Hands

(Note to reader: The faces in these photos are blocked out due to Mexico’s child protection policy for minors living in institutions.)

One of my best friends once remarked that I “deeply value moments.”  Truer words of me were never spoken.  I experienced a moment yesterday that, in the unlikeliest of ways, grew the capacity of my heart.

Older children and teenagers living in children’s homes have lived through a lot of hurt, disillusionment, and trauma by the time you meet them.  Their hearts are heavily guarded.  They don’t trust or love as effortlessly as younger children tend to.  They can be polite and tolerate you reasonably well as a visitor, but they might never let you in past the barricade.
For several months, I’ve stood at the gates of these barricaded hearts, simply showing up, being present, praying that one day the Lord might show me how to earn their trust.

The tides turned this week.

It began with brown paint.  We were on our hands and knees staining the wooden bunkbeds in the boys’ bedrooms, and I noticed the oldest boy watching me quietly.
He is a skillful artist, and I invited him to join me painting.
No, he shyly backed away.  I’m no good at painting, he said.
I laughed because there was no way that was true.  “It’s easy.  Look.”  I demonstrated on the wood.  “Now you.  Try it!  It’s fun.”
His eyes were dubious and embarrassed as he stroked the brush against the wood.  With some encouragement, he eventually lost the embarrassment and painted faster.

I’m not exactly sure how it happened, but within a few minutes, paint ended up on his cheek, on my cheek, on his nose, on my nose, on both our foreheads, and all over.  I insisted we take a photo, and as I took it, he slathered more paint on me.  We ran outside to wash ourselves and our paintbrushes clean at the spicket, and when he splashed me, we went for Round 2.
Afterwards, dripping with water and laughing, I looked at him (we stand about eye to eye – unusual in Mexico where I’m taller than most everyone I meet) and said, “I think we just became friends.”
He said, “I think we just did.”

Yesterday he found me again, sanding down the frame of a clothesline outside and preparing to paint it white.  I invited him and three of the other older boys to grab paintbrushes and join me in knocking out the project quickly.

“We’re just going to paint the frame, not each other,” I insisted.  “Just the frame.”
“Ah yes, yes Jordan, just the frame,” they nodded, though their eyes laughed at me.  “No more paint wars.”

For the record, the oldest boy started it.  He got paint on his hand and wiped it on me, giving the other boys the idea to begin wiping paint on me anywhere they could – prompting me to retaliate – until we were covered in white paint head to toe (I’m talking covered: I was no longer a brunette and you couldn’t see any of my skin underneath all the paint – COVERED).  They run faster than I do, but I’m more stubborn than they are, and we filled the air with screeching laughter as we chased each other through the warm grass.

Finally, there was nothing more to paint because we were so drenched.  We headed for the hose together, and only then did they tell me just how white my hair had become.

 

Before I knew it, the same mischievous boys who had covered me head to toe in paint were surrounding me, working the hair ties out of my hair, and separating the strands that had begun to stick together in clumps.
“Lean over,” they said, lifting the hose to send a stream of cold water cascading over my messy mop of hair.  I briefly glimpsed a river of white paint-water rush down from my head before it all began running into my eyes and mixing with my mascara.

(Why I even bother putting makeup on these days is a mystery to me.)

As I leaned beneath the water, trying to rub my eyes free of makeup and acrylic paint, I felt several pairs of hands softly rest on the back of my head, then gently take sections of my hair in their hands and rubbing them together to coax the paint out.

Suddenly I was aware of the significance of this moment.  Just days earlier, these boys would have considered me a regular visitor, a volunteer, just another well-meaning face they see on Tuesdays.  But the past few days we’ve spent together throwing frisbees, creating secret handshakes, arm-wrestling (yes, actually), working and sweating together, and throwing paint all over each other, something happened.  We began to develop a sense of belonging.
I became one of them.
I became theirs.
They became mine.
I stood quietly with a full heart underneath the cold hose water, letting the boys wash my hair, and my mind flashed to an image of Jesus washing His disciples’ feet.

I’m supposed to be the hands and feet of Jesus to them, yet here they are,
being the hands of Jesus to me.

Once I’d returned to being somewhat of a brunette again, three of the boys ran to shower, but the oldest boy stayed behind and helped me braid my hair.  We then ran out to the field to throw a frisbee.
A member of the mission team with me said, “Another person might have gotten mad when they threw paint on you.  I loved your heart to just surrender to the process, join in, and make the most fun out of it as you could.”
My response was quick and honest.  “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for these boys.”

It’s true.  I’m sore today from running, my shoulder is stiff from frisbee and arm wrestling, and I’m sunburned, but every single ache (and all the white paint which did NOT come out of my clothes) I consider to be a badge of honor, a reminder that yesterday, I began to belong to those boys, and they made a home in my heart.

I believe the Lord is showing me a glimpse of His heart toward His children.  There are no lengths to which He would not go in order to bring His kids back home.  In sending His son Jesus, He showed just how real His love is for us.  How deep.  How wide.  How grand.  We can’t comprehend!  As the song says, there is no shadow He won’t light up or mountain He won’t climb up to come after us.  He is relentless.  His is a crazy love.

So the next time I wear the purple staff shirt that is plastered with white streaks, smears, and splotches (plus one very prominent white handprint on the right shoulder), I will smile.

I will smile, and I will remember the day my boys showed me the heart of Jesus through white paint and a garden hose.