Dirty cheeks and solemn eyes

I want you to know love.

 

I can’t forget her eyes. They were not the cheerful eyes of a child. She is only 11 and already she has the tired eyes of a woman who has seen so much trouble. She is so unlike Franky, whose happy eyes and careless grin charm each of us into forgetting his poverty. Each attempt to make her laugh brings a painful smile to her dirty lips. I talk with her and take her picture, but she stares blankly back.

Her eyes have haunted me since I saw her in her worn, oversized sweater waiting atop a hill covered in refuse. She looked back with a silent pain, calloused indifference, eyes much too old. My heart longs to take her from the burning hell of trash upon that mountain and show her what love is. Before she solemnly walked away, I spoke with her in the tragically broken Spanish I knew. I know I confused her. I saw her wondering if I was just another tourist.

But I hope- I really hope and pray that she was able to see my love for her. And more than that, I hope she saw God’s love for her. I want her to remember love. When she wants to give up on the world that seems so cruel, when she forgets what hopes and dreams feel like, when she doesn’t even bother to cry anymore, I hope she remembers what love is. I only want to be God’s heart in the world, the arms through which He holds His broken children.

I just want her to know His love.