Eight Pages, One Ending

They were expectant, a little rebellious, and definitely interested in what the white woman at the front of the room had to tell them today.

My first week in Malawi, the country went through a painstaking election. The boarding school that the Form (High School) girls at Mtendere Children’s Village attend had the week off, so it was Emily and my job to run a morning and afternoon session in math and English with the girls who were home.

I learned a little about myself during these sessions. I’ve always wanted to teach English in a cross-cultural context, but have had little to no experience teaching ESL in the “real world.” The children of the village speak a language called Chichewa – the dominant language of Malawi. So, as I taught English for two sessions every day, I learned to talk slowly. I learned to repeat myself. I learned that some of their grammar rules are not the same as the rules that the American education system has drilled into me.

But the most important thing, the most important thing by far, was that I learned a little more about the power of stories.

Now, having to spend your week off of boarding school in a classroom with a few white girls teaching by the renowned method of trial and error is never fun, but nothing could prepare these Form girls for their end-of-the-week assignment.

Even us teachers were wary of giving such a daunting assignment to these young Malawian girls, but our orders came from the headmaster himself…we had no choice.

We were to give the students a composition. They were to write on the prompt “The Most Unforgettable Day of My Life.” That much is easy, but here’s the clincher: the composition was to be eight full pages.

Eight notebook pages. Four pages, front and back. We explained it every way we could, but our shocked students didn’t want to believe it. They were outraged. “This is more than any of us have ever had to write before!” “They would never make us do this at boarding school!” The outcry was almost comical.

But after a quick interlude from the headmaster and the insistence that it is not entirely impossible to write eight pages on notebook paper, we settled down to oversee the writing of these near-novels.

They wrote begrudgingly. Some of them didn’t even make the page requirements. Others put so much space between two words that you had to follow along with your finger to avoid getting lost in the void.

But after the first few compositions we read, we stopped correcting them. We ceased the red marks and missing-word carrots and dots inside circles and decided to put our red pens to better use. Instead, we wrote letters of thanks to each one of the girls. With good reason.

The Most Unforgettable Day of My Life...

It seems simple, straightforward, and easy to draw out long enough to fill the pages. In my mind, I pictured birthdays, holidays, trips. The unforgettable moments of my own life played out in my head.

But I could never prepare myself for what those girls wrote.

So what were the most unforgettable days in the lives of the Form girls at Mtendere village? In my ignorance and self-centeredness, I had overlooked the most important thing: these girls were orphans.

That day, we received over 20 begrudgingly written compositions on the death of fathers, mothers, sisters, and brothers. There were girls who were found in abandoned houses, caring for their younger, neglected, and hopeless siblings. Each story was astounding.

On the day a girl’s father died, her mother took another lover – who instantly decided he didn’t want her in the house and kicked her out into the street.

Girls spoke of the cruelty of their peers in boarding school, and the carelessness and occasional drunkenness of their teachers for whom their students were just a job.

Every death was a testimony. Every outcry of longing was a witness. And every essay for some reason ended with one thing:

Hope.

It’s a small word that means everything in the lives of these girls. They are girls who dream of running away to find the remains of their family, but who can’t reconcile that option to staying in the village and getting 3 meals a day. They stay for nsima and beans. They stay for nightly devotionals and impromptu netball games.

But mostly, they stay for Jesus.

He was the overwhelmingly constant theme that ran through each of these miraculous compositions. I was floored. These young women have seen their family members kidnapped, their fathers murdered, their mothers beaten. But somehow, some way, they ended up at a village gate that says “Follow Me, and I will make you Fishers of Men” in bright colors.

They were aware of their blessing. I wasn’t even consciously grateful of being able to teach abroad for the first time. But they were acutely aware of the sustenance that is in Jesus Christ.

Their school wasn’t preparing them to take their exams. Their relatives were ignoring them and proclaiming them someone else’s problem. Their families had been cursed. But somehow, some way, these girls had all stumbled upon the entity of hope.

Whether it came in the form of an invitation to Mtendere, a kind relative who took them in, or simply a steaming meal of nsima and relish, they were grateful. They were eager. And they were excited for their future.

The provision of Jesus Christ has given each one of these girls a future. Instead of lamenting on the fact that their Most Unforgettable Day involved their only parent being dragged off to prison and their relatives rejecting them, they asked for prayer. Instead of asking why they were the one who had their sisters’ survival in their hands, they were asking us to praise Jesus with them, and planning for a future brighter and more unforgettable than anything they could write about in eight pages.

And so, though these girls blessed us with eight pages, we only wrote them short letters in response. But we wanted to thank them.

Their stories are a big deal. They are important to Jesus, important to their futures, and important to Malawi.

They wrote of how their boarding school teachers didn’t care about their education, let alone them as people, but I think those teachers, with or without knowing it, have given them an extraordinary gift: the gift of communication.

These girls shared their stories. 

Their Most Unforgettable Day transversed the space of history and memory and became incarnate into the world of story – a world where an unsuspecting American girl can sit down to read it and be humbled and inspired.

A world where the struggles of Africans are not just statistics, not just trendy organizations, and not just well-timed National Geographic photos, but the pulse of a real human being whose story is alive even now.

There is another word for these type of stories…testimonies.

The Bible says that Christians can overcome persecution by the word of their testimony. There is no end to the wonders of what these Form girls have overcome by the testimony of knowing Jesus Christ – and what they will overcome in the future.

Granted, an eight-page paper in your second language on a vacation week is a harsh demand. I’m sure the multiple hours spent writing it were not fun either.

But the end result was a powerful gift.

Writing is important. Grammar is important. Paragraph organization is important. Spelling is important. But not empirically.

All these things, and the teaching thereof, are important for one reason:

We all have a voice.

We all have a story to communicate about Jesus, whether we have known Him our whole lives, or just had one encounter with Him 15 years ago. They are both the oldest and newest stories circulating in the universe, and their irreplaceable words will never hit the floor.

 And today, among their ranks are The Most Unforgettable Day in the lives of the Form girls of Mtendere Village in Malawi. 

I am so grateful for the weeks I got to spend in Malawi - so grateful for the family there that has made Jesus Christ its center, and welcomed me in to experience it. It's not easy to leave my new friends, and my best college friend, but here's the thing...

Uganda is calling me.

Set for Life

It's late here in Malawi, but I am awake. I am awake, and thinking about the goodness of God. I'm having one of those moments Dr. Seuss talked about when you can't sleep because your reality is better than your dreams. And I've been having airport anxiety nightmares (In last night's, I threw a Crayola marker at a stewardess and got fined $400), so that's definitely true for me at this point.

So what has God done this time? His goodness is boundless, but life is full of sweet moments where we can pinpoint it, and feel His provision more acutely.

Right now is one of those moments. I am wide awake in revelatory wonder of the fact that God sets us up in families.

This takes some explanation. We are all born into some form of a family, no matter our background. That is not the particular family that I mean. I don't mean the roots of the flower, I mean the petals; the families that God gives you as sweet gifts to bring a little extra honey to your life.

Over the years, I have known friends, teachers, co-workers, and even acquaintances who fall into this category. You may start out as strangers, but after you've had that initial moment of "You, too?? I thought I was the only one!!" there's no turning back. You've officially been grafted into a new type of family.

These families vary in size and depth. I have known the more shallow kinds my whole life. It wasn't until earlier this year that I started grasping the idea of a deep familial connection...with people who were strangers only a minute before.

It all started in Cuba over spring break. I was falling hard for this nation...the people are full of reservoirs of warmth so great that you have to physically remind yourself of your own grandma's face to clarify whether or not she is actually one of the women currently hugging you. They are unselfconciously loving. We are not always used to this. In America, I've often found that people can withhold compliments because they think it somehow takes away from their own traits. But in Cuba, telling someone they're beautiful does not take away from your own beauty...it simply means that a person is beautiful and you want to tell her - so you do! In my experience, Cubans do not deny themselves the simple pleasure of loving others, even in small ways.

I saw this most prominently in the women who worked in the kitchen of the church we partnered with. These ladies were always cheerful, welcoming, and utterly loving to everyone on our team. They would just come right up to you and rub your back, even before you realized it had been aching all day. They were need-meeters to the highest degree, and remembered your name from your very first encounter. These were indeed special women.

They stick out especially in my brain because I am a vegetarian. I was planning to quietly work around this small detail for the week that we were there, as I try to do most places. My vegetarianism is a personal choice, and I hate when it becomes a burden to others, so I tend to do all I can to keep it quiet. One afternoon, however, I walked through the church kitchen to notice a few of the men on our team speaking with the cooks...they were letting them know that I did not eat meat, because they knew I wouldn't tell them myself, and they wanted to look after me. I tried to shy away from the attention, but it was useless. These boys were set on taking care of me, and the cooks turned out to actualy be excited to cook something extra for me. So, every meal. we would stumble to the table, exhausted and ravenously hungry, and I would inevitably hear my name called out in a Cuban accent, and a steaming plate of vegetarian goodness delivered to my seat. They made me something special for every single meal.

Because that's what families do; they look out for one another. They take on each other's burdens, even the small ones, and consider it a joy to serve one another to the best of their ability.

God sets us up in families just like that.

He showed me this explicitly one night on that trip to Cuba. I was reading in the book of Mark, and came across this passage:

"'I tell you the truth,' Jesus replied, 'no one who has left home or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields for me and the Gospel will fail to receive a hundred times as much in this present age (homes, brothers, sisters, mothers, children, and fields - and with them, persecutions) and in the age to come, eternal life.'" Mark 10:29-30 (NIV)

God sets us up in families wherever we go for His name.

There was a time, not too long ago, that I was so worried about leaving home for such a long time. I had gone so far away for school, and knew I'd be studying and interning in Uganda for several months, but I looked out at the vast expanse of longings in my missionary heart, and wondered just how much I could take.

But that passage came to me the very night of my worry.

I have chosen to follow Jesus wherever He calls me, which seems like a big deal, but His promises and faithfulness trump my promises and faithfulness every time.

If I give up time with the family I've been rooted in, even for a short time, He will set me up in another one. A community of friends at school who daily pray for and encourage me. A group of amazing cooks at a small church in Cotorro, Cuba. A ragtag group of church planters in Northern Ireland. A bunch of service-minded high school leaders on a district board.

I've been given fresh families my entire life! It is never meant to replace my home, but these people are the tools God uses to fill the family-shaped hole in my heart when I'm away. I have received from the Lord's hand double, triple, and quadruple the family! Brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, grandmothers, grandfathers - all across the world!

When we choose to be faithful to God's call, whatever it may be, He will set us up. Period. We can't question whether or not we will have time, money, or resources for it. We can't look at our limited human qualities and feel inadequate. We have an unlimited storehouse of goodness, directly from the hand of our Father!

Stepping out in faith - whether it is to help someone in need, leave your home, pursue a lifelong passion, or anything brewing in the depths of your heart this very moment - feels like a risk at first. We feel like Indiana Jones when he takes that first step over that chasm, but by the time he puts his foot down, it's landed safely on the first step of a bridge that takes him to the other side. He just couldn't see it until he stepped out.

Walking with God feels like that sometimes. But we can't forget that He's the best bridge-maker of all time! He counts it His deep pleasure to move us from one side of our lives to the other. We always end up a little higher up; a little closer to Him.

And we don't have to pretend that His provision is only for those who work in the ministry or feel God is calling them to something historical and monumental. Because here's the thing: even the smallest details of your life are monumental to God.

In the Old Testament, God frequently asks the founding patriarchs of the Jewish faith to set up a small altar of stones in a place where He has shown His faithfulness. Even for little things, He asks us to set up little altars of remembrance.

Just like He sets us up in families. They are living nuclei of God's grace, goodness, and saturated provision.

He is waiting to give you a new family, and I would like to highlight the one He gave me most recently: my Ethiopia team.

The bottom line is that I wasn't "supposed" to go on this trip. I had thought about it all year; my mind was obsessed with the idea of going to this enticing country, and I knew my favorite professor was setting it all up. But I told myself it was all too much. Too much money, too much travelling, and definitely too much time away from home. I knew that going to Ethiopia (and consequently Malawi) would make it impossible for me to go home to Wisconsin this summer. It would be a whirlwind adventure. I told myself I couldn't do it. And I know I couldn't.

But that was before Cuba. Before my revelation that God sets us up in families wherever we are.

Jesus was indeed working on my heart - molding me slowly into the type of clay that was flexible enough to yield to His call. And so, when the time came, like a man proposing to His bride, Jesus invited me to Ethiopia and Malawi. And, remembering His promises and faithfulness in places like Cuba, I said yes. And joy immediately flooded my soul.

So, through a series of a few other miraculous and sweet surprises, I was able to join a team of 17 other Southeastern students to travel to Africa for two weeks...about a month before we left. I didn't know most of the team, and felt a little strange entering into their weekly meetings, but I tried to gauge their culture and see if I might possibly fit in.

But, as I seem to keep repeating, God sets us up in families. And what a family He gave me in my Ethiopia team! Most of them started out as strangers. Now strangers are sisters. Now outsiders are brothers. Now the strange girl who crashed their missions-trip party is a central part of this body.

And that's what we have been, a body; each part selected by God to live out good works through the unique talent He's given every one of us. There were those who set straight to work translating children's Bible songs into Amharic. There were those of us who took incredible pictures to document our journey. There were those of us who stepped up to lead at crucial moments. There were those of us who preached for the first time, and those of us who led worship for the first time. No matter who we are, or what we brought to the table, we all moved with one heartbeat. It was a refreshing taste of the most genuine form of Christianity, and a process that God alone can start and finish.

So my parents came down to Lakeland for a few days during my finals week. They spent much-needed time with me, and helped me prepare for this long journey. Their presence was crucial. I always say that I wouldn't be able to go were it not for them coming down for those last few, dream-like days. And I know it's true.

God did the exact same thing with my Ethiopia team. They became my family - praying over me, encouraging me at every turn, offering to send special treats of love along with my Uganda team. And I couldn't have moved on to the next step of this journey without them. I am filled with absolute gratitude for these incredible people.

In a way, I feel like I'm crowd surfing. I am elevated by the hands of those around me, and move by their presence and efforts. But we know that it's not easy to be passed from group to group. I think that's part of what Jesus was talking about when He mentioned persecutions in the passage above (didn't think I'd overlook that, did you?). It is a form of persecution to the soul to be separated from those with whom you have shared so much. Even if it's only for a short while.

But the Spirit of the Lord is a comforter. And I think that there's something very symbolic about the fact that this passage is found in just about every Gospel (see Matthew 19:29 and Luke 18:29), just like the Great Commission is (found in Luke 16:15, Matthew 28:19, Mark 24:48, John 20:21, and Acts 1:8 - I had to memorize the references for a class, so I figured now was as impressive a time as any to slip them in).

This passage about leaving families, gaining families, and losing them again is integral to the commission of Jesus to proclaim the Gospel to the ends of the earth. It is a 2-for-1 deal; you can't have one without the other.

And it's a pretty good deal. Stepping out in faith requires a moment of risk, but the return includes eternal life...which just so happens to include every family He brings you into that bears His name.

I am so grateful tonight. Grateful for the past, expectant in the present, and excited for the future. And every reason for that has to do with this one ubiquitous phrase:


God sets us up in families.



Now please enjoy some photos to celebrate the latest family God has set me in!!

A very attractive bunch! The whole team after we hiked a mountain outside of Addis. 

Me, Bri, Corina, and Ashley! I really connected with these girls, and am astounded and inspired by their fervor for children. 

The team in Hawassa with the missionaries we worked with there in front, and one of our INCREDIBLE hosts/translators, Robele (in the red pants). The other was Cap Mac. He's not pictured here, but just take my word that he's an anointed worship leader, and on his way to becoming an incredible pilot!

With some incredible kids at a mass feeding with (from right) Amber, Ashley, me, and Katie! This location was the most intimate for the feedings we did - it was all mamas and children, and these girls were incredible with them.

I happened to be the one who led worship for the first time. It meant so much to have my family standing with me, and the man on the guitar was a musical genius! He learned the song and played it to perfection in about 30 minutes. 

We were driving along and saw some really cool looking trees. So we got out to climb them. 

Me, Ariam, and Nikki with some of the schoolgirls - these ladies went all out to connect with every kid!

Cori! She is incredible. I love her laid-back manner and sense of humor. She gets me!

Bri - always funny, always sweet. I love her presence. She is going to make an amazing social worker someday!

Where it all began...room A121. This was taken at our last meeting before we left! I love all of these people so much. 

The Best Day of My Life

My name is Lauren Nadolski, and May 16th, 2014 was the best day of my life.

It started out miserably. I woke up with that rain cloud sensation - the one you get when you feel you are a personal target of doom. The rest of the world seemed a cheery, sunshiny ray of optimism, but I felt like an anvil was crushing my chest.

I should make a note that I am usually not a moody person in any respect. I have my moments just like anyone else, but I am about as steady as a train when it comes to emotions and daily contentment. Thus, on the rare occasion that I feel heaviness, I do my best to hide it and pull through as swiftly and without any fuss as possible.

But it wasn't working on this particular morning. My internal pep-talks seemed to bounce right back to me, and by breakfast my team members who know me best were asking what was wrong. The answer had to be a curt "nothing;" how could I express my nameless sense of weariness?

By early afternoon, I was high on a ladder, painting turquoise trim on the school we had covered in a coat of lime green the previous day. I was alone, and my thoughts were eating away at me.

After I had finished the trim, and had a short break, one of the school boys came over to me. He picked up my hands and started scratching the paint speckles off with his fingernails (There were a lot of them, too. I have accurately been called a "splasher" in the painting department.) He giggled and gasped when he found more and more green freckles and splotches on my fingers and arms. He led me by the hand to the water pump and gently scrubbed my skin clean with great delight. It was a very relaxing gesture - the best massage/manicure I've ever received (if you ignore the fact that I've only ever had one). But even the sweetness and light of the presence of that boy weren't enough to pull me out of my funk.

I wandered over to the wall of one of the school buildings, and sat down in the shade. I leaned up against the freshly dried cement wall and took off my Chacos. I was exhausted in body and spirit. My mind was being circled by the beasts of doubt and pessimism, and they were ready to finally pounce.

A wave of weariness and discouragement washed over me in a tidal wave. I felt so tired, like a dry riverbed that the entire town was still poking at for water. I couldn't give any more...several school children wandered by and I couldn't summon the energy to answer their calls to play. I could barely smile back at them as a stampede of homesickness clamored through my weather-beaten mind.
What was I even doing there? What was I thinking, jumping feet first into a 8-month stay in Africa without resting, without going home? How was I supposed to engage a new culture in less than a week, and then step into a leadership role when I go to Uganda? No, it was just too much. My brain was drowning, and my heart was sinking lower and lower in my chest. I started to choke up, and it was hard to breathe.

That's when someone approached me. A little girl with round eyes, braids, and a small elastic headband. I recognized her from the organization we visited the previous night. She was a student at the school, and part of a sponsorship program that helped the kids out with education and gave them meals during the day. I had gotten to know this girl the night before at the campus where they are fed their meals. The team was playing in the yard, dancing and singing, but she leaned against the gate at the opposite end, disconnected from the festivities.

She stood out to me like a sunflower. I crossed the yard and took her hand. She was reluctant to leave her perch at first, but eventually consented to walk with me and lean up against another wall, closer to the action. But, as I put my arms around her and drew her towards the circle of dancing, she started to smile. It took a few rounds of me holding onto her hands and making her clap along to the beat for her to finally come out of her shell, but sooner than later she had a ubiquitous smile on her face, and was giggling as I danced for her. We had a lot of fun.

But when she approached me the next afternoon, all I could offer was a weak smile and wave. I expected her to move on, like the other kids who realized I wasn't up for playing and went to find someone more obliging. But she didn't move on. She smiled big and came and sat next to me. I tried to summon the muscular energy to entertain her in any way, but I don't think that's what she was after. Instead, she took my hand. She held it and played with it, and giggled at the paint freckles left behind from my previous cleansing. She sat to face me, and looked into my eyes. For the first time that week, I didn't see any expectation in the eyes of a child. Instead, I saw the eyes of someone who was trying to fill an empty person. I don't know how she sensed it, but I could feel that she knew what I needed.

She brought me out of my shell that day, as I had done for her the evening before. Pretty soon, we were playing hand-clap games, and giggling away the afternoon. The darkness was fleeing the vast corners of my mind; I could feel it. We just sat there, on the concrete and in the shade, and she nursed me back to heath with her smile and her gentle love.

Soon enough, however, our team leader was rounding us up, and we began to say our "caio's." After a round of hugs and high-fives with the rest of the children, I saw my little friend approach me from the corner of my eye. She was holding a cookie wrapper, the kind with the plastic holder inside, which I had been wondering about all afternoon. At one point, I picked it up when she wasn't looking to feel if it was empty, and when I found it was I was wondering why on earth she had spent all day coveting a piece of trash. How sorry I am now for that fleeting thought.

Before my eyes, she pulled something out from inside the wrapper and handed it to me. It was wrapped in blue tissue paper with tiny silver stars on it. I could feel a lump in my throat as she looked at her feet with all the bashfulness of someone who had just willingly given away something important to them. She nodded when I asked if I should open it later, and I pulled her close. We said our goodbyes.

I couldn't wait to get onto the bus and see what she had given me. As I sat down in my seat, I took a deep breath, and gently tore open the package. It contained a foam sticker heart, a small strawberry candy, and a note written on lined paper and adorned with stickers. I unfolded the note, and tears immediately pricked my eyes.

It was a note of love and friendship. She wrote simply, saying her name was Mekdes, she was in
grade four, she liked to play hand ball, and I am a very nice girl. She drew me two rather ornate roses.

 But the best part, the best part by far, is that she repeated over and over that she loved me. "I love you so so much," the end of the note read, written in bubble letters.


I've never really cried on a missions trip before. To be honest, sometimes I've felt more like a machine than a person when I'm constantly being shuttled from one orphanage to the next seemingly tragic ministry site. And the beginning of that day was a result of that; I was a burnt-out and feeble robot. This little girl, Mekdes, gave me exactly what I needed to make me human again. Love. That day I so desperately needed love, pure and simple.

I tried to hide my tears as the bus pulled away. Mekdes was walking out of the school gate, and I could see she was wiping at her own tears. I reached my arm out the bus window for a final touch of her hand, and we offered each other smiles through our tears. My heart was overwhelmed in a sea of thankfulness for what she had given me.

But the day just gets better from there. Hold on to your heartstrings, if they haven't been plucked already.
From the school we went to our second mass feeding during our two-day stay in Hawassa. We distributed bottled soft drinks and egg sandwiches we had prepared that morning. But first, we gave a gospel message, and prayed over the sea of raised hands, each an indication of a heart accepting
Jesus.

I felt like myself again at that feeding. While the mass of people sat in the yard, waiting for us to distribute what we had brought, I found myself ducking out from behind the bus and making silly faces at the crowd. I don't know whether it was because I was white, or a girl, or if my face actually is funny, but they roared with laughter. I popped back out a few more times, dancing and wiggling to make them laugh, and it was so fun to feel their positive energy, and finally be able to give some back.

Every time we did a mass feeding in Hawassa, we didn't just give food. In addition to the initial Gospel presentation and salvation call, we would say "Jesus loves you" in Amharic to every person before we handed food or drink to them. It's easy to see that as a chore when you're focused on making sure every person is fed, but telling someone Jesus loves them becomes a whole different ball game after you've made a fool of yourself over and over to make them laugh.

So I embraced it. With every sandwich or Fanta I handed out, I bent down to look the person in the eyes and to hold their hand. They usually let out a chuckle upon seeing me, but I was laughing too. In the midst of our laughter, I would hand them dinner, and tell them with all the joy and sincerity I was feeling that Jesus loves them. For some, I could see it sinking in.

Truth be told, I was just having fun, but I also wanted to let them know that they are not just a charity case. To our team, to our God, they are incredible individuals, and unique expressions of love and hope. They have unique senses of humor, tastes, and appetites. Although my silly faces and egg sandwiches can't satisfy them all, I know Jesus can.

After the feeding, the bus took us to the Elpis campus we were at the previous night dancing with the kids, and where we had cooked the food that morning. We were going to wash the feet of widows, and provide them with a new pair of shoes.

We entered the yard through the gate, and immediately saw the L-shaped line of Ethiopian widows waiting for us. I'm not sure how that visage affected the rest of my team, but I felt like a warm shower was washing over my entire body. Tears immediately sprang to my eyes, and as most of the team hung back, waiting to be introduced, I launched headlong into getting to know these beautiful, maternal, scarf-wrapped women.

Because, as I looked out at each of them, I saw my grandmother. I saw her smile and her way of holding you and the simple understanding and comfort she could convey in just one look. I saw the softness and the fierce love and the knowledge of living that only comes from, well, being a widow. I loved them instantly.

I greeted every one of them, and I don't think my face could've contained my smile. I got hugs, kisses that smelled like soap and incense, and plenty of Amharic greetings I didn't understand. The rest of
the team followed suit with saying hello to each woman, but as I returned to my place as we were being introduced, I couldn't stop smiling and waving at this one particular widow. So I went over to her.

She made room for me on the bench, and before you could blink we were as snug as two bugs in a rug. We held each other close, and she covered me in her crimson and black wrap. We just sat there smiling, and when everyone else went to put on gloves and get towels, I didn't feel like getting up. Truth be told, I didn't wash a single widow's feet that evening. I just sat there with my good friend, holding each other, rushing in and out of the rain, and getting to know each other.

She didn't speak a lick of English, and I'm no wizard at Amharic, so when one of us would say something, we'd just look at each other, shrug, and laugh. The only thing I really understood of what
 she was saying was "Jesus is Lord," so I would repeat it back to her, and she would say "amen," and squeeze my hand. I think it's all I really needed to understand.


 When she got cold, I held her a little tighter, and when I got cold, she put more of her wrap around me. When my team passed out food, she let me have the first swig of her Fanta, and fed me that egg sandwich the traditional way an Ethiopian mother feeds her child injera. And, nearly the whole time, she was playing with my hands as one plays with the hands of a baby - I had done the same thing all week with just about every little one I had held.

There was a point when my arm was around her that I worried to myself that maybe it weighed too heavily on her shoulders. She was frail, after all, and a bit, you know, widowish. But God stopped that thought before I could finish it. And His response I will remember for the rest of my days.

"Love is not a burden," He said. "Love is a gift. It's meant to be given, and it's meant to be received."

That might not seem like the kind of mind-blowing spiritual revelation most of us expect when God speaks, but to me, it was beyond that. It was exactly what I needed to hear for that moment, for that day, and for the rest of my life.

Love is a gift. This widow knew that. It was why she was so eager to embrace, care for, and give her evening to someone else's daughter, someone else's granddaughter. Love is meant to be given.

Love is a gift. It's why the people at the mass feeding smiled just at the sight of the ridiculous white girl who made them laugh and offered them a full belly and a full soul. Love is meant to be received.

Love is a gift. It's why the little girl sat with me all afternoon, patient in my gloom and giving me doses of what I needed until I could feel human again. Love is a gift directly from God; it is what we need.

I probably won't ever again see those women who changed my life. Their faces are burned on my heart, and the mere thought of their eyes or smile fills me with the same elixir I first experienced on that day.

These women were Jesus to me more than anyone else I've ever come into contact with. They poured into me, but accepted the love I gave them as well. They were joyful and patient and though I had just met them, I still feel like our hearts have been knitted together in the strength of such a simple, pure love.

So as I was getting ready for bed that night, I thought about how I had just lived the best day of my life so far. I was so imperfect, so weak in my own flesh, but God was like a wind. He blew through my insecurity and doubt and strain and gave me the greatest form of encouragement: Love itself.

Jesus gave me Jesus that day, and I will be grateful forever. But it doesn't end there, because every morning when I wake up, I see those faces. I see the face of love. And I feel like a human being.

Mekdes and I on the night we met.

The finished product of one of the school buildings we painted!

Just before our goodbyes. 

Our team leader, Dylan, giving the salvation message at the feeding that night with our translator, Robele.

My dear friend