.three little girls.
Christina, the oldest at 7 years. Her sisters, ages 5 and 2, followed her around rapturously. Dressed in faded colorful, worn skirts, blouses stained from the wiping of hands on them too many times, and leather shoes with the soles falling off. The oldest with two braids resting on her shoulders. The middle with a sailor hat, and the youngest, with hair just beginning to grow past the baby stage.
.a broken stereo.
A small tape player with plastic pieces falling off, held gingerly with two hands. When the sound becomes distorted, a frantic pushing of buttons to fix the problem. An eventual sagging of the shoulders at the realization that a solution is unattainable.
.a command to dance.
Eyes downcast to avoid eye-contact. A slow shuffling of the feet in order to appear obedient, but all body language conveys a desire to do anything else than what has been commanded. A few seconds of “dancing” to music that is unrecognizable and garbled. An extending of the hands—palms up—to receive whatever is to be given. A sense of despair when the listener does not move or even seem to notice what has just happened.
.a heart breaks.
I sat there, watching this scene occur over and over again as the girls inched their way closer to me, reluctantly beginning anew with each man/woman they encountered. Bible in lap, journal and pen in hand, the last words I had written seemed to leap off the page and dance in front of me:
“Plaza Diez y Cuatro de Septiembre in Cochabamba has stolen my heart. (minus the pigeons that are marauding me right now.) Something about this moment is magical. So many people. So many stories. So many precious children of God…all in need of a Savior.”
And so I sat there, tears streaming down my face until they stopped right in front of me.
.a transformation.
Three precious little girls stopped in front of me, unenthusiastically about to begin their rehearsed performance. The middle sister, unobtrusively glanced up to see if I was watching. Seeing my eyes glistening with tears, her hand reached out and briefly touched mine sitting on top of my Bible. I leaned forward, not wanting to miss a single feature of their beautiful faces and began to ask them questions. At first, all I received were shy smiles, an attempt to bring my attention back to what they were there for, and disconcerted looks when I asked their names. Clearly, they were uncomfortable with the novel idea that someone would want to know who they are. Un-phased, I kept asking, I kept smiling, I kept reaching out my hands to them. Eventually, unable to resist any longer, the oldest reciprocated and reached back, the middle sat down next to me, and the youngest inched closer.
.smiles set free.
We didn’t talk long. They relinquished their ages (and one name) to me, as well as the fact they do not attend school. Any question I would ask about parents was artfully dodged with silence. Determinedly, I pressed on – I told them my name. I told them they were beautiful. I told them Jesus loves them. And, joyful smiles and unintelligible chatter broke forth as they blossomed underneath love.
.three little girls.
Hand in hand, they ran off soon after, stopping to play by a fountain 30 feet away. The stereo lay briefly forgotten at their feet as they gleefully splashed in the water. The littlest one kept tottering off, forcing one of the others to chase after her, use all their strength to pick her up and walk her back five feet, only to have her run off again. Every minute they glanced my way, wondering if I was still watching. I was. I couldn’t keep my eyes off them—prayers rising in my heart on their behalf.
.compassions that never fail.
Eventually, they wandered off. Eventually, they resumed the task of performing that they had been given. But, for a few brief moments, they had been given liberty. For a fleeting moment of time, they were children again – vibrant and carefree.
I’ve looked for these precious girls every day since then. I have seen no trace of them. My heart breaks knowing the atrocities they could grow up into. Tears pour down my face as I write this, speculating on the evils this world could make them encounter. “Yet, this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail.”[Lamentations 3:21-22]The Lord God holds these precious little ones in His hands. He has not forgotten them. His heart aches over them. His gaze is upon them.
