As I sit listening to Pastor Al give a message in Tagalog, I feel the touch of a wrinkled hand on my knee. The woman sitting next to me doesn’t speak my language, but she wants me to know she is there. I look into her eyes and smile. As she smiles back, I place my hand on top of hers. This is our moment, an unspoken understanding.
It is not the first time I have crossed paths with the women. I had admired her beauty from afar the day prior as she inched through the village. With each step, she breathed a sigh of relief, stopping several times to rest on her cane. There was a tenderness in her dark eyes that drew me in. I knew I had to meet her.
Through a combination of hand-gestures and Pastor Al’s translation I quickly realized that I was honored to be in the presence of such a unique woman of God. Ate (ah-tay) is ninety-eight years old and has been a midwife in the village most of her life. You can see the years painted on her face, a unique story to go with each wrinkle. Pastor Al explains that more than one-thousand babies were first held by her now shriveled hands. Many of the children I interact with on a daily basis owe their lives to this woman.
As we sit holding hands in the church service, Ate touches my shoulder to get my attention. When I look her way, she rubs her belly, holds her hands palms up and then clinches her fists at her heart. She starts to tear up as she points toward the sky. In the silence, Ate’s love for the people of this village shines through. And as she shines, Ate gives the glory to God.
