I had other plans. I wanted to pray for the people at the end of the service. I left the small village church for just a moment. I changed Francis’ diaper, fed the children and left them with Tony. Up to that point the plan had worked. But when I returned to the church, it didn’t. I saw Wiola and Marek (the missionaries) praying for the people. Many of the women were lying on mats on the left side under the power of the Holy Spirit. And then I saw her.
A girl who couldn’t have been even two years old was standing next to her mother, who was just experiencing her encounter with God. She was standing and crying. She was in tears. In Mozambique, the community knows each other very well, so I started looking for someone from the girl’s family to take care of her while her mother couldn’t. Without success. So I took the girl to a safe place, so that she could see her mother, and I smiled at her. She stopped crying. But she stood still. So I sat down next to her and started stroking her back and praying for her.
She was all dressed up. A striped dress – from the bottom: yellow, blue and pink, and colorful beads around her neck. Ready for a big celebration. For her day. For Children’s Day.
Shortly after that I had to go somewhere, and when I came back, the same thing happened again – she was crying. So I sat down next to her and just smiled again. There was no point in talking. Children there, in the villages, usually don’t know Portuguese. And I don’t know Makhuwa. So we were in some kind of wordless understanding. Me, present, she, calmer. And as I looked at her, sitting on the bare ground, I understood that this was my part for today. Not a prayer for people in church. A prayer for one little girl at the very end of the world.
It takes almost three hours to get to Geri Geri from our house. After an hour, you leave the asphalt (not that it’s without holes) and onto a road in the bush. Uneven and tiring. And beautifully wild. You pass villages and single houses. People busy with ordinary work. People who don’t shop in the store, but live off what the land gives them. People who usually only know the local language. People who don’t mind it at all.
We went there because we wanted to serve children in a small village church that we had visited before. There were supposed to be 50 of them. There were probably twice as many. Although we started with a service, that day I wanted to speak to them. Not to adults.
We had prepared a parable about the lost sheep with the involvement of children. And the Gospel, simply.
Even before the key question about giving one’s life to Jesus was translated into the Makhuwa language, all the children raised their hands. It was a good moment for a photo for the newsletter. I have seen such things here. But that would not be true. So I stepped back and started explaining again. Then my husband and the pastor explained. In their language, but above all in their culture. I asked again. Not all the children raised their hands. But some did.
A celebration in heaven!
There were many children and in my opinion chaos reigned. It was difficult to set them up. It is difficult to conduct games for toddlers and teenagers at the same time. Because in the village, when something happens, everyone comes. Everyone who hears. And yet the next day one of the children brought home the news that he really enjoyed it.
Sometimes I ask myself, did anything happen there? In those little hearts? The children looked lost, sometimes scared. The older ones had a good time, listened. Many of them were prayed for by missionaries and were touched by the Holy Spirit. Some accepted Jesus. But how consciously and what will happen to them next? The little girl with a string of plastic beads stopped crying. Someone said that the games were great. Maybe it was nothing, or maybe that was enough. Since the Shepherd ran after the one.
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