My friend Ginia was in the group that went to Swaziland, Africa. She came over to my house to share her experiences there and, without realizing it, stirred something in me. Not because of the profound stories she shared about the hope that is surfacing in that area, not even because of the transformation that takes place when Care Points live and breathe to take care of orphans.
It was Ginia’s story about Saphili that brought me to tears.
Because resources are so hard to come by in certain areas in Africa (like Swaziland), children oftentimes only have one shoe. Groups are sent several pairs, but supply rarely meets demand and children are usually required to split a pair of shoes, each taking only one.
Ginia was helping out at a Care Point one day and noticed a beautiful little girl who was limping in pain. After finding out her name was Saphili, Ginia approached her and was immediately struck by her timidity and brokenness.
When trying to determine what was causing her limp, Ginia realized that Saphili had a large thorn embedded in her left foot that had become severely infected and was festering. What happened next blew my mind and did a profound job of highlighting the stark difference between the beauty of trust and the depravity that comes with fear.
Have you ever had a thorn in your foot?
For that matter, have you ever stepped on a splinter?
I remember when I was a kid, I’d spend summers in west Texas with my grandparents. My brother and I would explore the pastures behind their house looking for rocks or red paint bugs or wild cats. In the midst of our hunting, I’d inevitably step on something: a sticker, a piece of glass, the tip of a dead cactus. I’d immediately run home crying (not because of the minimal pain, but because I knew that I had an appointment with my grandmother’s tweezers and a cap full of rubbing alcohol or “monkey blood”). I’d flinch like crazy and constantly yank away whichever limb was impaled that day.
Unless you were a 5-year-old superhero, you probably did the same (sans the “monkey blood”).
Saphili was so different. Maybe her culture made her stronger, maybe the lack of a regular caretaker, maybe numbness. Ginia sat with Saphili and coaxed her to stick out her hurting leg so the thorn could be removed and the wound treated.
She didn’t cry, pull her leg away or flinch. She sat there, trusting a perfect stranger to make her feel better. And then Saphili fell asleep and stayed in Ginia’s arms for a long, long time.
I learned a lot from Saphili. And I learned a lot more about God.
I believe that God takes the “flinchers” right along with the those, like Saphili, who freely put their pain in better hands and trust that a small amount of suffering will inevitably lead to healing in time.
I’m usually more of a “flincher,” but I’m hoping to become a little more like that little girl who sat still.
(If you’d like to learn more about Care Points, click here. I’m selling several paintings and donating 100% of the profit to this cause. Click here to learn more about the paintings.)
