a somber realization

I was nudged awake this morning by the delicious smell of yellow and pink wafting through my curtains. The sun was waiting like a poorly kept surprise behind the mountain. Colours burst excitedly from behind the summit of the mountain as the sun bubbled out his joyous announcement: The Day is come! I jumped out of bed and grabbed my notebook and my Bible, ran back for a sweater because it was a little chilly, turned off the alarm, stopped for a quick pee, and by the time I got outside and sat down to watch the show, the sun had risen. The day was here, the announcement made, the glory missed, reminding me again: Life is too short to be prepared.

Today is day two of orientation. I am presently back at my favorite spot overlooking Legogote which is illuminated fully by a magnificent and passionate sun. For the first time since my arrival, there is hardly a cloud in the sky; assurance that this heat will persist in a most violent way. But I like it. I like the way the air sticks to me and the sweat rolls down my back. I like the way everything hangs limp in the presence of this awesome fiery oven. It is so bright today, so hopeful. As I sit here on my lunch break, I marvel at the men in the building team working behind my house – each one is wearing not only long pants, but also a long sleeve shirt. One looks ready for a wedding in pressed trousers and a white button up shirt.

I am enjoying watching them and thinking about the sun because it is distracting me from the real matter on my heart.

Today I spent the day listening to the history and heart of Hands at Work from the founder himself, George. As he is known to do, George told stories. But these are not ordinary stories; he speaks words which would break even the hardest heart. He spoke of people abandoned, people hungry, children starving, women dying. He told of miracles and challenges and vision. One story in particular sticks with me right now about a little girl born to a mother with AIDS.

The little girl was one of the unfortunate ones who contracted HIV from her mother who died immediately after giving birth. The little girl then spent every moment of her life until George and Carolyn walked into it, lying on a bed in the hospital where she was born. She was 6 years old, unable even to sit and lying in her own waste when George first saw her. She was separated by 10 empty beds from all the other children in the hospital on account of the stigma of the virus surging through her veins. Never touched, never held, never outside for the entirety of her six years. This picture is too gruesome to fathom, too hateful to even consider. She died, of course. George and Carolyn were able to spend some time with her and even take her out of the hospital on occasion to visit their home and interact with their children. But she died, young and alone on the very bed that had been her prison, the bed that comprised her entire existence.

I’m not sure what this means. As I have been lamenting in other posts, I have felt a deep sense that I do not know what to do, I do not know who I am. Today a terrible idea occurred to me. Perhaps it is not that I do not know who I am at all. Perhaps it is that I know all too well who I am.

If there is a little girl dying in a hospital bed who has never been held or touched or loved, it is not a matter of knowing who you are or knowing what to do. If someone is starving it doesn’t take wisdom or even prayer to know what Jesus would do. It is a matter of whether or not you have the courage. Today a terrible idea occurred to me. Perhaps I know all too well who I am. Perhaps I know all too well what I will and will not do. Whom will he see when God asks, Will I find even one righteous in this town? Will he find me ready and living as a holy sacrifice? Perhaps I know all too well if it comes down to laying down my life, I find I am sitting on a high horse, atop a high mountain, unable to even see the ground on which to lay myself down. Would I go there, into that room that reeks of human waste and suffering? Would I sit there amid the hopelessness of imminent death, drowning in the depths of human cruelty and neglect? Would I love her, the very least of the least of these who cannot even sit let alone reciprocate my sentiments?

Today a terrible idea has occurred to me. I know all too well that I cannot answer yes to any of these questions. I cling like one hanging from a very thin rope over treacherous waters to the promise from 2 Peter: He has given me everything for living a godly life. Call this godliness out of me Father, because I know all too well who I am.