I should be writing other things right now. I should apologize to
the people for whom I should be writing those things. I probably won’t.
I scribbled some of this down in my journal the week it happened.
It’s been tucked in a bookshelf along with countless other stories in several
unfinished journals for years since returning to my continent of residence. I
don’t often finish journals. It feels a little like finishing the chapters of
my life contained in them, and I never could quite pinpoint the end of chapters
in life. But that’s a thought for another time.
I’ve never really gone any significant period of time without
thinking, at least briefly, of this story. It wasn’t a big story. It’s not full
of action or adventure. It’s a story of quite and tears and hugs and mosquitos.
What makes this story important, I think, is that it seems to grow with me.
Though the events are forever locked in place, the implications seem to change
with each new season.
And so, for a reason I can’t quite put my finger on, tonight I’m
writing it, not any of the other things. This one story, for now, is making its
way off of a dusty bookshelf and out into a world where anywhere from no one to
everyone can see it. Taking its place in type instead of scrawl and bringing up
with it the new implications of my life as it is now, from as it was then.
"Fo dem?", Akili chimed, wondering where I was going at
this hour of the night. I filled her in that my roommate and I would be heading
down the street to use the phone, calling our families back home. We headed out
into the night. I barely noticed the shouts floating up the staircase from the
small, one room home below. I was more concerned about bats as we passed the
tree they had been known to abide in. As we approached the bottom of the
staircase and were shooing goats out of the way, a slammed door reminded me of the
vague awareness that I’d had of the argument that must have been occurring
below.
As we rounded the corner, we saw Juhudi, a wise-mouthed, funny,
and beautiful 8-year-old from our compound, throwing herself onto a stone wall,
sobbing. We paused for a moment, not knowing what to do. Crying like this was
not common here. Sure, a little kid would cry and whine when they fell or
didn't get their way, but usually the aim was to get attention. A child,
already 8, and a girl especially, was just not found sitting in the dark crying
her eyes out by herself. My roommate said the girl's name in a sympathetic
sounding voice, not knowing much else in her language that would be
appropriate. We walked over slowly, and I sat next to her. I put my arm around
Juhudi, and thought about asking her what was wrong. My roommate sat off to the
side quietly.
Juhudi sat, perfectly still except for the sharp rising
of her chest as she gasped for breath between the sobs and the tears that
streamed down her cheeks. The three of us sat in silence for what seemed like
ages. I decided against asking what had happened, realizing that it was likely
to only make things worse for her to want to open up and talk, but have to deal
with my limited language skills. I finally just leaned over and hugged her. I worried
that this intimate hug would be too much, but my fears proved unfounded as the
little girl desperately hugged back. I periodically loosened my grip slightly,
inviting Juhudi to pull away if she so desired, but she only hugged tighter,
her sobs now increasing and her tears flowing freely.
After the hug had lasted several minutes, I half-wrestled
her little arms from around my neck, and pulled her up onto my lap. I started
singing. I don’t know why, but softly, and in a language Juhudi couldn't
understand, I sang an old hymn. As we rocked gently, Juhudi's sobs subsided,
and her tears slowed. I nodded at my roommate’s questioning face, hoping to
give her permission to make her way on our errand without me, knowing that the
time she has spent sitting humbly off to the side had been filled with hurt and
desperation for this broken child.
Juhudi and I sat for what seemed like hours, as I did my best to
cover her arms from the mosquitoes that had begun to swarm us. With a tight
squeeze, I eventually broke the hug and turned the child around on my lap to
face me. I gently pulled her downcast chin up towards my face, and wiped her
tears aside with my thumbs.
I had been thinking of several options of what I would say to her.
Piecing together what encouraging thoughts I could with my limited vocabulary
in her language. I hadn’t consciously settled on any of them when I said,
"Juhudi, don't cry.”
A slight nod showed that she followed my attempt at her language.
"You are very smart. Do you know that?” I asked her. She looked down and I
again pulled her chin up and looked in her eyes as I repeated, “Do you know
that?”
She nodded quietly. “You are beautiful. Do you know that?" I continued.
With a slight smile she nodded with a quiet “yes” this time.
“You are funny. Do you know that?” I asked yet again.
The answer was faster and more confident this time, “yes” she
smiled.
I hesitated now. Not sure if I should ask this but simultaneously knowing
that I would anyway. “Jesus loves you…. Do you know that?”
I couldn’t have realistically expected anything else. That name
wasn’t well known here. In fact, if she were to repeat this conversation to her
mother, we may not be welcome to stay in that compound anymore. My mind knew to
be careful with my timing, but I’m not sure exactly sure how much say my mind
had in this conversation.
“Who?” was the word that went along with the puzzled look Juhudi
gave me. I repeated it once more and was met with a pleasantly confused look
paired with a slight head tilt.
The devastation was a bit unwarranted, I’ll admit, given my known
location and situation, but I felt it all the same. I felt as though I carried
the weight of the entire village that night, the entire country really. All the
while knowing that this was just the tip of the iceberg of things that would
break my heart in this world. And for just a moment, I had just the tiniest
glimpse of the heartbreak that we inflict upon our father with the
implementation of the free will that he gave us. Just a fraction of the weight
that he carried when we placed that burden upon him. I longed to be able to
repair here and now what had taken centuries to break. More than so many other
times in my sometimes monotonous life did I desperately want his will to be
done on earth as it is in heaven.
But there I sat, with a confused child on my lap and with a
landslide of implications behind the utterance of a single name. I sighed and
asked her one last question, “I love
you. Do you know that?”
This time she hugged me once more with her “yes” and I hugged back
just a little tighter than I had before.
