A Cheese Puff Thanksgiving

During most of my childhood my mom was a single mom, raising me and my younger sister on her own. And while we always had a roof over our heads, food to eat, clothes to wear and the luxuries of electricity, plumbing/ running water, a tv, etc., I also remember times when I would get up to make my lunch for school only to realize that I would have to take one or two hard boiled eggs and fill my thermos with water, because that was all there was. One time, there weren't even any eggs. There was peanut butter and jelly, but no bread, so I wasn't sure what to do. Then being the resourceful child that I was, I spooned out some peanut butter and some jelly into a foil ball and took that for lunch!   

After I grew up and was on my own, the financially tough times continued for a while, like the Thanksgiving that all I had to eat was cheese puffs... and no, I don't mean the "high class, name brand 'Cheetos'", I mean generic cheese puffs! 

There was also a period of about 6 months or so when my dad was homeless and living in Michigan in the winter. There was a big part of me that wanted to help him, probably as much to alleviate my fears and worries for him, as much as to actually help him. I was an adult, making decent money at the time - no more cheese puff Thanksgiving dinners for me! I could have paid for the bus, plane or train fare for him to come to Houston and then let him live with me until he could become self-sustaining. But he had been living with another relative and chose to leave. What do you do when you know you can help, but your not sure if the help you can offer is ultimately going to help or hurt the person?   

Why do I mention all of these things? I mention them because all those things have had an impact on who I am today. Growing up I learned the difference between needs and wants, and I learned that I don't need (or want!) a lot of stuff to be happy. In fact, as anyone who knows me at all is aware, the less stuff I have, the happier I am. I know what it's like to have others look at me like I'm "less than" or avoid me because I'm the weird kid eating peanut butter and jelly with a spoon out of a foil ball for lunch. I know what it's like to want to help someone and not be able to or to be the one that needs help, but not want the help that is being offered. 

Because of all of these experiences and others, I've had a heart for the needy and the homeless for as long as I can remember. Before Sam and I came to Nepal, some of the people in our church were getting involved with Cy Fair Helping Hands, and I wanted so much to be part of that, but it seems God had other plans for me and always made sure I was unavailable when there were opportunities to help. 

There was a short time a few years before that when I used to go to areas of Houston to talk and pray with people living on the streets... and it wasn't always prayers for them to get off the streets. Sometimes that's what they wanted prayer for, but many times, they just wanted to be seen and heard as real people, each with their own story of how they got to where they were in their life, not just "a homeless person" that needed to be rescued.  

So that leads me to now. A few months ago I started seeing this woman on my way to language classes who appeared to be living in the corner of a field next to a short brick wall surrounded by trash and some plastic bags. A few times I said "Namaste" to her and asked her how she was, and although she would sometimes smile, she never really responded. So one time when Ambika had come to visit, I asked her to go with me knowing she would be able to talk with and understand the woman better than me. 

Between that visit with Ambika and from speaking with some of the people in the neighborhood who speak some English, I've discovered that the woman is mentally ill, but wasn't always mentally ill. Years ago she was married, lived in a house nearby and had a son, but while giving birth to her son she lost conciousness and after that she was never the same again. Although I think she still has a home nearby and people have offered to help her to get off the streets, she tells everyone who asks that she wants to stay where she is. 

I've asked the people in  our weekly fellowship group if they know anything more about her, but that's all anyone seems to know. And since she doesn't want to "move" from where she is living now, no one knows what to do or how to help. 

So I prayed about it and realized, that just because we would feel better if she were no longer living in that field, it doesn't mean that's all we can do for her. So what if she wants to stay where she's at? 

I can still go and talk to her, even if it's just for 5 minutes a day in my limited Nepali. I can take her bottles of water and food occassionally, an umbrella when it's raining and a jacket, blanket and warm socks when it's cold. I can pray for her and let her know that she's loved, that she's not forgotten like a piece of trash to be discarded and thrown away.

I call her aamaa, which means "mother" in Nepali and is a term that is commonly used here to refer to woman of an older generation, regardless of whether or not they are the person's mother or not. I always try to look her in the eyes when I talk to her to let her know she is seen, and while most of the time she will look down or away when I talk to her, she always looks me in the eyes when I tell her (in Nepali) that I love her, Jesus loves her, she's beautiful and God's daughter. 

When Ambika and Prem's girls visited Pokhara they went with me a few times to go talk to this woman, and after a few days she gave us permission to pray for her. We also stopped at two shops down the street to get things they thought would be good for her- bananas, a cucumber, a toothbrush, toothpaste, cookies, hand lotion and they even drew some pictures for her. I noticed that while she put the rest of items we brought to her aside for later, she immediately displayed the drawings the girls made for her on branches of a bush she was sitting next to. 

Today I took aamaa some bottles of water, some food and a "vase" (a plastic bottle) of marigolds from our garden. When I arrived she was re-arranging some of the trash and folding some rags and clothes... her version of Spring Cleaning, even though it's Fall. She took the plastic vase of flowers and set them on a rock ledge "table" and set the bottles of water and food to the side for later. We talked for a few minutes, and I told her one of the rags she was folding was "pretty pink". She finished folding it and then offered it to me. 

Unfortunately, I was thinking too practically (what would I do with it?) and politely declined instead of appreciating and accepting the generous gift she was offering me... not a mere pink rag, but the gift of being able to offer me a gift, something she probably rarely, if ever, gets to do anymore. For that I am both deeply sorry, as well as overcome by her extreme generosity. There I was hoping to reflect God's love to this woman, but she, who has almost nothing, is mentally ill and most likely has no idea who Jesus is, reflected Him to me.