Praying the names of Jesus: Day 4
Oh todays excerpt is really really good!
As the father has loved me, so have I loved you. Now remain in my love. If you obey my commands, you will remain in love, just as I have obeyed my father's commands and remain in his love. I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete. My command is this: Love each other as I hve loved you. John 15:9-12
Don't you know that you yourselves are God's temple and that God's spirit lives in you? I Corinthians 3:16
Randy Frame was part of a team of journalists and business leaders invited to Haiti in the mid 1990's to view it's problems close up. Trained as a reporter to maintain his distance, Randy wasn't prepared for what happened on the last day of his trip.
That day the group visited "La Cay Espwa" the House of Hope, a refuge for starving children cared for by a small group of nuns. As soon as Randy entered the two-room structure, a nun by the name of Sister Conchita approached, offering him the child she cradled in her arms. Reluctant at first to take the child lest he violate his role as an objective observer, he finally gave in, deciding it would be rude to refuse.
"Her name Maria," the Sister said with broken English and a quiet smile. Frame writes:
I took Maria into my arms, gingerly at first. She seemed so fragile: I could practically see the skeleton beneath her skin. Only her eyes seemed to have escaped the circumstances of her young life. Here eyes were deep brown and as shiny as any healthy child's ought to be. She focused them not on me, but on Sister Conchita. It was clear I was "second string." Yet she didn't cry. Mayube she was too weak to protest being held by a stranger. Or perhaps she was glad to be in anyone's arms. How could I tell?
After they left Randy's tour guide explained that on average one in four children in the House of Hope die because their internal organs are too damaged by the time they arrive. You can spot the ones who won't make it. Lethargic, with pale, rigid skin, their haid has a reddish hue. She could have been describing Maria.
Despite being warned about the danger of venturing out alone in Port-au-Prince, Randy left the security of his hotel that night to make the two-mile trek back to the House of Hope. When we found Sister Conchita, she was still sitting on her rocker with Maria in her arms.
As I approach Sister Conchita, she stands, sensing exactly why I have returned. She says nothing, but offers me the child. And also her chair... I have arrived at the place where I wanted to be. And as I live out what I'd earlier in the day envisioned, I am suddenly and fully aware of my weaknesses, my limitations. And ware also of the limitations and shortcomings of humanity, which has somehow failed this child and many others like her...
I am utterly powerless to determine whether this child, who bears the image of God, will live or die this night. But I do have power - complete power - to make certain that if and when her frail body finally yields, she has felt the security, the comfort, of someone's loving arms. Tonight they are my arms. It's the least I can do for her, and also, perhaps, the most. Her weak but gracious eyes look up to mine. And hold their gaze. And in the sacred silence of this moment, there is no other power I crave, no other purpose I desire.