The Lessons of One Small 'Perfect'

There are few things as comforting as the sound of torrential rain on a tin roof as one sits on the couch (yes, that’s right, someone gifted us a couch – one more step from ghetto to fabulous) and sips on a cup of organic, homemade, healthier-for-you-than-other-kinds hot cocoa –brought from Scotland with love… Though my head hurts and my throat burns and my voice sounds like what I imagine the Gruffalo to sound like, I can’t help, but sigh contentedly… I love my life! [Those of you who read my last blog will know that I have these moments often, though many aren’t quite as… well… west-like].

I have a friend who started a movement. I have many friends who have started movements to see justice rise in communities around the world. In warzones. In brothels. On gang-ruled streets. In schools. In their own backyards. You don’t have to travel across the world and live amongst the poorest of the poor and those broken by a war that has raged for too long to see justice rise. Justice at it’s best being love correcting anything which stands against love – Martin Luther King Jr. One simply needs to choose to love, and love well. Love always looks like something. Though we love the warm and fuzzies, it’s more than that. It’s about choosing to look individual injustice in the face. It’s about allowing one’s eyes to meet. To lock. It’s about tuning in and listening, really listening. It’s about satisfying the deepest and often unconscious desires to be seen, to be heard, to be cared for. Practically. As love gently corrects that which stands against love, justice rises and individuals, families, communities, nations are transformed.

On our most recent trip into the red zone, again, I was blown away by the privilege granted by Love Himself to love the least of these. I giggled uncontrollably as I listened to some of our Leadership League boys – boys who chose football and a future over joining an army – share testimonies of how their lives have radically changed since that decision. A decision to play football, but mostly, a decision to love and be loved by Jesus. I beamed as we ministered to some of our favourite policemen – men of courage, men who know in Whom their strength lies and men whose desire is to see justice rise in their community (without weapons). But it was the choice to look injustice in the face of one small ‘perfect’, that wrecked me. It was the sound of her voice. It was the questions she asked me and the way she clutched my hand with hers, boney and raw that made me press even more into the broad chest of my God and feel His heart to love her.

A 7-year old, abandoned at 2 by a faultless father who died and a mother who left with a rebel group. Cared for by an aunt who had been away for 4 months, taking care of another in a hospital 25km down the track, and so cared for by a sister who should be in school rather than helplessly trying to raise her siblings. A 7-year old who looks far more like a 5-year old and who is one of the most courageous little nuggets of perfection I have yet to meet.

We found her, or rather, she found us; a dirty, ooze-sticky piece of cloth loosely tied around her body, her left hand holding it up on the one side to prevent complete exposure and her right arm carefully tucked away and held at an apprehensive, shameful 90⁰. Her smile and boldness in coming over to say “hi” hid what the fabric couldn’t. Apparently she had recently developed epilepsy – something which the nurses in the village say they’re seeing more of in young children because of constant exposure to trauma – and had been gripped by the white-hot coals of the open fire in the tiny mud hut during seizures. Over and over again, this little ‘perfect’ was being burned and untreated. Injustice in one of its rawest forms and love looks like something. We couldn’t not get her wounds treated.

The worst of her wounds treated and dressed

We made our way down the hill and up on the other side. As we walked, far behind the rest of everyone, her bare feet feeling every stone and stick beneath them. She teaches me perseverance. We talked – my rapidly improving, but still broken Swahile, with the help of our driver who could interpret. I discovered that she’s not only brave, she’s funny too… Trauma and pain have not robbed her of a sense of humour. She teaches me to stand. “Medicine first and then Mandazi”, (small local doughnuts) she declared at one point, stopping to look me in the eye – I laughed, remembering how many times my mom had stood two spoons poised – medicine in one and ice-cream in the other. “Medicine first and then Mandazi,” I promised. She teaches me about identity. The nursing staff of the small, wooden-hut-and-tent hospital were incredible – we managed to get her wounds cleaned and dressed properly. She teaches me bravery – it had to hurt?! One of our nursing friends promised to check in with the family every two days to redress the wounds. A promise I doubted not. In a small ‘pharmacy’ on the main road we managed to find just enough epilepsy medication to last until we head back out to the village next, after being told it would be impossible to find, other than in Goma. God is good at taking care of His kids. She teaches me trust.

Though we explained numerous times that my Name is Kim and NOT “mzungu” she eventually, and quite firmly responded, “I know your name is Kim, but I like to call you Mzungu”… Heart melt moment and you can call me whatever you like!

Wrecked by five questions. Five questions I feel like I’m still processing. Five questions I’ll remember possibly forever.

“Mzungu, where are we going?”

“To the hospital sweetheart, to get medicine for your wounds.”

“Mzungu, can you be my mom?” Heartbreak. No words. But I pull her a little closer and hold her hand a little tighter.

“I

“Mzungu, do you love me?”

“Yes, sweetheart, I love you!”

“But mzungu, I have no clothes…” Heartbreak.

“Mzungu, do you love me?”

“Yes, sweetheart, I love you!”

“But mzungu, I don’t go to school…” Heartbreak again.

“Mzungu, will my wounds heal?”

“Yes sweetheart, we believe that your wounds will be completely healed.”

Further heartbreak and a silent cry to the One I know as Healer.

A new outfit and a giant smile

She understands. She understands the truth about love. She knows that love looks like something. Like having someone clean your wounds. Like a mother who makes sacrifices for her children. Like clothing for those who are naked. Like education for those who are illiterate, but hungry to learn. Like mandazi for those who are hungry to eat. Like healing for those who are in pain.

Every moment that I spent with this little ‘perfect’ were just that. Perfect. A perfect expression of His love, from a willingness to press into the Father’s heart for one of His favourites, forget about all else that was planned for the day and love. the one. right there. in front of you. In such a way that she might encounter Love Himself. And when that happens, to sit quietly on your mattress-on-the-concrete-floor bed, swat away another rat, dream about getting a cat and realize… That one little ‘perfect’ has taught me more about love in two days, than some learn in a lifetime. Justice rises. Her smile is broader. The burden her sister carried is lighter. And we dance as yet another of His favourites comes face to face with the One who loves her most.

I now can hardly wait for the perfect moment where we celebrate her complete healing!!