When the Mountains Don't Move (SQL)
We stood over his bed and prayed fervently. We prayed intensely for healing, just as we'd done over so many in the hospital a couple of days prior. The same refrain that has come from countless groups I've been a part of that have interceded for healing played, as whispered petitions filled the quaint dwelling we found ourselves in. Once again, as has seemingly always been the case when I pray for diseased and bed-ridden people, we left a man lying in his bed, not yet healed. It was our third week in Honduras, and the team I was visiting for the week, was in the midst of the final week of ministry of their second month. We'd joined the pastor and doctor for a house visit to see... let's call him, Alejandro. Alejandro was a skeleton with skin to the naked eye. He laid in his bed, emaciated, a blanket covering his diapered mid-section and homemade colonic bag, which appeared to be not much more than a plastic baggy held on with scotch tape. It's fai...