A lot of things have changed in the last year.
I went from rich, suburban North America to an Australian outback hostel that houses aboriginals. I said farewell to my blood family to live in forced community with an unlikely gang of ragtag missionaries that would become the first spiritual family I’ve ever known. I stopped running myself ragged trying to help everyone, fix everything, solve the world’s crises and make it home in time to kiss people goodnight, and now
I’m learning to trust that not only does the Lord have a specific plan for my life, but the wellbeing of the entire planet does not rest squarely on my currently sunburnt shoulders.
Today was yet another day of learning lessons.
There’s a new old lady here at the Center. FYI, the people who stay here are waiting for their chance to go into town to be seen at the hospital. I don’t know this lady’s name; she’s merely identified as the Boob Lady, because she doesn’t seem to have any desire to wear a shirt. She’s quite old and doesn’t seem to have a tight grip on reality, so no one really worries about trying to force her to cover up.
Tonight, while cleaning up after dinner, I was doing my normal super-fast, super-efficient table wipe downs, sweepings, and general restocking. As I passed by her, she looked up from her place at the table, surrounded by spilled food and general mess, and held up a dirty Styrofoam cup.
“Do you need anything?” I asked, broom in hand, halfway past her before the question was even out of my mouth.
“Water,” she whispered back softly, in the aboriginal way, not quite making eye contact with me.
Setting my things aside, I took her cup, (secretly replaced it with a new one) and brought her some cool water, ready to resume my sweep of the canteen so I could be finished for the night. But something caused me to hesitate, and I stood for a moment to watch her receive the cup and pull out a bag which turned out to be full of various medicines- the reason she needed the water.
This time last year, I was with another slightly crazy old lady, bringing her water to wash down more pills than any person should have to take at one time, fighting my natural inclination to be fast and efficient with the knowledge that she didn’t need fifteen tasks completed, she really just needed me to sit and listen to her, love on her, be with her in her last days.
I think about this a lot on the Race, this year with more time than I’ve ever had in my life, and wish I had had more patience last year, stayed just a few moments longer, fought a little less and loved a little more.
This woman is nearing the end of her days. I wonder if she has a family who will miss her when she goes. I wonder if she has a granddaughter, her “mijita,” who will spend countless nights over the coming year brushing tears away so people won’t ask her what’s wrong. I wonder if this granddaughter will wish that she, too, had spent less time being frustrated at the uncovered saggy breasts and more time accepting her grandmother’s love.
I wonder if when I go home I’ll remember these nights in an oppressively hot Australian dining area, learning to balance my inner Martha with the Mary I want to become, praying for guidance and patience and the grace to bring a lonely old woman a glass of water.
“Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by do doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it.”
Hebrews 13:2
