She was beautiful.
Right away she caught my eye as she wandered into church wearing traditional Nepali dress. Drool fell from her open mouth onto a bib tied around her neck. At first it was hard to tell if she was a boy or girl because of the badly chopped haircut. But when her crooked teeth formed the most joyful smile, and her eyes lit up with pure, innocent life, I discovered a newfound beauty.
Her left hand was missing her middle and ring finger, I noticed after we’d clasped hands. She giggled unabashedly during worship as a few of us tickled and poked her tummy and clapped her hands. As all the kids participated in duck duck goose later that morning, she patiently watched and laughed– probably at things in her own little world, which is far cooler than ours. Finally, we decided to give her a try. My friend tapped her head. “Goose!” We all cheered and hollered as a smile lit up her face faster than she could get up. She chased my friend around the circle, laughing the entire time, as I did. Then she sat back down in her spot, completely content and happy with her participation.
I never saw her again.
Our days in Nepal are coming to a close. This month has been nothing short of challenging. I’ve fought through re-addressed insecurities and expectations I didn’t even know I’d expected. I’ve been attacked in nearly every way imaginable, and broken on so many levels.
There’s a saying we’ve come to repeat nearly every five minutes: “The struggle is real.” I’ve experienced what I’ll affectionately call the “Racer runs” and well, lack thereof, have managed to break my external hard drive within the hour of arriving in Nepal, and my trusty Macbook has seemed to give up on me as well. I’ve had the hardest time getting in touch with my family, who are spread from Washington State to Virginia to New Zealand (and Nepal, obviously). I’ve felt heavy spiritual oppression, been sicker than I have in years, and have been beyond discouraged at times.
The struggle is very, very real.
In the midst of being knocked down, of struggling to stay awake during three hour church services, of not wanting to wake up and walk through the mud and uneven paths to share my testimony and sing Nepali songs yet again, I’ve had to constantly remind myself of why I’m here. It’s literally been a moment by moment choice for me as my flesh battles my spirit. What am I doing here? How is God using me when all I do is sit in homes twice a day clapping along to out of tune Nepali worship and say “Namaste” to everyone I pass?
I don’t have the answers. Maybe never will. But if there’s anything God has continually been teaching me, it’s that this Race–this life–is not about me. It’s not about instant gratification or even major events and life changes. It’s about the little things, the nearly unnoticed moments. It’s the unexpected surprise of having apples and oatmeal for lunch when that morning I had been craving nothing but a fresh apple and bowl of hot oatmeal. It’s the unexplainable peace I feel volunteering fifteen minutes before house fellowship to share the message–only to discover how much my story correlated with the only Nepali attendee present. It’s the barely visible view of snow-capped mountains and cool morning breezes and my friend’s colorful pens that make journaling so much cooler.
It’s the little girl whose name I’ll never know but whose smile is burned in my memory. Whose pure joy changed my perspective.
Little moment by little moment, I’ve learned to entrust my soul to the One who is glorified by the mundane, simple moments. He is the reason why I’m here. He sees the lives changed through a smile and “Namaste.” He understands English and Nepali and somehow connects the two to get His point across to both parties. He knows the hearts of these people, and the potential hidden in mine.
And so I trust. Press on.
|| Therefore let those who suffer according to God’s will entrust their souls to a faithful Creator while doing good. 1 Peter 4:19 ||
*And without further ado, I present the first episode of the Safety Sarah Series!
