I sat down next to her in a crowded home, buzzing with Spanish conversations and meal preparations.
“¿Cuantos años tienes?” She asks me, with eyes bright and inquisitive.
“Veinticinco. 25,” I answer.
“Tengo noventa. 90,” she responds quietly. “I hope you never reach noventa.”
Startled, I ask her why.
“It’s not fun,” she says. She picks up my hand and turns it within hers. “Bonita.”
She points to her own and describes them as ugly.
“No,” I assure her. “Your hands hold much wisdom. Many years bring wisdom.”
She looks at me hard. “No. Many years bring pain.”
I quickly search my mind for a response. The Spanish words are disappearing.
I stammer, “But you have the Lord. You believe in Him.”
“Sí,” she says without hesitation. “Yes, I do.”
Tears fill her eyes, and slowly make their way down her cheeks, unnoticed in the crowded room.
Holy Spirit, I pray. Give me words.
Reaching for my translator app, I quickly type the word tears.
“God sees your tears,” I tell her.
She looks up and smiles at me. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.” Psalm 56:8
