About Me

My name is Jen Hathorn. I'm a family medicine physician. Since January 2015 I have been living in Egbe Nigeria, which is in Kogi State. I am serving at a bush hospital practicing full spectrum family medicine. I am working with an organization called World Medical Mission which is a part of Samaritan's Purse. This blog is my place to stay connected with you through stories, meditations and pictures. I hope that you enjoy reading the posts!

Thursday, March 17, 2016

His Name Is Sunday

The flash was so bright it blinded him just milliseconds before the current hit his body causing everything to come to a screeching halt and go black. He opened his eyes many hours later to the realization that his life was forever changed. His body lay on the mattress covered with electrical and thermal burns stretching from his head, wrapping around his torso, and consuming his arms and legs. His hands had taken the full impact of the electrical current and were so badly burnt, all that remained were charred stubs with a semblance of melted fingers at the tips. The left hand was hanging on by a few weak strands of skin and tendon, exposing severed radial and ulnar bones in his forearm.  Painful days crept by as he lay at a small clinic, woefully unequipped to handle the severity of his burns and the ensuing complications. After four agonizing weeks of inadequate care his family decided to bring him to our hospital hoping to save his life and as much of his body as possible. The ride from the clinic to the hospital was awful. As the car bounced over rough roads in the dark of night his body was jarred and jostled with enough force to cause his left hand to fall off completely, the right hand just barley escaped the same fate. It was in this incredibly compromised state that he arrived. Wheeled into the emergency room on a trolly it took us only a matter of minutes to see that more than 50% of his body was deeply burned, he was septic from bacteria which had easily penetrated his damaged skin, he was greatly dehydrated and now he had no functioning hands. The smell from his infected, burnt skin was overwhelming. His pathetically damaged body was hard to look at. The first thing he did when he saw me, was smile. He hasn’t stopped smiling since. His name is Sunday. 

They named him Sunday because it declared that on that day of the week their precious child was born. With this name as a constant reminder surely they would never forget that he was given to them on a day both sacred and holy. For Sunday is a day that holds deep significance for those who recognize the awesome importance of it’s dawning many years ago. It’s a day which represents new beginnings, a new week, a new chance, a new leaf to be folded over.  It’s a day of hope, filled with undertones of whispered promises.  It’s a day to remember when life changed forever, this day called Sunday

Agony constricts around him, wrapping him in its vice-like grip until great drops of blood begin to slide down his face. Wrestling against unimaginable and unseen forces, his soul weighed down to the brink of despair, his spirit bruised again and again, his mind throbbing with the intensity of the battle he cries out, “Take this cup from me…” He was born for this purpose, chosen before time was. He left the glorious beauty of heaven for the harsh reality of humanity. He is a king. He is God. He is also a man. And everything he is and has done culminates on this horrifically painful night. Hours pass and as the darkness envelopes him, the struggle finally ends. He stands in the calm resignation of acceptance facing an entire army of evil. In the hours that follow his quiet acceptance, stark brutal events begin to unfold.  Betrayed, mocked, beaten beyond recognition, flesh torn and ripped open, unjustly condemned — he stands. Strapped to a tree, nails ripping his hands and ankles, thorns crushing and tearing his scalp — he stands. And at last as heaven and earth, spirits and men look on, he stands with a final decisive move, opens his arms, lifts his hands and accepts the full force of wrath's massive current. He stands in order to absorb the vengeance-filled bolt of punishment sent from heaven with the singular purpose of eternally destroying sin. The flash is so bright it blinds him just milliseconds before the current hits his body causing everything to come to a screeching halt and go black — he stands and then he dies.   He opens his eyes many hours later to the realization that life has forever changed. No longer does the dusk of Friday’s agony linger around him. Instead sweet hues of pink and orange streak across a smoky blue sky boldly proclaiming that a new day has come — a day called Sunday.  

Sin has been defeated/Death no longer stings. 
Evil has been vanquished/Jesus reigns as king. 

This is a day now sacred and holy. A day which represents new beginnings, a new week, a new chance, a new life.  It’s a day forever filled with hope and with the undertones of whispered promises.  It’s a day to remember how life has changed forever. It’s a day we call Sunday.  The first thing Jesus did when saw me on that Sunday, was smile. He hasn’t stopped smiling since. 



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