Skin Deep

Those of you who know me know that I don’t do kids. I’ve never changed a diaper in my life. I have no idea what to do with them when I come across them. As I always like to be in control of situations, this helplessness is very disconcerting.

However, in Thailand we were assaulted by a veritably endless army of children. It seemed like everywhere we went, there they were. Wanting us to play with them, to eat with them, to teach them English, or just wanting our presence in their lives. So I forced myself out of my comfort zone, over and over again. I became more accustomed to dealing with kids, but I still felt I wasn’t any good at it.

One day we went to the House of Love. Opening in 1995, it houses HIV infected ethnic minority women and their children, as well as other at-risk children in a family atmosphere. The team entered their building and encountered kids ranging in age from infants to teenagers. They spoke very little English, but we were pretty good at gesturing by then so we weren’t overwhelmed.

We were warned by some of the teachers about an 8 year old boy named Su Ti. Su Ti had been horribly abused when he was a toddler. Cigarette burns scarred his skin. He was known for his spontaneous tantrums and violence. He did not speak, and he did not like to be touched. Sufficiently cautious, we entered the courtyard, and small groups of children grabbed on to whomever of us they wanted to play with.

I was alone for a few minutes, which was fine by me….then, out of the throng, his dark brown eyes intent on his mission, a little boy broke through, walked up to me, and put his hand in mine, smiling. Thus claimed, he dragged me to the large trampoline in the yard and we started jumping. Higher and higher, his small body launched into the air by mine. He laughed hardest when he really flew.

It took me a while to realize my new companion didn’t speak. We had been jumping for a while, until we got tired, and it was time for dinner anyway. He gestured and pulled on my arm to get my attention, then took my hand again to get ready for the meal. He showed me where the sink was, and how to wash my hands, all with more gestures. I realized he was signing to me in Thai sign language - not only did we have the language barrier, but we also had this new one to overcome.

We sat and ate. During dinner, he kept reaching over and tracing the freckles on my arms and smiling. Then he would touch the scars on his arms and smile some more, giving me the thumbs-up. At one point he pointed to the green leaves on the tree above us. Parts of them were missing, as something had eaten a pattern through them, and the light shone through. He gave this a thumbs-up, too.

Realizing just who this affectionate little boy was, and further noticing that we were being watched closely by a teacher nearby, I asked her what his motions meant.

“He thinks you are like him,” she explained. “You both have spots on your arms so he thinks you are his sister, or had a similar experience.”

I was blown away. For the first time in my life, I was glad that I looked differently than most people. It was because of this that a hurt little boy had picked me, out of everyone else. Not because of my experience with children, or how comfortable I was around them, but because he felt a connection with me.

God can use what we deem as weaknesses or liabilities, or even things we are simply self conscious about, for His will to be done. I had come to Thailand to Xtend my hand, to stretch myself, and throw myself out there, and instead, a child Xtended his hand to me. Who was the real missionary?