A Lesson in Seeing

My last day at the Children’s Home had a self-induced air of urgency and the blazing sun and seemed to eat away at the little time we had. We did some individual review lessons with the communication picture boards and eye tracking, then moved on to the masses.

Ever so patient {yes, I was trying to be saint-like}, but determined, I tried to get a boy to eye track with the vitamin that I was holding…it had worked with others. I moved the pill back and forth..gently encouraging him…placing it closer to his face until someone informed me, “Lisa–he’s blind.”  My human efforts were crashing; this was not the ‘Mother Theresa’ moment I was hoping to end with. 

Another boy was laying there crying–probably had been for hours–and my friend turned to me in desperation, “Lisa, what do we do? We haven’t taught him anything–how do we know why he’s crying?”  I was grateful for the plan God plopped in my head, and in a short amount of time we determined his knees hurt and put him in a chair. In the upright position, his face relaxed and the tears faded.  

Then my friend asked if we had time to pray for Aza.  She was bedridden…had been for a long time…she didn’t need a communication lesson; she needed a loving touch and some healing prayer.  We spent time praying over her about healing and Jesus…and she smiled–a knowing sparkle in her eye.  It was a moment I thought I’d never forget.

Weeks later, when I was back in the States, Aza passed away during the night, and with her passing so did my memory of her knowing smile…I could only see her scars and wounds…couldn’t remember her face.  I couldn’t handle being half a world a way and wanted my friend to take pictures of all the children so that they would be remembered–that their lives would have meaning.  Each day I was haunted by the reality that the image of her knowing smile evaded me…plagued by the fact that she died alone…wondered how her passing was memorialized.  I tried to recall her face, but could only see scars and wounds that grew more sizable and revolting each day.  

This ghastly mental morphology tormented me for weeks, then a sensitive, talented young lady who knew Aza better than I painted a picture through a mind’s eye that saw clearer than mine…and there was healing.

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