Dirty Hands
Stephen had joined me for this market day and was running interference with the children. Even after living in this village for 5 years they are still very curious about the opotu – white man.
Hot, sweaty, tired and sick, the last thing I want to do is go to market. I just want to go, get my tasks done, and get home. Grimy, oily, sticky – FILTHY – hands of thronging children holding any part of me they can grab is certainly not what I had in mind.
On my way to market with Tolo in tow
They proudly show me their special treasures. A broken plastic box; a small string of very dirty beads; a shiny rock; a worn, broken, but much-loved baby doll. Through these they allow me to be a small part of their lives. It can be too intensely human for me to focus on the ugliness of life here and yet in His great kindness my heavenly Father shows me the beauty. As I kneel down to look at their treasures, the children smile; my heart melts and I am enabled to love them – dirty hands included.
