I saw her three times. I remember each time vividly.
Out of all the people from this last month, she’s the one who sticks out in my mind. I may have talked to her the least, but she’s the one I remember the most. God’s kingdom can be funny like that.
I first met her at the school for children with disabilities. She was heavier-set, wearing a blue fleece sweater, and must have been about sixteen or seventeen years old.
She was one of the last picked for duck duck goose, but she didn’t grow impatient. Her eyes danced as she watched the other children run or shuffle or crawl around the circle, and she shared in their joyous laughter. She looked surprised when she herself was “goose”-d. With glee, she pushed herself off the ground, and with amazing speed raced around the circle.
Her laughter was beautiful.
They split the children and teens into their classrooms then, and my team went with the youngest kiddos, ranging from five to eight years old. She came with us.
One sixteen year old in a room full of elementary schooled kids.
She focused patiently on her workbook with my teammate the whole two hours we were there. I wonder how much one on one attention she gets on a daily basis.
The second time I saw her I was making my way back to my house after spending some time at a coffee shop. She was walking down the street parallel to me, in her same blue fleece sweater, in her same jeans, pushing a woman in a wheelchair, who looked to be her mother.
I grinned and said hello. She smiled and nodded politely.
She pushed the woman all the way down the long street, over the train tracks, and out of sight.
The last time I saw her was on the same street. We were walking opposite directions. She didn’t notice me. She was in the middle of the road, looking in the brick median, gathering cans and plastic bottles out the grass.
She was wearing that same blue fleece, those same jeans, and was searching in earnest. There was no shame on her face, no embarrassment. This was her life: the elementary school room, a woman in a wheelchair, an income from cans and plastics.
“Break my heart for what breaks yours” is a scary prayer to pray. I felt mine crack into at least a dozen pieces.
I’m over here struggling to appreciate a cold bucket shower. I’m wrestling with my food budget because it doesn’t allow me to eat better than the locals- rice, chicken, and potatoes every day. I’m having difficulty sleeping on the straw mat every night because it makes my hips sore. I’m upset that I have to hold my breath in the bathroom because the smell is real. I’ve worn the same shirt two days in a row, I don’t remember the last time I had a full shower, and it takes me an hour and a half to wash my clothes…
And this will all be over in three months.
I’m getting my bed back, my washer and dryer back, my hot shower back, my bathroom back. I’m getting a job, I’m going to make money among those in the tenth percentile of the world.
And she? She lives this life every day. She doesn’t complain or ask for pity. In fact, her eyes are filled with joy in the simplicity of duck duck goose, and determination of providing for her family, no matter what it takes.
Her perspective changes everything.
And that leaves me with nothing left but to be thankful for everything I have.
I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to be in plenty.
I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation.
I can do all things through him who gives me strength.
Philippians 4:12-13
