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It's Christmas break. But I'm not feeling very festive right now.

Sometimes I'm in the spirit, ready to celebrate the birth of a baby boy who brought the hope of eternal life to the whole world.

But not now. Now, I'm thinking about another baby. The one I held this morning. The one who will soon be dead. And I'm wondering what God is up to.

It happened as I followed my father, a missionary, on his morning rounds through the Nigerian hospital where he works as a pediatrician—and where he must daily bring the news of a death sentence to the parents of an ailing child …

It's Christmas break. But I'm not baking cookies or hanging tinsel on the tree. I'm in a room at my father's hospital.

The light is dim from the Saharan haze, but I can see a pale baby in the bed nearest the window, sticking his tongue in and out, in and out. He is so scrawny, so tiny, and he looks so helpless. At 18 months, he only weighs about eight pounds.

Once milk-chocolate-brown, he is now a pale shade of gray. Wrinkles accent the folds of skin sagging from his delicate frame. Gingerly, I reach toward his head and feel the sunken depression at his scalp.

"What does it mean?" I ask Dad, fingering the baby's head.

Dad stops his examination long enough to tell me the child is dehydrated. I shudder and take my hand away. Dehydration, malnutrition, yes, but what brings the tears to my eyes is a pink slip of paper clutched in my right hand. I blink back tears as I read the two simple words on the center of the laboratory test slip: "strongly reactive."

Bitrus* has HIV.

Dad sighs as the pediatric team turns away from the emaciated baby in bed 4E, wishing he could avoid being the bearer of bad news to this baby's parents.

As we exit the room, my eyes steal a glance at another bed. It is empty, its sheets fresh and tidy, neatly tucked beneath the thin foam mattress. I bite my lip and close my eyes, remembering the little girl, Salamatu*, who occupied the bed only yesterday. Today Salamatu is dead—another name on a tombstone, another child denied childhood, another victim of the killer we all know as AIDS.

I watch my weary father cross the hall and enter another room. Quietly, I follow him. Dad sits stone-faced on a low couch, tense with apprehension. I take a seat close to the door and wait to see what will happen.

A woman comes in silently, followed by a tall young man, his shoulders broad, his head held high in pride. And so it begins. My father and his Nigerian assistant speak in hushed tones to the couple before them.

"Your child has HIV."

The woman hurls herself to the floor, crying out to God in heavily accented Ibo, her native language. She writhes, flailing arms and legs about in grief.

"Chiwo! Chiwo!" Oh God! Oh God!

This thin woman, whose face speaks of deep pain, continues to wail. She begs God to give ear to her suffering cries.

Does he?

It's Christmas break. But I'm not thinking about the baby Jesus. I'm thinking about the baby Bitrus, and his mother's cries of agony. And I'm asking, along with that grieving mother, Does God hear? Where is he in the midst of this overwhelming pain?

I keep wrestling with that question, but I finally reach a conclusion that defies explanation: God does hear.

Did he not hear Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane, begging God to take away his cup if it was his will? Can a God who created such complexity, such beauty, such awesome heavens, such intricate creatures be deaf? No!

He hears. Yes, he hears our cries of confusion and pain as we watch those around us suffer from the incurable virus. He sees the sorrow in the eyes of the young woman who has been given six months to live. He grieves over this killer disease running rampant in our world today. He weeps for the children who will never learn to laugh.

He knows the pain because he felt it too. He also watched his Son die, innocent and yet condemned to pain and suffering for the sin of others. And in his grief, he reaches out to the wailing mother, and touches her with the hand that scattered stars into the reaches of space. He cries with her as he pours his healing love into her gaping wound.

The reality is there: Bitrus will die.

But because I believe that God always does what is right, even in the face of something that seems so wrong, I trust that Bitrus will live again—eternally. Without pain or suffering.

It's Christmas break. But AIDS knows no holiday. The deadly virus ravages the entire globe.

I have only seen its effects here in Nigeria, the most populous nation in Africa. I've seen the despair, the defeat, the fear. I've witnessed first-hand the ignorance of a people unaware of the murderer at large.

And I have wept. In the deepest darkness of fear, I have wept for these people, these dear people who die unaware.

As I lower my head and fight back tears, hopeless questions fill my mind. God loves them and always will, but what can we do? How can we change history? How can we stop AIDS when we do not know a cure?

How can I save the lives of those like Bitrus and Salamatu who die without ever having smelled the roses or skipped down the dusty road?

In the despair surrounding me, one answer rings clear and true. I can do something. I bring my head up with resolve, dedicated to my new mission.

I will do as Jesus did. I will love them.

And I will teach them. The key to defeating AIDS is education. People need to know how it's acquired, and how it's avoided.

But they need to know more than that. They need to know about the love that God offers despite the hopelessness of AIDS.

It is my life goal to live and work on the mission field as a teacher of the Truth. I want to fight not only this horrible disease, but the hopelessness it brings.

I want to be a bearer of the Light—not only during Christmas break, but all the year through.

* Names have been changed for reasons of privacy.

Saralynn is now a freshman at Wheaton College in Illinois.

A Dying Continent?

There is still no cure for AIDS, and in a place like Nigeria—indeed, in much of Africa—little can be done to ease the suffering. Medicine is extremely costly and difficult to come by.

The picture is bleak: In Africa alone, thousands die of AIDS every day, and at least a million die every year. More than 22 million in sub-Saharan Africa have HIV or AIDs, and millions more are at high risk. In some parts of Africa, up to half of the population is infected. In Botswana, the average life expectancy was 65.2 years in 1996; today, it's 47.4 and plummeting, due to the many who die so young from the deadly virus. Ten million Africans are expected to die of AIDS in the next five years.

Pray. Ask God to help people with HIV or AIDS; pray for their physical, emotional and spiritual health. Ask God how you might help.

Give. A number of organizations help people with AIDS, and they all need funds. One Christian group you might give to is Love and Action, 3 Church Circle, Annapolis, MD 21401.

Volunteer. Ask your youth leader or your local health department how you can help patients with HIV or AIDS. Or contact Love and Action (1-800-940-9500), which is in 18 U.S. states and Canada, for suggestions.

Read more from 'It Happened to Me'

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