I've been trying to go through my 900+ pictures of our trip.
Last night, I had my slide show going and The Angel saw this picture:
I told her it was a girl in the Hands For The Needy program whose name was Zahara.
Zahara's mom was run over by a trash truck at the dump, scavaging for food.
Zahara's mom was one of the people for who our team provided medical attention.
The Angel stared at Zahara's face awhile and then she asked:
"Mommy, but what is she doing?"
I explained that Zahara was praying and giving thanks
before our first official feeding at the center.
The Angel wrinkled her nose.
"Mommy, I KNOW that, but what is with her hands?"
I gave it my best shot.
I told her that opening your hands in prayer was a physical sign that
you were open to what God was doing in your life;
like a sign that you were accepting whatever He says to you in prayer.
She skipped off.
I've been struggling with being home.
More so that in trips past.
The tears are constant.
The hurt is real.
The brokenness of my heart is like a scab, rebroken and gaping.
I want very much to use these emotions to effecutate change, but in His timing and for His glory; anything else is about me, or Africa, or Kaleab, and that's not how it should be.
This morning as the kids bowed their heads over their breakfasts,
I tried to lift up thanksgiving without tears.
As I clasped my hands and closed my eyes,
I focused on saying aloud for what I was thankful.
Before 'amen', I looked over at The Angel, whose hands were extended outward
and fully open.
Lord, there was a reason you wanted the children to come to you.
Thank you for using two children, on two sides of the world, to show me how to pray.
May this transition back home be no transition at all, but merely a daily reminder to myself to radiate Your light through the stories I write with my life and I re-tell of those I have met.