“Good morning, Sarah!” I nod in response. I wonder when they’ll notice, I think as we start walking to the garden at our ministry in Swaziland at El Shaddai. Thirty minutes later, Destiny asks me a question directly, There it is, I think as I show Jenni my palm, which reads “Speaking Fast.”
“No way! You’ve totally talked this morning!” Jenni says as I shake my head with a smile. The Lord brought me into a day of fasting from talking after my morning reading in James 3:1-12 about taming the tongue. When I read it, God immediately took me back to a conversation I had with my previous team the month prior:
“I feel like God wants me to tell you all about doing a speaking fast together,” Wayne said. Well that sounds absolutely ridiculous, I thought. There’s no way I’ll EVER do something THAT weird.
Since God often speaks to me through my memories, I knew he was telling me to go into a speaking fast that day. “God, I can’t do a speaking fast today. I haven’t explained it to my new team. I’ll do it tomorrow,” I said, which immediately sent my spirit into unrest. “What’s wrong? Do you seriously want me to do it today?”
yes
“Are you sure?”
YES
“But no one will understand why I’m silent!” I began to grow nervous as I realized my obedience would require my complete lack of control.
Let me take care of you today, Sarah.
We came to an agreement that I wouldn’t tell anyone I was fasting from speaking unless they directly addressed me with a question, in which case I would show them my right palm where I wrote the words, “speaking fast.”
There are multiple layers of different lessons I learned on my day of fasting from talking, which I learned in the following days, weeks and even month. It’s amazing how God orchestrates lessons so far in advance that I couldn’t possibly imagine the fruit that would come from it. It turns out one of the reasons God was teaching me about silence was to prepare me for the following month.
Fast forward to May…
I find it hard to use words to describe the depth of love I experienced in Mozambique, not merely due to the fact that words would dilute the tangible love I experienced there, but mostly because the love I experienced included no words. Before going to Mozambique, the only words I knew in Portuguese came from the international camp I worked at last summer: “goodnight” and “good morning.” In other countries, for the most part, we didn’t need translators and could converse with the locals, but this month my team went to the African bush in northern Mozambique, where it seemed like the only person that spoke English fluently was our contact, who is a blind Pastor and father of the orphanage where we stayed. Part of our ministry was loving the kids that ran around the orphanage daily, none of whom knew any English more than “hello,” if that.
How do you express love when words mean nothing? Suddenly the expression, “Actions speak louder than words,” took on a whole new meaning. At home you have to learn to recognize the validity of someone’s love by focusing on what they do rather than what they say, but when no one speaks a common language, you are able to recognize the sincerity of someone’s love easier. When words disappear, love begins to take on a new language of its own.
At the beginning of May, I spoke English, some German, and three words in Portuguese. I’m not going to lie and say this month was easy, because I honestly struggled for the first few days. After a while, I began to learn more Portuguese, but more importantly, I learned that love has its own language apart from societally constructed words. I’ve always sort of known that love has its own language, but what happens when you take the words away? The only common language you can speak is love. It’s both the common language everyone speaks as well as a different language for each person. I speak a different love language with two-year-old Jolie than I speak with 17-year-old Mia and a different one with 19-year-old Machava.
This month I learned that everyone speaks the love language of quality time and laughter fluently. Greetings may differ from country to country, but sitting next to someone and laughing with them is universal. I’ve learned the true value of the variety of my facial expressions and inability to feel embarrassed. I will admit that I avoided the children and women around the orphanage for the first few days because I thought we spoke different languages, and I allowed that to impede our relationships.
However, the third night here I decided to join in their nightly, boisterous games, which usually involved a lot of singing and dancing. They loved teaching me their games, which we played for at least three hours. Then one pointed to me and said, “You. Game.” Then motioned to the group. I said, “Me? Me teach,” pointing to myself, “you?” Motioning to the group. They all nodded, staring at me expectantly. “Well, alright.” My brain started shuffling back through my camp games from last summer, and I started my favorite energizer from CISV camp, which if you were there with me, you’ll recall well that I loved Cheeky Monkey. It’s a repeating game, where the kids just have to copy everything I’m doing; it was hysterical. They didn’t have to fully understand what they were saying to enjoy it either. Weeks later, every now and then I’d hear one of the kids singing under their breath incorrect words like, “I’m a cheeky banana,” which always made me smile.
That one night spurred a tight relationship with many of the children in the surrounding huts, and I often joined in their games in the weeks following, learning new ones almost every night. They love to dance and sing and laugh, and if you know me at all, you’ll know I fit well into that culture. Every day that I spent time with that community, it built more onto the foundation of our friendship.
I learned their love languages of individual brothers and sisters. Little two-year-old Jolie loves to throw her head back in laughter and yell her favorite games; we speak a common language of giggling and spinning around. Her best friend, Lalu, speaks a similar language, but one very individual at the same time. He loves to cuddle and sweetly smile and giggle.
Fifteen-year-old Mia and I made silly faces at each other then would laugh and hug, and then she would play with my hair. I’ve learned that in this culture, a way that girls hang out is by lying in each others’ laps while one does the other’s hair. About half way through the month one day, she was laughing and talking to Peter, and I thought she was making fun of me. I said, “Peter, what is this silly girl saying about me?” He said, “She say that when you leave. She will go with you.” As tears welled up in my eyes, I tackled her in a hug, and motioned for her to get on my back so that I could take her with me.
I learned how to love the three older boys too as my sweet younger brothers. Each one has such a tender place in my heart, and we barely spoke any actual words. Samuel, 17, has a humble strength and a tender heart; he loves to make silly faces and goofy voices. Machava, 19, is full of peace and mercy, and he loves to act like a complete goofball; he actually knows English the best out of all the kids, but is too humble to say anything. He often sent me into deep belly laughter without saying a word. The oldest, Micheque, whom we called “Shecky,” is the most joyful 22-year-old I’ve ever met. He loves to study the Bible, play the guitar, take care of children, and laugh. I love to goof off with all three boys as we make faces at each other, go running in the morning, play games with all the kids, and so much more.
I’m not sure why I expected my goodbyes to the boys to be any different from all the times we hung out, but they were some of the most tender goodbyes I’ve ever experienced with almost no words exchanged. I hugged Samuel tightly and punched his arm. I hugged Machava and held is face as he looked up to avoid from crying. I hugged Micheque and grasped his arm as I stepped onto the bus and he said, “I will neva forget.”
I left my heart in Mozambique, where I learned how to speak different heavenly languages that could only originate from the God of love. I don’t need the promises of riches in heaven one day when I can see the smiles of these beautiful children today.
It makes me wonder about the depth of God’s love for us. If my heart bursts every time I recall each of these children, how much more is his love for us? If I can’t help but adore these children when I’m near them; how much more does God’s heart overflow in love for us in our presence? I am overwhelmed by his loving presence!
