Silence. Lips on the move. Every other kid in her pre-school classroom engaged in the lesson. Living with her grandma in a nearby hut because her mother doesn't want to take care of her. Her world is silent. She is deaf. But today, her silent world changed. She learned to move her hands and for the first time, her movements had meaning. Her first word was “shoes”. Before this day, she had no language. On this day… shoes. Tree. Dog. Teacher. Red. Blue. Just to name a few.
All the work that I helped put into the curriculum was thrown by the wayside and my goal of teaching the teachers went out the window. As I was sitting on the concrete floor, working with a small group of pre-schoolers on my last day of ministry in Swaziland helping them count dots on our handmade dominoes, she was brought to me. Walking over from another group because I know who she is. I'm familiar with her plight. I know about her. Maybe I can even connect with her. For seven years, her world has been silent. She's had no language. No sound. No communication. No hope. She was deaf. What would she become? How will she live? Will she ever learn… anything? This seven year old girl's name is Maptile. And suddenly, just with the movement of my hands accompanied by a large smile and an invitation over to me, her countenance lit up and she was all too glad to come over. Suddenly, every other kid in the room paled in comparison to this girl. She was all I could see. No one and nothing else mattered. My heart skipped a beat and time stood still as I looked at her and focused on her. What could I offer her… really? I've taught sign language before… to a class of adults with prior language and a workbook. I interpret for deaf and hard of hearing people… who have a basis of language or at least materials to assist me. Here in Africa, I had nothing. And she had no basis to go off of. So I went basic.
I took her and one of her teachers outside and exposed them to something that they had never seen before… a way of communicating that she could partake in. Signs. For tangible things that are a part of her everyday life. The things that were outside the school, before her eyes, and in her world. Shoes. Door. Wall. Tree. Dog. Car. Boy. Girl. Teacher. Sun. For the next hour, I was a woman on a mission… to teach her as much language as I could with the short time that I had. She followed everything that I did. Her teacher even did each sign with us and became part of the teaching moment. My heart rejoiced as I knew God planned this moment, this day, our meeting. But my heart broke as I knew it would only last a short time. Saying good-bye to her, I hugged her… and just couldn't let go. The tears started falling and my grip got a little tighter. Thinking of it now, I was probably smothering her. But here I was face to face with this girl who before today, did not know that there was anything for her. Didn't know that she could communicate. I was there and showing her, exposing her. Yet what could one meeting, one hour do? It wasn't enough time. I needed more. My hope that I saw in her brighter eyes, the hope I had for her, was dwindling as the time was drawing near for me to leave and be off to my next Care Point for the day to teach the teachers some of their new curriculum activities that they could implement with their children. Even though my tears kept coming and my heart was breaking, I had to say good-bye. God brought me to this girl… and brought her to me. Of all the Care Points, of all the children, of all the people to be chosen to do curriculum and go to this particular Care Point… God appointed me. For this. For a deaf girl. For Maptile.
And now it's over. I've left. But I pray that I changed something. My heart's passion for her is to know that there is something out there for her. Language. Communication. Her world doesn't have to be silent. I can't stay with her and I can't teach her everything, but I can show her and her teachers that there can be more to her besides silence. I've seen deaf kids go from a limited world to one full of possibilities, doing things no one ever thought that they would do. And they have. And they continue to do so. I hope the same for her. That my time with her wasn't just a flash in the pan, a quick hour gone by too quickly. But that she'll remember that day. The day that white woman came made me feel special. Singled out. “Talked” to me. Loved me. Noticed me. Language and love is all I can do. But God gifted me to do it. And now I leave it in God's hands to take care of her. He created her, exactly as she is. Deaf. Perfect. Not broken. Not handicapped. Deaf. And I must trust Him that she is where she is supposed to be. And that my presence in her life is not by coincidence or futile. That it's purposed. And lasting. Oh Lord, I pray, let me have changed her world.
