Love is a Verb.

The first time I saw Halima, she was shuffling into our Wednesday night service.  She took her shoes off at the door and came slowly inside.  There were only ten people in the church; seven of them were white.  Halima wore a yellow scarf wrapped around her hair and shoulders.  She kept pulling it tighter around her like she expected it to make her bulletproof.  But what I really noticed about her was the way she kept shaking her head from side to side during the pastor’s sermon.  The motion sped up during prayer times.

At the end of the service, Brandon and I looked at each other and headed back inside.  We asked to speak with Halima.  In the course of the conversation, I asked our translator why she kept shaking her head.  Lawrence asked in Swahili and I listened to her soft reply. 

“She says she shakes her head to distract herself from the voices in her head,” Lawrence told us in English. 

We asked to pray for her and, to my surprise, Halima got on her knees in front of us.  Brandon and Lawrence laid hands on her shoulders.  I got down on my knees behind her and put my hand on her back.  While we prayed, I felt her relax. 

But my spirit wasn’t satisfied.  I knew the LORD wasn’t done with her.  Or with me going after her.  He loved her too much to let me be still.

Later that week, the LORD gave me the opportunity to visit Halima’s home.  Once again, we brought a translator with us.  We met her three children and her sister.  We were able to pray over most of the family and the house.  We could talk through the translator, but actual conversation was difficult.  We smiled a lot and held hands. 

Then, on Sunday, I came into the service a little late.  Halima was already sitting there, head already shaking violently back and forth.  I felt my heart break for her.  I went over to her and grabbed her hand.  This time, there was no translator.  No one to interpret my words or prayers.  No one to tell me what was going on inside her heart, or to explain her pain with me on her behalf.  All service I sat with her, holding her hand, praying for her desperately, interceding in silent English for a woman who only understands Swahili.

I realized then that it didn’t make my prayers more effective for me to be sitting next to Halima.  God knew who was on my heart without me having to sit beside her and point.  But Halima never would have known.  She wouldn’t know that I love her if I didn’t show her.  I could tell her and tell her, but she’d never understand (despite all my Google translate attempts) unless I showed her. 

Halima feels unworthy of love because of her past.  Because she’s a former Devil worshipper.  Because she has three children by three different men.  Because she’s very, very poor, completely reliant on her sister, who is still heavily involved in the occult.  The voices she hears tell her that she’s worthless and evil and that nothing good would come near her.  

But when Jesus looks at her, He doesn’t see what she’s done or where she’s been.  He doesn’t want her to deal with the voices. He doesn’t want her to feel unloved.  Instead, He loves her so much that He sent a group of white missionaries to her neck of the woods to show her love instead of just talking about it.  He made it nearly impossible to communicate verbally so that I would be forced to love her in other ways: like choosing to sit with her in church or coming to her home or holding her hand.  This is how Jesus loved while He was on earth.

“Later, Matthew invited Jesus and his disciples to his home as dinner guests, along with many other tax collectors and other disreputable sinners.  But when the Pharisees saw this , they asked his disciples, “Why does your teacher eat with such scum?”  When Jesus heard this, he said, “Healthy people don’t need the doctor but the sick do… I want you to show mercy not offer sacrifices.”” –Matthew 9:10-13