Elsa is 12. She loves to hold hands, give hugs, and braid my hair. Every day she wears a pink t-shirt and white shorts, and pulls her long brown hair back with a little pearl barrette.
The kids this week live in the inner capitol city of Albania. Most of them came to camp with only one set of clothes, which they hand wash a couple times during the week. They pay nothing to attend the camp and are chosen by their school to go.
The first day I met Elsa, she ran directly to me and gave me a huge hug. I don’t believe there was a time after that moment where she wasn’t attached to my hip. She followed me everywhere, held my hand, hung from my arm, and smiled as she called me “booker” (beautiful). I remember noticing her happiness each time she pulled her hair back in her little pearl barrette. I told her it looked beautiful on her and showed her all the different ways I could think to pin her hair back with it. With every hairstyle her smile grew wider.
Throughout the week, Elsa made me many cards, sprinkled with cut out hearts, glued on feathers and lots and lots of glitter. Albanian phrases lined the pages.
The day before the kids left camp, Elsa came up to me with a serious expression, her hands behind her back. When I asked her how she was doing, she extended her hand to me. I looked down to see her favorite little barrette peering out from her folded fingers.
“Unë dua që ju të keni këtë,” She said. “Për të kujtuar mua.” (I want you to have this. To remember me.)
My heart melted. Here was this 12-year-old girl, wearing the same thing every day, giving me what could possibly be one of the few, if not the only barrette she owns. She obviously loved it dearly, and could not believe how blessed I was in that moment to have made such a connection with her that she would want me to take it home. I thanked her repeatedly and graciously accepted the gift.
The last night of camp was spent learning traditional Albanian dances and dancing with the kids. As the evening activities began to wind down, I snuck away to grab a shower before they filled up. On my way out, a member of my team ran into the bathroom asking for me.
“Tennyson, are you in here? Elsa is looking for you crying. She’s afraid she won’t get to see you again.”
When I stepped out of the bathroom Elsa ran up to me, wrapped her arms around me and started sobbing. In the best, broken Albanian I could muster, with the help of one of the English speaking campers, I explained to her that she was such a special girl, that it was so great to meet her, and that this wouldn’t be the last time. I promised to write her and send her one of the pictures I took of us.
She nodded, smiled, gripped me in a fierce hug one last time and walked away.
God works in such mysterious ways. Although this little girl had only just learned of the love of Jesus this past week, God’s heart shown through every inch of her character. Her selfless giving love was a true testament to the unconditional love Christ gives each of us.
I pinned Elsa’s pearl barrette to the cap of my Nalgene water bottle, which I carry everywhere. For the rest of my journey on the world race I will look at Elsa’s barrette, and remember the joy of the sweet girl who had so little and gave so much.
I am reminded of the old woman from the gospels, who gave the only 2 cents she owned. The woman’s gift meant more to Jesus than the hundreds of dollars given by the wealthy. Her sacrifice and selflessness is the stuff Christ’s love is made of, and this 12-year-old Albanian girl had the same heart made of gold.
