When One Wishes To Be Hands And Feet

We load the buses, all 80+ of us, piled in to go and be the hands and feet.

We drive through the city, through the filth, and through all the people hurrying to all their places, places of importance and busyness and places we all have to be.

I am with the girls and the sound of laughter fills the bus as they beg passing truckers to give a honk.  And oh, the peals of laughter and cheers and satisfaction that come from just one seeing and hearing their pleas.

The bus drops us at a concrete warehouse.  No fancy signs, no impressive doors.  Just a simple, unassuming warehouse, like all the others. One simple sign points the way.  Easy to miss, if one isn't searching.

We go into the place where the boxes reach the ceiling, towers of treasure for those in desperate need, and she begins to tell the story of what we are to pack.  Sadly, all too often, it is American greed and disregard for the law that brings all this here, and now what was meant for evil is given for good.  We trim tags, stamp goods and pile boxes with scrubs bound for Africa.

  They are to be the wardrobe of the surrendered, those who have heard and answered the call.  Robes for the righteous.  A sign to the community that healing has come.

 

 They come with medicine and deliver Hope to the global poor, sick, and oppressed.  Hope for body and soul. The healers are all they may ever know of Him.  They go hut to hut to hut to love on those dying with Aids and extend compassion to those with HIV and cry with mamas grieving over children gone and men broken over all that has been shattered.  They wipe tears of deepest grief.

They come with healing hands and a message to Africa that God has not forgotten them.  He sees their suffering.  He sees their famine.  He sees their death and disease.  And He weeps with them.

 And here, around the work table I hear the chatter of cherubim, the conversations of young girls thanking God for providing these scrubs for the healers and thanking God for their own good fortune.  And deep in my heart I whisper thanks as well.  Thanks for my good life and full cupboards and clean water and HIS GRACE and the list goes on and on....

It is here, around the worktable in the concrete store room that holds our waste and greed and not good enough, that I feel one tear slide down my cheek and carve a canyon through my heart.  I am doing what I can, for today.  But what about tomorrow?  And the day after that, and the day after that?  What can I do from here to help there?  Anywhere really. 

And I know the answer lies in His Book, the place where my manna lies waiting to be gathered for the day.  For if I haven't yet gathered, how can I give?  

I come home and curl up in sunshine patch all warm on couch and search His Word and find this:

"...... to walk in all his ways, to obey his commands, to hold fast to him, and to serve him with all your heart and all your soul. " {Joshua 22:5}