Its a little tiny church, no bigger than the average living room. A small pulpit, four wooden benches and a handful of plastic lawn chairs take up most of the concrete floor. The peach paint on the walls is broken by cracks and chips, Bible verses scrolled in spanish across simple walls. The only air flow comes from the open doors on each side of the building, the semi-cool evening air providing a brief respite from the sweat on my neck and the warm child sitting comfortably on my lap. The lack of a translator makes paying attention to the strictly spanish-speaking service very challenging; accompanied by the constant itching of the bug bites on my ankles, I pray that God will be patient with my disinterest in what is being said from the pulpit.
Instead, the focus of my attention for the two hour service is Ruth. The nine-year-old Dominican girl will not leave the two foot perimeter surrounding me; the closer she can be, the better. Her eyes seem to leap out of her face, huge and dark, the long eyelashes contrasting sharply with the whites of her eyes and even darker than her milk chocolate skin. Smooth cheeks are constantly rounded as her chubby lips are always parted in a shy, expectant smile. Her hand is never far from mine as she moves my arm around her shoulders and draws herself closer to my side. Quiet throughout the service, her eyes stay on the Pastor or studying my Bible, yet every few minutes her face turns expectantly towards me. The constant smile is replenished as I return the favor.
For some reason, I feel like this girl is different. After being here in the Dominican and in Haiti, its obvious that children all around the world hunger for attention and love, they constantly hold your hand and sit on your lap. Ruth is the same, yet different. As she snuggles next to my side, drawing my hand around her waist or holding my fingers up to her face, I feel this intense need to be held, this need to be close to someone. Every time she raises her face to mine I see something in her eyes; though her face always has a shy smile, there is an underlying emotion in her spirit, a need for reassurance, a need to know I’m still holding her.
A desperation for love.
I have seen Ruth in the past; the night before she traveled a block or so with us when we left the service, walking hand in hand with me until we reach the street to her house where we parted ways. Along the way I had suddenly found a younger girl holding my free hand: “Mi hermana,” Ruth explained. The sweet, timid smile was easily recognizable in her younger sister. I had wondered about Ruth’s family, but when I asked about her mother, Ruth said that she wasn’t at the church service. As we had begun the walk home for the evening, she pulled on my hand and pointed to a woman in a yellow shirt walking quickly past our group on the busy street. She told me it was her mother. To my surprise, the woman never acknowledged us or even looked at her daughters; she passed by us and turned onto the street towards her house without pausing to wait for her little girls. When Ruth and her sister left us, they had walked down the dark street by themselves after their mom.
As I sit in the church service, another girl rests her head in my lap and falls asleep; not to be out done, Ruth drops her head in rest as well. Yet even in pretend slumber, her eyes constantly stray back to my face, assuring herself that I was still there. She holds my arm like a teddy bear, while my fingers stroke her face. I can’t take my eyes off of her. This little girl’s hunger for love is so deep that she is requiring it of me, a stranger not even from her own culture. I try not to judge the mother that I know so little of, and concentrate on the girl I hold close. What could I do for her? I could love her and cherish her and show her God’s love for a month, but what does a month do in a child’s life? Her smile turns to me expectantly yet again, and I reassure her with one in return. Would she even remember me in a year or two? What good does a month of loving do when I see such a hunger?
I want to cry. My eyes well up when she holds my hand under her chin; I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to let her go. I want that church service to go on and on so I can hold her and cradle her and love her forever.
But I can’t. I can only love her while I can and pray for her for a lifetime. Maybe she remembers me, maybe she doesn’t, maybe God uses me in some way that neither of us ever knoes. I can only do what God has called me to do, and He has called me to love her for a month, for this month. I can’t question what He has for me and what He has for Ruth, because His plans are better than mine, but I will be praying for her wherever I am.
And for the month of August, this girl will be loved.
