In Haiti, we had a laundry lady that came every week. Her name was Monique. She is a beautiful and kind lady whose house got destroyed in the earthquake. She would travel quite a bit to get to our place and wash our clothes so she could provide for her daughter back at home. It usually takes her two days to get the laundry done. She brings the washed clothes up to hang, and if I was around I would wring them out and hang them up for her while she washed more clothes downstairs so it would go quicker for her.
One of these times, I was wringing the clothes out- and developing some blisters (who knew you could get blisters from wringing out clothes?)- and when I finished with that batch, I decided I’d go down and see if she could teach me how to hand-wash the clothes. I figured it might be a good trade to learn, but I also really just wanted to spend time with her. I went down and with some motions got across that I wanted to learn. The lady that lives downstairs brought a chair for me to sit, and Monique showed me how to wash. She took the fabric in both her hands and made fists, rubbing the fabric quickly up and down against itself. She did it in a way that it made this peculiar noise… which I couldn’t ever seem to make. When I got close to making that noise, a hopeful, encouraging look would cross her face to affirm that it was right, but I couldn’t ever keep it going. She would talk and laugh with the women around us, and of course I figured they were laughing at me. I knew this was something to get used to in foreign cultures- being laughed at- though I wasn’t sure if I was a burden to her work or not. I wanted to help her, not slow her down and make her feel like she has to teach me.
My hands were starting to get raw and my blisters opened- which made it worse with all the soap. I was grateful when we finished with a batch of clothes so I could have a break and go hang them up for her. While I was in the middle of hanging them up, I saw Monique coming up the stairs. She didn’t have any clothes in her hand to give me… maybe she was seeing if I was done so I could come down? She came up to me, gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and said in English, “I love you.” Surprised and elated, I said, “Thank you, I love you too” in Creole. She went back down to continue her work.
Those three words suddenly had weight and meaning behind them. I can nonchalantly say that I love someone, but now there was action and sacrifice put behind that love. I looked down at my hands. Was it worth it? Yes. Absolutely. Actually, I was grateful for the physical evidence and reminder of love. Every time I washed dishes or hit the wounds, there was beauty and joy in the pain as I remembered Monique. Maybe that’s why, even after Jesus rose from the dead, He still has the holes where the nails had pierced Him. He made the ultimate sacrifice, went through all of that pain and suffering… for love.
I think of His hands. Was it worth it? I smiled.
Jen – I love this. I loved watching you be intentional in the way you loved our neighbors and Monique. You Jenny, have the ability to show others how to love with the heart of God. Thank you for teaching us that.
This is beautiful. I love to hear truth in the form of someone’s experience, it brings life to that truth. It is so refreshing and hope-bringing to hear how God is working in the lives of those I love!
Thank you for sharing Jenny, I love you!
Sometimes wounds are beautiful reminders of love. I love that.
You are a great writer Jenny! Keep being a voice of Grace as you live a life of Grace!