I have never experienced anything quite like it. I have never walked into a room and suddenly become the most popular person there. But that’s exactly what it feels like walking into an African village. Children come running out of nowhere to see you and they only want one thing, to touch your hands.
I was so so confused by this for a while. My first thought was “wow, they have incredible manners to be greeting me with a handshake” followed by “maybe they’ve never seen a white person before and maybe they’re seeing if I’m real”. And while both are good possibilities, I believe one thought above the others, they simply wanted to touch my hand.
As I bent down to get to their level, dozens of hands stuck out just trying to reach mine. And these hands weren’t beautiful to the eyes at first glance either. They were dirty, cut and bruised. Some were misshapen and deformed. And some had come straight from the mouth.
I don’t think anyone would blame me if I didn’t reciprocate the gesture and shake their hands back but God shared something beautiful with me and I reached out my hand.
He told me to look past the physical aspects of their hands and see what they are saying with the actions.
These children were reaching out to me, a strange white woman, and wanted to be my friend. I was the one who knew and was wanting to “reach out to them” yet they were the ones who were actually reaching out to me. They were the ones to extend their hands and tell me everything was going to be okay. Their hands were covered in dirt and snot but were so beautiful to me. They are the hands that welcomed me and lead me to where the fun was. They are the hands that seemed to fit to perfectly in mine despite the obvious size differences. Plus their hands never came without a smile.
