Holding Hands

The children in the villages of Malawi loved to hold our hands. Several children would spread apart my fingers, each grasping a pinkie or thumb so that more could crowd in. They chattered and giggled non-stop, skipping alongside me as I strolled through their dusty neighborhoods.

They were beautiful and joyous. They were also very dirty.

I confess, I struggled to hold out my hands to these children. Statistics told me that life-threatening diseases were already coursing through their bodies. I could see evidence of that in their distended bellies, thin hair, and yellow eyes. These diseases scared me, and as much as I longed to love the children, I shrank from their touch. On the bumpy Jeep ride into the village each day, I asked God to open my heart and give me courage. But as soon as I climbed down into their midst, my hands would involuntarily creep into the pockets of my jacket.

“Jesus,” I said, “you insisted that children be allowed to come to you, so you could love and touch them. Please help me do the same.” Still, I kept my hands mostly to myself and thought often of the hand sanitizer tucked into my backpack.

One morning, after walking a long while through a village called Chirombo, a very shy girl in a torn, blue dress came and stood beside me. I forced myself to hold out my hand, and she took it in both of hers. We walked together in silence until it was near time for me to go. She stopped, looked up at me with frightened but hopeful eyes, and asked, “What is your name?” I knelt down and replied, “Melissa. What is your name?” She clearly and carefully said, “Jondari,” and then resumed walking alongside me, never letting go of my hand.

After a few minutes, I noticed that the child was whispering something. I bent over to listen. “Melissa,” she was repeating over and over. “Melissa, Melissa, Melissa.”

In Jondari’s soft voice, I heard God. Here in the midst of all of these children who desperately needed to be loved and touched, God was taking a moment to love and touch me. I was flooded with gratitude—and concern for this little girl. Did she have enough food? Was she able to go to school? Were her parents alive and able to care for her? All thoughts of her dirty hands were gone. My fears disappeared in the grip of her love.

Jesus assures us that, “Even the very hairs on [our] head are numbered” (Matthew 10:30). Whether those hairs are freshly shampooed or caked with dirt, the Father knows and cherishes each of our heads. Some are eager to love and accept, like Jondari, while others pull away and resist, like me. The Father loves and cares for us both.

I would like to be able to say that Jondari’s touch made it easier for me to extend my hands to other children, but it did not. I still tucked, avoided, and shrank. I still longed for my hand sanitizer.

But I did learn this: God does not shrink from any of his children. He heaps love on the children of Malawi day after day, often through the work of COTN sponsors. He lifts them out of the despair of hunger, poverty, and homelessness. He feeds and clothes them, gives them homes and love.

And he heaps love on me day after day, too. God is not repulsed by the dirt that covers me. Just when it would threaten to separate me from all that is good, He takes me by the hand and whispers my name.

by Melissa Reiker (Venture Team member from Longwood, Florida that served on a teachers’ team to Malawi)