I spent Tuesday afternoon and this morning at the Hope House, a home for the dying in Manzini. Tuesday, I spent hours holding the hand of an ancient, ailing Gogo (grandmother) named Ana. Her skin was soft and oily, wrinkles covered her face that not even a macro lens could lend justice to. She sat out facing the sun, squinting her eyes in the wind in her silk, polka dotted night gown. She wears a Van Gogh-esque sunflower head wrap to cover her grey curls, and hot pink crocs to cover her gnarled and curving toes. Her eyes are yellowed with cloudy blue and brown pupils. She is the picture of ancient.
But when she smiles! Joy flows, wisdom buds, laughter erupts. Ana must be an angel. She often furrows her brow and gives a harsh, scornful look at us young, white girls as if to say, “Who do you think you are with your chesire cat grins and long linen skirts? You don’t know a thing.” But behind that disapproving glare is a soft soul. I spoke to her Tuesday, but only received a mumbled Siswati response. Longing for her approval, I pulled out my sticker book and plucked a big one from the page and gently placed it on her hand. She then pointed and in a confident voice read, “You…make…me…laugh,” and then exploded in to a fit of laughter. Her head tipped back, her big, cracked lips parted and giggles spilled forth through her gappy, yellow teeth. The puppy with the open smile next to those words received the same warm excitement. She gripped my hand and cackled more, patting the concrete beside her, welcoming me to her perch. We sat for two hours, sharing laughter, sparse words, lunch and quiet. She held my hand for the entire time, often flipping it over to inspect its creases and to compare my pastel pigment to her own sun-warmed darkness. As she grew tired, she pulled me closer, leaning on my lap and rubbing her hands against mine, inspecting my feet and legs as if they were foreign body parts. When I told her goodbye for the day, her face returned seamlessly to the cynical, scornful gaze from earlier. I promised to return soon, and her smile emerged again, tongue pushing through her teeth, a parting gift until next time. Gogo Ana must be an angel.
Angels like Ana fill the Hope House, the care points, the orphanages, the streets, all of Swaziland. Every grin from the hungry, uniform-clad children in line for lunch-time pop and beans is a reminder of the Lord’s presence on Earth. Jesus came and dwelled among the poor, the sick, the needy. The light in the eyes of these oppressed people groups is not only a reminder of His human ministry, but a call to act upon the Lord’s lasting requirements of His people.
“Let mutual love continue. Do not neglect to show kindness to strangers, for by doing so, you have entertained angels without knowing it.” Hebrews 13:1-2
Sharing stickers and showing kindness to Ana was entertaining an angel, I just know it.
