Yesterday I was exhausted when God revealed herself to me (I say “herself” because I saw God in a little babe-infant girl).
Almost immediately after waking up, my introverted self began emotionally retreating, a mode of self-protecting my energy for what I expected to be a long day. Most of my team stayed back at our room, sick with a variety of ailments (@typhoidMichelle!!), so two of my teammates and I took on a day full of church visits.
Late in the afternoon we went to a nursery, a place where fathers send their children if their mothers die. Mothers here are the primary caretakers, so without them these children would likely die within their first few years.
We walked into the nursery, and toddlers clumsily wobbled out of their respective rooms. Their sweet dark-skinned faces immediately burst into tears upon seeing us, their first ever light-skinned giants (I’d be pretty scared, too, honestly). So the three of us sat on the ground and let these kids gain enough confidence, or perhaps curiosity, to come to us. We’re quickly realizing there’s something magnetizing about humility.
As we took a tour of the place, the small babbles of newborns could be heard as background noise. We eventually found the source: a room with three wiggling infants, lying face up on a large colorful cloth. A necessary aside: I’ve never been good with babies. They’re so fragile and delicate, I get scared I’ll somehow hurt them. But these babies immediately drew me in, specifically this sweet baby girl, drooling through her intermittent toothless grin.
I hovered over her as she scanned my face. I expected her to cry as the toddlers had done, either from fear of my white face or her somehow sensing that I feared her fragility, but instead she giggled and drooled and grinned at me.
I picked her up and in doing so was overtaken by an emotion I can only describe as the purest love I’ve maybe ever felt. I wondered why I felt this—I didn’t know this baby; I didn’t yet know her story; she didn’t belong to me or someone I know. I never even found out her name.
As I held this baby girl, I wanted to do anything to make her laugh, which wasn’t hard, and I’m no baby whisperer. My eyes uncontrollably filled with tears. All other emotions waned in that moment, making way for my sole prayer: that this girl could grow up assured that she’s irrevocably loved.
At this her caretakers began telling me her story. Her mother wasn’t dead like the majority of the other children, but rather, she was insane. She had been known for trying to kill the very baby I was holding, and so after a particularly bad episode the father brought her into the nursery.
I was speechless. I didn’t feel pity or sympathy for her, but rather an earnest entreatment to God that she would be strong. In an instant I wanted to sing over her, to pray over her, to squeeze her chubby lil hands forever. I wanted to protect her from all the scariness this world offers, from loneliness, heartbreak, anxiety, fear.
I know it’s all awfully cliche. But I truly, tangibly felt the love God must have for his people, and the love we therefore must have for each other. Besides, cliche things are only cliche because they’re repeated and potentially overstated, and things are repeated and overstated when they’re believed to be true. But that’s a side note. The bottom line is I didn’t even KNOW this baby. But in the five minutes I spent with her, I loved her. Five minutes in comparison to a lifetime with God… that kind of love is unimaginable.
