent about an hour with God, on my knees. That was how our love affair started, without any third party. It was a refreshing time for me, getting to know God that closely. Throughout that time, I didn’t mention my sick body.
I thought about it, but wasn’t petrified with the fear of death like before. Three months after I made peace with God, he spoke clearly to me about my health issue. I was at a shopping center on Oxford Street. I was window-shopping actually. I had a prompting to bring out my Bible. I almost thought the better of it, but the Holy Spirit prevailed.
As I brought out the Bible, a man holding a duffel bag walked up to me and said, “The Lord says I should tell you not to be afraid. He says he will come and save you in the midnight of your ordeal. My name is Solo Johnson. I pastor the Redemption Ministries Inc. Here is my complimentary card. Feel free to get in touch.
” The moment I collected the card from him, he walked away, without giving me any opportunity to thank him for the message. I shrugged my shoulders and boarded a taxi back to my flat. It would’ve been cheaper for me to take the city bus, but I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. I kept pondering on the message from the Lord. What did he mean by “the midnight of my ordeal”? Why wouldn’t he heal me immediately? Thankfully, the taxi driver wasn’t the talkative type. In fact, he didn’t even attempt to start a conversation with me.
On getting home, curiosity got the better of me, so I put a call through to the pastor. He said he was visiting some church members. He asked if I wouldn’t mind seeing his wife at their home, with a promise to join us later. I agreed to call on his spouse, and he gave me the directions to his residence.
Still clutching the complimentary card, I made the trip to their home, located in the highbrow “European Quarters,” adjacent the Government Reserved Area (GRA) occupied by key government functionaries.
The administration of late Samuel Doe had issues a quit notice to civilians residing in the European Quarters shortly before he was hacked to death by his main rival, Yommie Johnson. Doe had offered to pay landlords in the area some form of compensation for their properties, but all of them rejected his offer.
After a two-week stand-off, he announced on Radio Monrovia that he would not hesitate to crush any opposition to his plans to expand the GRA to enable him build quarters for “important people in government.” Of course, by that time, Doe was the judge and jury in Liberia, so the embattled landlords resigned themselves to fate. Fortunately, Doe’s execution by Johnson put an end to that ill-advised scheme.
I walked gingerly to the front door, not sure that I would be welcomed by the lady of the house. Obviously, the husband got across to her, because she opened the door at the first ring of the door bell. I was taken aback when I saw her. I had expected to see a middle-aged lady, but the person who stood before me was almost my age. After we exchanged pleasantries and I introduced myself, she beckoned me to follow her. She led the way to her sitting room, a cute room with quaint antique furniture.
As we sat down, she said, “Daniella, my husband hasn’t told me anything about you except that the Lord told him that he wants to do a new thing in your life. Before I bring you refreshment, I want you to know that this is your home henceforth. The next time you visit, I won’t entertain you. I expect you to serve yourself. That’s the way we treat anyone God sends to our home. My husband will be here shortly. Just relax. What can I offer you?”
Before I could answer her, the door bell rang and she sprang up. Her face lit up as she moved towards the door. She returned with her husband in tow. They were chatting like kids. Apparently, they were very fond of each other. It was obvious that their affection was not displayed for my benefit. I suddenly felt very lonely.
The pain of Tenton’s betrayal hit me afresh. I was so lost in my own world that I forgot about theirs. The pastor’s throaty laughter brought me back to reality. “Oh, hello Daniella, hope my Ma’am hasn’t interrogated you, yet. She likes to dig deep into family trees before she adopts new children.”
With pretended outrage, she gave him a jab in the midrib, and he doubled over with a fake shriek. This couple sure knows how to entertain each other, I thought. I wasn’t really amused, but I forced myself to smile at their joke in order not to be seen as a jerk. Still struggling with my emotions, I managed to say, “Sir, I’m glad you could get here so soon.
No, your wife hasn’t commenced the interrogation yet. Of course, she doesn’t need to. I would gladly unveil the family tree myself, just to become her daughter. Who wouldn’t want a mother as pretty as your wife, sir?”
Well, I didn’t think my comment was funny. Frankly, I didn’t care. It obviously tickled them, as they roared with laughter. Somehow, their gaiety robbed off me and I became less tense. Some minutes later, the three of us were having dinner served by a girl of about eighteen years, who was introduced as the pastor’s first cousin. With the meal over, we retired to an anteroom used for counselling. It was there I poured out my heart to them, my fears, aspirations, and my broken heart.
No one spoke for about three minutes after I had unburdened myself. The pastor broke the silence with a hymn. It was the “Old Rugged Cross.” I was stunned. How did this man know that the hymn was my favourite? Could it be a coincidence? Without prompting, his wife and I joined him, and heaven opened! It was then the Lord spoke through his wife and I knew I was the beneficiary.
She said, “I have refined you but not in the way silver is refined. Rather, I have refined you in the furnace of suffering. I will rescue you for my sake; yes, for my own sake! I am the LORD. My glory will I not give to graven images, even the graven images in your heart. If you are willing and obedient, you will eat the fruit of the land.”
As she spoke, I stole a glance at her face. It had a radiance that was ethereal. I knew without doubt that we were in the presence of the Almighty God. When she stopped, we held hands and prayed. Actually, it was more a thanksgiving to God. We sang two more hymns and some choruses before returning to the sitting room.
By this time, it was about two in the afternoon, and I had to leave. They volunteered to take me home. On the way to my house, they encouraged me to go all out for God. They said God desired lovers, not people who try to use him as a means to their ends. I was elated that I’d finally met people who could help me grow spiritually. We parted on a joyful note, and I promised to keep in touch.
After that first meeting, I found myself drawn to the couple. It was natural that I should attend their church, located in the Soho area of Monrovia. I enjoyed the services enormously, and I made some friends. Despite the fact that the Lord spoke to me more frequently after I joined the church, the lump in the breast stood strong like Mount Everest. I wasn’t in despair though, because my faith in God was growing daily.
One morning, I woke up to find some unsightly growth under my armpit. I immediately put a call through to the pastor’s wife. She advised me to see a doctor, and assured me that Jesus will do what he promised. I left for the hospital with some trepidation, but I tried to wear a brave face. I didn’t want to be an object of pity.
Pastor Johnson often said that most Christians walk around looking for people to attend their pity-party. He said nothing offends God more than an attitude that seemed to imply that he takes delight in our suffering.
Getting to the office the next day was a big issue because I felt drained of energy. I needed to see my boss, though, not just to seek his permission but to hand over some important documents he kept in my custody. He’d called me in the night to remind me about them. After tiding up my desk, I left for the hospital about nine fifteen.
My mind was in turmoil as I made my way to doctor Derbe’s office. What game was the Lord playing with me? I mused. Hadn’t He promised to heal me? Tears of self-pity welled up in my eyes, but I quickly wiped them off.
Thankfully, the doctor didn’t mention what transpired at our last meeting. The moment I told him I was ready for the tests; he put a call through to the Specialist Hospital, Freetown, to book an appointment for me. As soon as I stepped out of the hospital complex, I put a call through to the pastor’s wife. She didn’t seem surprised by the turn of events.
In fact, she encouraged me to leave for Sierra Leone as soon as I could secure permission from my boss. I tried the pastor’s line, but it was engaged. I contemplated calling my siblings to inform them of the impending trip, but thought better of it.
Why should I spoil their day with my tales of woe? I’d always hated the idea of being the harbinger of bad news. Some people take delight in being the first to “break” evil tidings. That wasn’t my trademark.
I walked briskly into the sunshine, and removed the pin I used to hold my long hair, letting it cascade on my shoulder. Any casual observer would’ve surmised that I had no care in the world. That was the image I decided to project.
I had always hated being an object of pity. I knew I would get nothing more if I allowed myself to wallow in self-pity. My late mum used to call me the “ice lady” during my teenage years, because I hardly ever cried, even when dad spanked me, which was often.
The next day, I briefed my boss as much as I could about the trip to Freetown. He gave his blessing and also gave me some pocket money. I had to withdraw virtually my entire savings, since I had no idea about the cost of the trip. Anger welled up in me against God and the devil. Was my situation some kind of joke by God?
Why did he pledge to “rescue me for his sake?” Is he going to wait until I drop dead of exhaustion before calling me back to life, like he did Lazarus in the Bible? My mind was full of questions. I had started my Christian journey with so much hope for the abundance life promised by Christ. But here I was, destitute of ideas on how to get across to God to move His hand in my favour.
Still smarting from what I felt was a raw deal from God, I arrived at the Specialist Hospital in Freetown on a rainy Thursday. I had visited the city a few times with some friends, so it wasn’t a big deal locating the hospital. Moreover, Freetown wasn’t such a big city.
The Consultant Paediatrician, Doctor Stanley Gregory, was obviously Irish. He was a big man in his early sixties, and his easy smile put me at ease as soon as I stepped into his office. I noticed he had an ugly scar close to his chin. I couldn’t understand why a renowned doctor like him would carry such a hideous mark on his face.
He must have seen the look on my face, for he suddenly sat straight in his chair and said, “Some scars are worth keeping, you know. More like mementoes. Yea, my close friends and my wife share your sentiments about this scar. They want me to have it removed through cosmetic surgery, but I choose to keep it as a reminder of my folly. This, my dear, is the reward I got for disobeying my parents.
“The incident is still fresh in my memory, thanks to this scar. I had been confined to my room by my parents because I insisted on attending the birthday party of a boy some busybodies said was involved with the wrong crowd.
Well, I thought I had out-smarted my parents when I was able to ‘fix’ the window and sneak out of the house. Things went well until a fight broke out which almost cost me my life. I barely made it. As you can see, the wound was very deep, but God had mercy on me. Ah, the folly of youth! So, how are we today?
Dr Derbe called me on the phone yesterday about your case. He said you’ve undergone a thorough examination at his hospital. I’m afraid we’ll still ask you to repeat the tests here, and others besides, before we know what next to do.”
As the man continued to chatter, my mind was on the fellowship I had with the pastor’s wife, where God promised to intervene on my behalf. I wasn’t really keen on seeking a solution through medical sciences, but I couldn’t bring myself to reject the counsel of my pastor and his wife.
I stared at the wall as the doctor pottered about his office opening and closing cabinets. I looked at the wall clock in the office. I had spent about thirty minutes already.
When the doctor saw me checking the time, he chuckled and said, “Whenever you come to see me, forget about time. I try not to remember that I’ve got a wall clock in this office once a patient walks in. I value life because I know how much it means to God.
Here, take these forms to the lab. It’s on the first floor. Usually, it takes about a week for the results to come in. I suggest you return to Monrovia after the test, and check the result on July eighteenth. Today is the eleventh. That should give you enough time to prepare for the trip. Oh, don’t forget what I told you about leaving your anxiety about time in Monrovia before our next appointment.”
I couldn’t help warming up to the man. His face brightened as I reached out and touched the scar. “Thanks, Doctor. I’ve learned a very good lesson today. I, too, have scars. They may not be visible, but I remember them all the same. They are also products of folly.
I’m glad God sent me to you, sir. I’ll be back.” I turned and literally fled the office as tears streamed from my eyes. My heart burned in anger for the treatment meted out to me by Tenton. I swore under my breath that no man would ever have the opportunity to give me such a deep cut. I pulled myself together before I got to the lab. I didn’t relish the thought of making myself an object of pity over a heartless character like Tenton.
The tests turned out to be more exacting and time consuming than I had anticipated. I wasn’t unduly perturbed, though, as I had made arrangement to stay the night in Freetown. I didn’t leave the hospital until 5:00 p.m. and I had gotten into town at 10:00 a.m. with the first flight out of Monrovia.
As I stepped into the foyer of the small hotel tucked in a cul-de-sac close to Avalon Street, I saw the bus that brought us from the airport parked at the carport. I was so delighted when I heard that a flight was available for 6:00 p.m. to Monrovia. I quickly joined the queue of travellers.
.Returning to Monrovia without any kind of breakthrough was a big let-down for me. I cried all through the one-hour flight. Though I couldn’t say what I expected from the visit to the Specialist Hospital, I felt the Lord should’ve spared me the hassles of another trip to Freetown.
To compound the situation, I discovered another lump, this time in my right breast, after I returned from Freetown. Not knowing what to do, I called Dr. Derbe. He was very sympathetic and promised to get in touch with Dr. Gregory to use his influence to speed up the lab tests. The feeling of gloom almost overcame me, but for the surprise visit of a Christian sister, Joyce Blake.
In fact, I had no idea she knew where my apartment was, as we weren’t that close in church. I could only conclude that she was on a divine mission. I knew I could’ve been refreshed by my pastor and his spouse, but I felt it wasn’t necessary to over-burden them with my problems. I did call to brief them on the outcome of my trip, though.
Joyce and I hit it off, to my surprise. We had a lot of things in common, especially in the choice of Christian authors. She borrowed some of my books, and promised to let me have some of hers. I was blessed tremendously by her visit. She left after we both prayed together. There was no mention of my state of health, though I was sure she must have discerned that all was not well with me.
Four days after my trip to Freetown, I got a call from Dr Gregory. He said I needed to be in the hospital immediately. I promptly called my pastor and his wife, asking for their prayers, as I intended leaving the next day. I also called Doctor Derbe, just in case he hadn’t been told by his colleague.
I was pensive throughout the flight to Freetown. Wild thoughts flashed through my mind. Would I ever see my country again? What would be the outcome of the second trip? I tried to pray, but couldn’t. My soul was too downcast to cooperate with my spirit in prayer. A young man I met at the check-in counter took a liking to me and, coincidently, sat on the aisle close to my seat.
He kept the flow of conversation going until we got to Freetown. I don’t know whether it was my state of mind or the reaction to the break-up with Tenton. As soon as I entered the airport cab taking me to the hospital, I tore up his complementary card. I couldn’t even remember much of what he said in the plane, as I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.
As I got to the hospital, a call came through from my pastor. He assured me that God would surprise me with his goodness. I took that as one of those Pentecostal niceties we say to people to pep them up. If faith was graded on a scale of one to a hundred, mine couldn’t have measured up to one at that point in time. I actually felt betrayed by God.
On getting to Dr. Gregory’s office, I was told he was at the theatre. The secretary, a pleasant-looking woman in her mid-thirties, said I could wait in her office or visit the staff canteen for something to eat as, Dr. Gregory’s guest. It was then I realized how hungry I was. I accepted the offer, and she asked another staff to escort me to the canteen, located about two blocks away from the hospital complex.
When we returned, the doctor was waiting for me, along with two other men I presumed were his assistants. “Ah, there you are Miss James.” He turned to his companion. “This is Daniella Kufor James, the lady from Monrovia. I hope you enjoyed your meal, my dear. These guys are working with me on your case.
We don’t have much time if we must stop the cancer from spreading to your vital organs. We have to place you on chemotherapy immediately. The doctor on my left is Kente Verake. He’s a Ghanaian. This bald- headed guy is Paul Lambrete. Don’t let his looks fool you. He’s not a day younger than seventy!”
The banter lightened my mood, and I joined in the laughter. I had a hunch Dr. Gregory went out of his way to lift my sagging spirit. My respect for the man grew. I said I appreciated his concern for my health, and promised to cooperate with him and his colleagues to contain the situation. “Alright then,” he said, turning to his companions.
“Let’s start the treatment tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. That should give our lady here enough time to tidy up herself. Oh, Miss James, hope you are not fussy about losing your hair temporarily. We’ve got to scrape it off before the treatment commences. That means you should be at the theatre by 9:00 a.m. to get that done. Okay, my dear, just go to your hotel and take some rest. Call me if there’s anything I should know before we meet tomorrow.”
I thanked the three of them and left for the hotel, a driving distance of about twenty minutes. As I unpacked my things, the Bible slipped from my hand and fell on the floor. Stooping down to pick it up, a verse caught my attention. It was I Corinthians 11:30. It said, “That is why many of you are weak and sick and some even died.” I wasn’t too sure the scripture was meant for me.
I pondered it for some minutes before I sat down on a dressing stool, to finish the entire chapter. It highlighted the order at the Lord’s Supper and Paul’s instruction to Corinthian Christians on the matter. I had a feeling God was talking to me. At the same time, I didn’t understand what the Holy Communion had to do with my situation.
In frustration, I cried out to God to make me whole spirit, soul, and body. After about two hours of weeping my heart out and pledging my undying love for my Father, I heard his voice. It was unmistakably His, lest anyone makes the serious mistake of trying to convince me that I was hallucinating!
He said, “Daniella, pick up a bottle of fruit drink and a loaf of bread from the shop downstairs in the hotel. You need to take the Communion tonight. In case you don’t know it, I AM the Faithful One. You accused me of betraying you. I forgive you because you were ignorant of my love for you. Now, I am here to fulfil my promise to you. Trust me and go get those things. My peace I leave with you. Be secured in my love.”
Like one in a very pleasant dream, I stood up from the floor and picked up my purse. To say that I was walking on cloud nine is putting it mildly. I was too excited to care who saw my puffy eyes. I literally floated down the staircase of the hotel; knowing that something awesome was about to happen in my life. Frankly, I hadn’t a clue what the Lord had up his sleeve, but I knew deep down that heaven had tilted the scale in my favour. Five minutes later, I was bouncing up the stairs back to my room.
The way I clutched the provisions, a casual observer would’ve thought I was being pursued by thieves! Humming a gospel song, “The Lord Reigns, Blessed be the Name of the Lord” under my breath, I stepped into my room with anticipation whetted by God’s visitation.
I was about to break the seal on the fruit juice when I remembered that the Lord had said the Communion would be for the night. Something in me was pushing for action, but I recalled Elijah’s confrontation with the prophets of Baal on Mount Carmen recorded in 1 Kings 18:1-42. Verse 36 says, “And it came to pass at the time of the offering of the evening sacrifice, that Elijah the prophet came near, and said, LORD God of Abraham, Isaac, and Israel, let it be known this day that thou art God in Israel, and that I am thy servant, and that I have done these things at thy word.”
I had often wondered why Elijah had to wait for the customary time of the evening sacrifice to pray down the power of God, until it dawned on me that the LORD works in times and seasons. Not wanting to offend God in anyway, especially at a time he’d shown his mighty hand on my behalf, I packed the bread and juice away. I decided it would be more profitable to spend the time in God’s word, so I picked up the Bible and read some chapters of the book of Hebrews before sleep overcame me.
I woke up with a start, afraid that I’d slept the night away without taking the Communion. I checked the time on my cell phone. It was 9:15 p.m. I quickly had a shower and changed into a beautiful gown I had received as a present from my brother, Bob, on my twenty-fourth birthday. I felt I needed to look my best since I was about to have supper with the King of kings.
I started the fellowship with some spiritual songs, after which I read passages that made reference to the Holy Communion. Suddenly, the heavens opened and the glory of God filled my little hotel room. I worshiped the Lord in a way I never thought possible. I was singing with understanding, in unknown tongues, I danced, jumped, and made a joyful noise before him. I didn’t care who heard my voice. I wouldn’t have minded if the hotel management had thrown me out that night.
The more I danced, the more the glory fell. At a point, my body couldn’t stand it any longer, so I sat down in an armchair close to the bed. It was then that it occurred to me to check my body. Behold, the devil had been forced by my Lord to retrieve his evil packages! I was free! Free at last. I checked the two breasts. No lumps. No abscess. I checked my armpit. The unsightly growths had “returned to sender.” I spun around in praise. I waltzed. I shouted “Hallelujah” until my voice became hoarse.
Like the four lepers at the gate of Samaria who couldn’t keep their miracles to themselves, I picked up my phone and called my pastor and his wife, then friends, relatives, and the two consultants who handled my case. I was too glad to rub salt in the wounds of the devil by sharing my testimony.
Some Christians don’t know that the more they lift up Jesus, the more Satan shrivels and unveils his ugliness. While my friends were naturally excited about God’s master stroke, the two consultants treated me like a neurotic. In fact, Dr Gregory suggested sending some people to the hotel to take me to the hospital for “close observation.” The way I saw it, it looked as if he thought I’d gone bananas. I was surprised, because I’d heard this man mention God frequently. I was sure he was a Christian.
Doctor Derbe, on his part, was more cautious. He advised me to allow his colleagues to “handle my situation the best they can, while still praying for a miracle, because nothing is impossible with God.” I smiled, knowing that the doctor meant I should hope that God would use medical sciences to prolong my life, rather than making a fool of myself by believing that the Lord would rend the heavens and come down to destroy cancer in my body.
I mumbled something, not wanting to engage anyone in an argument over what I knew to be an authentic miracle of God. I eventually switched off the phone and continued to praise and worship the Lord until about three in the morning when I dozed off.
Early the next morning, I left for the hospital with the confidence of one who had an encounter with the living God. Doctor Gregory and his two colleagues exchanged glances as I bounced into his office. I knew I looked the perfect picture of health.
I sympathized with them, though, knowing how stressful it must be to live with a heart that acknowledges the presence of God, but concedes to the dictates of a head that says “He doesn’t exist.”
Doctor Gregory was, as usual, all smiles. He shook my hands and said, “Hi lady, you look divine today. Care to share the secret with us?” I was about to launch in to how God visited me in my hotel room, when I realized the doctor wasn’t really interested in my response. It was more like the kind of questions colleagues ask on a Monday morning.
“How was your weekend?” How was church service?” No one really wants to listen to a catalogue of woes. If you don’t understand that they are just being polite, you’ll shoot your mouth off, only to find out that no one gave you audience.
Having a perfect understanding of their warped mentality where God was concerned, I decided to let my healing speak for me. As God would have it, the three of them agreed that I should undergo a bioscopy before the commencement of the chemotherapy. Dr Gregory assured me that the test wouldn’t require scraping off my hair, so I happily consented.
I was humming a gospel song to myself as they wheeled me into the Radiography unit. After the test, the attendants assured me the results would be ready in an hour. They said I could take fresh air outside the hospital and return on time to see the doctors. Of course, I was delighted to leave the hospital environment and take in some fresh air while still giving thanks to God for my healing.
About forty-five minutes later, my phone rang. It was Doctor Gregory. He was breathless. I knew without being told, that my God had confounded his science. He said I should return to his office immediately. I was too glad to oblige him, if only to see the look of perplexity on his face. This time, as I entered the office, the cockiness about them had completely disappeared.
They looked at me as if I were an alien from outer space. I was amused at it all. Here were individuals who were encountering the majesty of God in His most prized, creation, man, yet they were agnostics. What could be worse than seeing the truth in colour and accepting a lie?
For want of something to do to confront their unbelief, I roared with laughter. I no longer cared if they would be offended or not. I don’t know if it was my reaction to their hard-heartedness, or the awesomeness of God, the three men went down on their knees and cried out to God for mercy. Somehow, I was filled with a boldness I couldn’t explain. I eventually led them to Christ before I left the hospital to catch the 6:00 p.m. flight back to Monrovia.
Obviously, God hadn’t exhausted his goodies for me. As I stepped into the plane, the first face I saw was that of my mystery admirer of the previous day. The way he smiled at me, I knew God was up to something.
As I settled down in my seat, I heard the Lord say, “It’s better to have a partner than to go it alone. I sent Tenton away because you weren’t meant for each other. You can only find true rest and security in the choice I’ve made for you. Trust me.”
That was how Dave and I got married. It wasn’t smooth at first, especially when I got to know his father was the late Samuel Doe’s right hand man during the Liberian civil war. In fact, when he introduced himself as Dave Sampiong during the flight back to Monrovia, I assumed he was from Sierra Leone, because Sampiong is more common in Sierra Leone than in my country. As a matter of fact, the name didn’t come to national consciousness until Doe rose to power and appointed Major Lantel Sampiong a his Chief of Staff.
It wasn’t until we started dating that I realized I was fraternizing with the son of the dreaded major. I almost pulled away, but God intervened through my new friend, Joyce, who incidentally hailed from the same village as Dave.
For her tireless efforts, which culminated in my taking on the “hated” name, Sampiong, I gave her the singular honour of being the godmother of my first child, Christine Joyce. The ways of God are past finding out. Great is his faithfulness.