Packing to Unpack

With two weeks left before we return to the States, I am overwhelmed with the task of prioritizing - a sensation like hitting the gas and the brake pedals with one foot. In a land where there is so much deprivation, it is difficult to pinpoint the most deserving need.  In light of this, a friend recently asked me to convey one picture or experience that has touched my heart the most in the time I have been here in Mozambique. I was inarticulate to be honest. Five years of accrued memories witnessing the estate of poverty are difficult to unpack.

A few moments here have been very ordinary; not too dissimilar from life in the States. Most have been challenging and even surreal. Some have been so profoundly sad that I have held them quarantined in a private cell to insulate me from the sorrow. The truth is, it is unnecessary to go back further than yesterday to be deeply moved by my surroundings.

Yesterday morning I met with the activistas for our usual Friday morning teaching. Not all 13 were present.  One activista was in the hospital with her son in Beira.  One came in late because her son was being treated for TB. One had just buried her father-in-law the day before who had died suddenly. One buried a sister on Tuesday that I had just met at the hospital while serving soup. One had buried her brother in Beira earlier in the week.  And the most sad case, one just buried her five-year-old nephew who had been found in a septic tank after he had been missing for five days.  All this in one week and it was just an extension from the day before.

I was painting a new Green Door house in Macharote. Children attach to us like flies to honey as we go about our work making it hard not to step on little feet.  Yet off in the distance I noticed a little girl standing quietly by herself on the road watching me. There was an aura of sadness about her so I looked at her closely not only trying to detect her unusual persona but to discover why she hadn't clustered around us like the other children.  Normally I don't stop my work to seek out one child but something about her drew me to her so I put down my paintbrush. As I approached her I could see her grossly swollen feet and hands.  She may have elephantiasis, a condition brought by microscopic worms spread by mosquitos. I held her hot and swollen hand in mine and looked into her beautiful and sweet face with such sad eyes. My emotions slipped off the brakes and I started to cry. Poverty has no barriers. Composing myself so I wouldn't scare her, I prayed for her, pleading with God earnestly to heal her.*

When I leave in two weeks, I will carry a collage of these memories with me. May I unpack them in such a way that I preserve the lessons that they teach, not only for myself but for others.

(This little girl's name is Inacia and I understand that both she and her mother suffer from elephantiasis.  Please pray for this family as we seek God's wisdom on how we can help.)