We had been playing with the kids in the village and painted the finger nails of dozens of girls and a few boys. There’s a lot of love that goes into the eye contact, the smiles, the holding of hands, and finally, the applying of nail polish. No language needed. Just being present in the moment.
The girls were initially shocked, then overwhelmingly grateful, to find that we would polish both hands. Even the left hand. The multi-purpose hand, especially useful in areas where toilet paper was a luxury item and water was nowhere to be found. The shameful one. The brightly painted finger nails spoke of acceptance, of sacrifice, and a love that covered a multitude of sins.
Orera. You are beautiful. Loved. Cherished.
Obrigada. Thank you. For seeing me. Thanks for calling out what is buried under the dusty stripes of sweat from today’s labor, from yesterday’s disappointment, or from years of abuse. For allowing me to believe that I am worthy.
Everyone needs to be seen. Acknowledged. Accepted.
Even tiny toddlers in a Santa costume.
In July.
She was 16 years old and her son was 2.
You could see that she was tired and fed up. Taking care of a child while being a child herself had proven to be beyond exhausting, and she longed to spend some time with her friends without a toddler tugging on her skirt.
The father of the child was nowhere to be seen. Everywhere his mother went he followed, crying. She didn’t respond to him, she was way too tired. Reluctantly, she lined up with her friends to get her nails painted. The little boy wailed, pulling at her skirt, only to be ignored. She was out. Out of strength, out of love and affection.
I approached her gently, thankful for the few words of Portuguese and Makua I had picked up, and asked her if she would let me look after her son while she got her nails done. She studied me carefully. I was proud of her for screening me; she would not send her child with just any stranger. I had been weighed in the balances and found not wanting. She nodded her acceptance.
He was warm, tired and thirsty.
There, in the merciful shade from the tree, he eagerly drank the water he was offered, before turning to explore my blond hair, study my blue eyes, and scratch my pale skin. I tickled him, and those big dark eyes were fixed on me with contained surprise. He didn’t seem used to playing, and I could almost see how his mind was spinning, trying to figure out what was going on. Little by little he began to relax, and soon after he laughed out loud.
His mother never let us out of her sight, although she didn’t smile or wave at her boy. It was like her joy had died. I didn’t know her story, nor was it any of my business. I have the greatest respect for young mothers who take care of their children to the best of their abilities. But my own mother’s heart wept for both children who desperately needed to be held, loved, and celebrated.
After her nails were done, she came back to sit with us in the shade. Her son was now confident with me and we continued playing, even with his mother sitting next to us. She watched without interacting with him. I could tell that she desperately needed a break.
I leaned over to her, “He’s getting tired.”
She looked at him and nodded. “If you want to, I can look after him while he’s sleeping. We’ll just stay here under this tree.” Her eyes lit up and she nodded energetically before running off with her friends. Within minutes he was asleep.
As I lay next to him, chasing the flies away while listening to the peaceful breathing of a 2-year-old wonder, I thought to myself, “This is my One. I’m stopping for the One.”
When the mother came back to pick him up two hours later, there was a faint trace of a smile in her eyes, and I felt like the most blessed of women. My capulana, the colorful skirt that Mozambican women wear, was filthy and wet, and my hair was fifty shades of dirty, but I knew I had held royalty in my arms. I was blessed. Highly favored.
I find the contrasts so dramatic in Mozambique. You are either filthy rich or dirt poor, it’s one thing or the other. It’s easy to be overwhelmed by the great need.
Which is why it’s so important to recognize the One. When surrounded by devastating needs, it takes a conscious choice to keep your love on. It’s easier to turn it off, to not feel, to remain indifferent to the shortage or shortcomings of others.
We share because we have been given everything.
It’s not ours to keep. We are keepers of the Father’s heart and will be held in account for our stewardship of the talents he provided us with. We get to do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God.
Here. Now.
Not only in Mozambique.
But right here – where we are planted.
When do you struggle to keep your love on?
What’s your eyesore?
Who annoys you?
When is it difficult to show mercy?
Who does not deserve your love and compassion?
Should you not also have had compassion on your fellow servant, just as I had pity on you?
Matthew 18:33 (NKJV)
Could it be that you still have not realized how much you have been given and forgiven?
I pray that I will learn to love more. Better. Unconditionally. Extravagantly. Indiscriminately. Like my Father does.
I pray that I will know his heart and carry it as my own. That I will cry out against injustice and weep with the mourners. To rejoice with the vindicated and dance with the liberated. To extend grace whenever needed.
Father, I pray that I will still feel. In fear and awe I ask of you, break my heart for what breaks yours.
This heart of flesh belongs to you. Spill it lavishly.
We love Mozambique. Want to read more?
https://storiesfromagoodlife.com/2017/07/family-in-mozambique/