“Laura! Toe!!!Bleeding toe. It fell off! There’s no more toe. Laura!” I hear this panicked voice from my teammate, Amanda, as I turn around and see a little 2 year old boy screaming and crying with blood running off his big toe. I run over and scoop him up and take him to the faucet. I gently rinse off the toe with the cool water and try to soothe him. I set him down on a bundle of coal close by the faucet and before I can open the first aide kit, one of the Aunties, Fadida, comes over, picks him up with one arm and holds him while her another woman, Madelina, vigorously begins to scrub both of the boy’s legs with laundry detergent. He starts crying louder, but they just keep hard at work. They rinse off the suds from his feet and legs and set him back down in front of me and gesture for me to continue. I brush off the shocked look on my face and begin to dress the toe. It was a cut right under his toe nail and just needed some ointment and a band aide. He wailed the whole time. It didn’t help that all the kids were standing around us, gawking at this helpless boy. I tried candy and hugs and soothing tones in broken Portuguese, all to no avail. I eventually just had to send him on his way; with tears in his eyes he sniffled and went back to playing with the big kids.
As he walked away from me, it had me thinking about how we all handle things and people differently. The children here in Mozambique boggle my mind every single day. They work harder than any person I have ever met and they do all of this work with a joyful smile on their face. Take any American, child or adult, and put them here doing the things that these kids do and not only would they not be able to keep up, but they would probably complain and grumble the entire time. I know I’ve had my moments. And there is something in their eyes that makes you wonder what hard things they have gone through to make them look so wise and all-knowing at the age of ten. But that is just the culture here. Kids do a lot of the labor of the house, it is just expected. They don’t complainand they don’t try to negotiate. And none of it is for reward. The father’s are mostly dead or have left to be with another one of their numerous wives and so the mother’s are hard at work, too and that is why you see babies carrying their baby siblings; 7 year olds with an infant on their back because mom had to go work in the field so they can have supper. And did I mention? They all do absolutely everything barefoot. That, in itself speaks volumes to the strength found in these people.
As I think about different cultures I have seen thus far and compare them to the familiar one I grew up in, I can’t help but laugh as I think about how gently we American’s handle kids. And not only that, but how it isn’t helping. Probably some of the things I have to say about it would offend a lot of people that I love dearly, but it is the truth. We get upset when our TV’s are broken and the video games get old. We open our full cupboards and complain there is nothing to eat or look at our gorging closets and complain we have nothing to wear (I am the worst about that). But meanwhile there are kids all over the world making play toys out of sticks, carrying their siblings on their back, scraping just to get to the next meal…and all without shoes on their feet. I think about my own upbringing and how blessed I was and how much I took all I had for granted and when I look into the eyes of the child carrying his baby sister, I wonder why that wasn’t me? Why did God choose to give me this life over that precious child in front of me?
I had this same thought last month in Swaziland. We were at an orphanage, El Shaddai, where we hung out with 50 some kids for the month. All nestled on top of a mountain, surrounded by picturesque landscapes. I had to pinch myself some days because the view was so spectacular.“Lorla! Lorla!” Dark faces with bursting bright smiles yell at me as I walk up the hill to the clinic. They come running as I wave back and show me their boo boos from their latest wrestling fights; scrapes and cuts and dry, cracked feet. “Plastic, please!” and “I need stitches!” as they wait their turn in line to be seen. We walk to the clinic together and one by one, I wash their dirt-soaked skin and laugh with them while applying band-aide after band-aide. Then the high fives and hugs; so many precious hugs that I can’t get enough of. I would spend all day in this clinic seeing kids with cuts, teammates with stomach aches and sore throats, and local Swazi’s with sore joints and respiratory infections. While there, I got to hang out with my friend, Nothando, while she translated for me. She wants to be a nurse and she has such a beautiful heart of compassion for people that I don’t have any doubt she would be a great one. But why did she have to be orphaned at the age of 1 and sent to live here? Why do all of these kids have to go their lives without a mommy or daddy to listen to them or kiss their knee and apply a band-aide for them? Who is there to hug them and read them a bedtime story and kiss them good-night? Why is that them? Why wasn’t it me?
And then God speaks;
“Because I know all of these little ones and I know you. And I handle all of you with great care. Nothing surprises me and nothing is too much for me. These places are hard places, but what I want from you here is simply to trust me…and to LOVE. Deeply.”
And I have felt this truth these past three months. There was so much I felt incapable of handling; so much hurt, emotion and compassion for the staggering enormity of brokenness in the people God placed around me in all these countries….and I was incapable. I am incapable. I did not handle any of it on my own. All of it was too much. I cried countless times out of a heart of sorrow and helplessness, but then I prayed, and prayed and prayed. And through all of these hard moments, I realize that I never handle anything on my own. Ever. And when I try to do it on my own is when I grow weary and stumble. Any strength I have has not been of my own might in gaining, it is only because the Lord has equipped me and what I feel inadequate at handling, in fact I am! And that is why I have to continue to press in and surrender these moments up to Him; asking for more of His perfect hand to come and carry me through it. Trusting that He handles me with care and as I look at each of these faces around me, I realize He sent me to handle them with care as well.
I will end these thoughts that could go on forever with a Psalm that He keeps taking me back to these last couple months; one that David wrote toward the end of his reign as king when he truly understood the Lord’s hand over his entire life.
“This God—his way is perfect; the word of the LORD proves true;
He is a shield for all those who take refuge in him.
For who is God, but the LORD? And who is a rock, except our God?
the God who equipped me with strength and made my way blameless.
He made my feet like the feet of a deer and set me secure on the heights.
He trains my hands for war, so that my arms can bend a bow of bronze.
You have given me the shield of your salvation,
and your right hand supported me, and your gentleness made me great.
You gave a wide place for my steps under me, and my feet did not slip.”
(Psalm 18: 30-36)
My prayer for you is that this journey He has me on would encourage you in yours and remind you of how perfectly He has us all in the palm of His hand. With that assurance, I hope you find a new boldness to step out into the hard moments where you can’t handle it all on your own…because it is there that you will find what surrender truly is. And that is the sweet spot of trusting in Him and His endless grace where He longs to walk with us. It is hard and it hurts, but there is no place I would rather be because such desperate dependence upon Him is worth all of it. He cares so deeply for you, so handle your walk and the people He puts in front of you everyday with great care.
