The Dust of His Feet: 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.