A Holy Moment

Very few times in my life have I experienced a truly holy moment. 

 

One that takes your breath away. 

 

One that you can never remake. 

 

One that you wish you could stay in forever. 

 

Yesterday was one such moment.  And maybe it happens often and I am just too blind to see.  Blinded by my selfishness, my comfort, my ignorance so I don’t recognize the beauty of His presence.  Yet He still invites me in to another.  It was just another regular day here, nothing unique.  Same types of plans that have filled most of the last couple weeks.  But instead of walking down to see the ex-street kids my housemates and I sometimes hang out with, we decide to go into the slum where they came from and buy some current street kids dinner.  So we go.  To the slum.  To the trash heap where people live.

Where kids sniff airplane fuel to escape the tragedies of their life.  Where we wouldn’t even let our dogs go.   It’s hard to say this, but until you have been here you won’t understand.  I was not real affected.  Living here I’ve seen the poverty, the evil, the heartache everyday, everywhere I go.  As horrible as it sounds, it is hard to be shocked anymore.  I don’t particularly like that fact, and Jesus and I are working that out, but it is the truth.  Not that I didn’t see the disgusting clothes they wear, or think it sad that they call this place home, or wish for them a better tomorrow.  I just am no longer shaken. 

 

We walk through the streets ‘gathering’ kids along the way and end up at a community center type building.  We have managed to arrive with something like 40 boys and a few young girls who latched on to our fingers during the trek.  One of my housemates had a ‘random’ idea earlier in the day to stop by the pharmacy and pick up a few first aid supplies.  Some soap, band-aids, gauze, tape.  Simple things.  She brought it down with us thinking maybe someone might need something.  What a cool God prompting we would find out.  The moment we walk into the building they begin showing us their cuts and sores.  I would just like to point out here that I sometimes get nauseous when people just talk about wounds.  I’m not very good at bodily fluids or anything that looks like it might hurt.  And my friend Georgia is just like me.  So out of three, two of us are pretty sure we may end up passing out.  But then the Spirit of the LORD takes over and says be My hands and feet, live out the scriptures, be Jesus with skin on for these boys and I will be the strength and courage you need.  So we kick into gear creating an impromptu minor first aid clinic.  The boys line up and we prepare our supplies and one by one we clean their scratches, sores, and gashes.  
 

 

We apply gauze and tape; give them a smile and gentle touch.   They are just like any other kids, wanting someone to care about the boo boo.  Whether they are 8 or 18, the touch of someone tenderly and attentively caring for them is food for their souls.  We do this for around two hours.  The food comes and we are able to give them a sandwich bag of beans and chapatti.  Less quantity than I would eat for a snack.  Fights almost break out and the manipulation begins as they swear they did not receive any, even though I watched them eat it with my own eyes.  But after they eat they linger still.  There is only one last boy we are working on.  A two inch gash on the bottom of his foot with red flesh wide open leaving us all cringing just a bit.  Okay a lot actually (You’ll be happy to know, or at least we were thrilled, that no one passed out!).

  

And as he is being attended to, one of the uncles we have with us comes with a boy saying that he wants prayer.  He believes we are pastors and wants someone to pray over him.  He doesn’t know any English so after Joseph interprets for me I tell him I would love to but it won't be in Luganda.  The boy says that is fine.  So I put both hands on this boy and whisper in his ear prayers the best I can for someone I have never stood in the shoes of for even a millisecond.  I have to speak slowly because I am on the verge of breaking down into hysterics in this moment.  I am so grateful the Spirit interprets for me.  I’m not sure what to prayer for, much less how to pray for it.  As I rise and wipe off my sopping wet face, there have gathered another 6 or 7 who all want the same.  They don’t even know what I am saying and yet they want it too.  Yes, half of them were probably high, and maybe it was just because I was a white female, but does it really matter what brings us to His throne as long as we are there.  So I continue on down the line.  I realize later that my lack of surprise may not be all bad.  Because I am not taken aback by their smell or sores or drugged speech, I am able to accept these kids just as they are.  I can immediately shake their hand, give them a hug, listen to them tell their story.  I can touch their head and whisper a prayer.  I can give them a band-aid for their toe and hope it becomes more. 

 

We finish wrapping gash guy’s foot and tell the remaining ones goodbye.  In a moment that didn’t take an ounce of thought, the three of us decide we will come back in a few days to redress his foot and maybe clean some more wounds.  I wonder how many won’t just be physical.  I know that day will be different, and maybe spectacular in it's own way.  But it won’t be this day.  This day I fell more in love with my Savior.  This day was a holy moment.