Little Things

April 21, 2010

Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the number of people here who truly need assistance, and I wonder if I am really making a difference at all.  Recently, several events and some supportive words from many of you have helped me to see that even small deeds can make a difference.

While in Morogoro, Victoria, two of her friends, and I visited a home for mentally disabled children in a neighboring town.  The women planned to walk to the center (miles on a hot day) to give the director their Easter donation, but being American, I thought that it was too far, so I paid for all of us to ride a dala dala (small bus). The women were very grateful. 

During our visit, I had the opportunity to talk to the woman who had  founded the place.  She told me (in English) that she was a social worker by profession and that she also had had a mentally disabled son.  She had directed many people to a variety of services through her work, but she had never been able to find the kind of care that her own son needed.  After he passed away, she felt like she needed to do something to help children like her son live a better life.  She organized a small group of parents who had children with mental disabilities.  What began as a simple support group soon grew into a school, and eventually became a home for fifteen disabled children.  Today the center is run by the Catholic diocese of Morogoro (this woman still serves as director but will soon retire after serving 20 years). There are now about 40 children living at the home and many more who come for day schooling.  Truly this woman has made a difference in the lives of many disabled children and their families.

Another recent event brought to mind a well known Bible story.  It is the parable about the offerings given by the rich man and the poor woman. The man gave gave only a small portion of what he had, but the poor woman gave her last coin.  I always liked that story, and now I have seen it unfold in real life.  I was standing next to the church one Sunday, waiting for one mass to end and the next to begin.  As the mob of people poured out of the doors, one little old bibi approached me.  (So many like to shake my hand and greet me).  I gave her the proper, respectful greeting, "shikamo bibi."  She replied "marahaba" and smiled and pumped my hand up and down.  She continued to speak, and I thought she was saying "the peace of God be with you," so I said, "and also with you." However, she did not let go of my hand.  She kept coming closer and she was sounding more insistent.  I was not sure what she wanted.  Maybe she was mentally ill or maybe she just wanted money.  All of a sudden, I felt someone take hold of my other hand.  I looked down, and it was the little boy with no hand who had come to my house weeks ago.  I had given him cookies at the time.  Now he was looking at me with pleading eyes and saying "twende mzungu, twende! (let's go, white person, let's go).

I used this opportunity to say good bye to the woman, and I let the little boy lead me into the church.  He led me to the pews reserved for the nuns (it is where I usually sit) and then took a seat beside me.  This was the childrens' mass.  There are literally hundreds of children in the church but only a few adults (imagine letting your seven year old walk to church alone with your toddler).  Typically, children are not allowed to sit in the nuns' pews.  The usher came to chase some children from the pew, but my little friend just slid closer to me.  The usher looked at him, looked at me, and then smiled.  The boy was safe.  We were allowed to worship together.  Actually, as I tried to decipher what was being said, he enjoyed looking at my English/Kiswahili Bible.  Early in the mass, another boy crept into my pew and sat next to us.  He looked about the same age as my little friend, but he was dressed in a nice suit and had shiny black shoes and two hands. 

When it was time for the collection, I gave both boys a coin to put in the box.  My little friend ran eagerly to drop his into the box.  The other boy followed, and I assumed that he had dropped his in as well.  Near the end of the mass, I heard a clink, and the nicely dressed boy reached down and picked up his coin!  Either he had had his own coin or he had kept the one that I had given him.  I was surprised, but I let it go.

When mass ended, both boys grabbed my hands to lead me out and to lead me home.  The strong boy took my right hand, leaving the other little one to take my left.  Unfortunately, he had no right hand.  He tried hard to hold my left hand with his left hand, but it made it very difficult to navigate over the rocks on the path to my home.  Suddenly I sensed a change, and I felt the stump of his malformed limb tentatively touch my hand.  I reached down and took hold of it, and we walked like that the rest of the way.  When we arrived at my house, I told the boys to wait while I got each of them a new yellow pencil.  The strong boy accepted his nonchalantly, while the eyes of my new friend lit up like I had given him gold.  He thanked me and ran off to enjoy his day. 

The parable of the rich boy and the poor boy.  May this little one find his real treasure in heaven.

Have a great day.