Hair Unbound

I often pray to the Lord and ask Him to help me remember things–to pray for this person, to do that errand–big things and small things. I want the grace of remembrance especially in the eternal realm–to remember everything that my eyes have seen, my ears have heard, and my heart has learned. 

The next few posts will be me trying to do just that–remembering the glory that I have been blessed to witness. Today, I will begin with a poem and then tell you the story woven therein.

Her hair

Was as dirtied and bound

As her mother’s body

Who had brought her there

Her locks untouched and unkempt

As many times as her mother’s skin

Had been caressed

By hands unworthy of love

Made incapable of fidelity
.

She was beautiful

And dark

With eyes made heavy

From carrying burdens

That should never be carried

By one so young–

Eyes that had looked upon many things

That were never meant to be looked upon

By a daughter or a son

.

Captivating was her smile

One that lingered

In the corners of her mouth

Pressing out somehow 

With clenched teeth

The hurt that she buried down

Twirling in her hand 

Some doll brought in

By the Spanish missionaries

.

Her will was sharp and determined

Sometimes rebellious

But mostly well-intentioned

She walked off and onto the bus

Her little sister’s hand in hers

Both with hair now kept and unbound

To a new place far from home

Far from fear and insecurity

Far from the ill-willed gaze of twisted men

.

And so I wept

At her story

At her mother’s story

At her sister’s story

At what they might remember from our intervention:

Would they be happy? Would they be grateful?

Or would they resent us for separating them from their dying mother?

What would become of them?

And would they remember this humble village from which they came?

.

Would they remember their mother?

The scars on her face

The smile that she gave

As they parted and waved goodbye

Seeing each other for the last time

And might I ever see them again earth-side

–Perhaps run into each other one day

In the marketplace and remember that we knew each other

Without being able to place exactly 

Where our paths might have crossed way back when–

Just maybe, one day

I hope so

The story

When I was living in the south of Ethiopia in a desert village called Gode, I lived on a mission compound that helped women leave behind their muddied life of prostitution. This process would begin by the bold religious sister who lived among us. She would roll up her sleeves–literally–and walk into the brothels in the center of the village. She would talk to the women and befriend them, asking what they needed and letting them know if they ever wanted a way out, she could provide it. Sure enough, some women would come forward now and again asking for the chance at a new start. 

I will call the woman in this poem Veronica. She was HIV positive and very thin, her health just as low as her weight. When Sister saw her and learned her story, she also intuited, perhaps, that this woman would not be able to live long. To make her sad story even more dramatic, Veronica had two daughters. These young girls were beautiful–one maybe about five and the other closer to eight. The hard truth was that the longer these girls remained in the brothel–the women slept in the same place where they “worked” and that included any children they might have–the higher the chance that they might become victims of the men who frequented these places. Sister, full of wisdom from her thirty-some years in ministry among those in need, sat down with Veronica and spoke to her about the future of her daughters. Who will take care of them when she is gone? She asked her to consider giving permission to send the two girls to a boarding school run by religious sisters in a nearby diocese. 

I do not know if this was a difficult decision for Veronica–firstly, as a Muslim woman–but also, the acceptance of where her life was going, that death would soon be upon her, and that if she decided to allow her daughters to be taken to this boarding school, it might very well be the last time she saw them. I cannot imagine the discord within her, the war between her heart and reason to come to a decision about what would be best for her daughters, not what she might prefer. The point is, Veronica made the incredibly difficult and honorable decision to allow her daughters to be taken in by the Sisters of the boarding school, entrusting them to their care, recognizing, that although a mother’s love cannot be replaced, the girls needed a home, warm meals, an education, and to be far from the brothels. 

On the day before the girls were to be picked up for the boarding school, they were brought to the compound to be showered, have their hair washed, and put on fresh clothes. When the girls came through the door, my heart was heavy. We knew the situation but I could not speak the language yet and even if I did, I am not sure I would know what to say. The task assigned to my friend and I was to wash and de-tangle the hair of these two beautiful girls. The problem was their hair had not been taken care of in so long. There were knots upon knots in their thick, curly hair. 

After many tears, long hours, lots of water and conditioner, patience, love, and much excitement, their hair was finally de-tangled. Their natural hair was not the matted, knotted mess they arrived with, but beautiful, soft, dark curls that rounded out their faces. Their “new” hair made these precious girls look completely different. Everyone was so shocked and they themselves were overcome with happiness to see their unanticipated transformation. 

I can still remember the joy of that moment–knowing that we were a part of making these girls feel beautiful, clean, and special. The heaviness of the past and the unknowns of the future took a backseat to that present moment. New beginnings no longer seemed so scary, perhaps–both for the girls and for their mother. 

Our lives can be tangled up in lies, darkness, fear, and confusion at times. We may not look with gratitude at our past or with hope towards our future. But, if we allow, the Lord can begin to transform us, de-tangle the knots, undo the messes we have made, and make everything new. Sometimes, He sends us people (here on earth or friends in heaven) to help with this process of cleansing and restoration–maybe it’s a friend, your parents, a son or daughter, a stranger. They might be the one the Lord will use to change your life, to put you on a different path, to stand with you as you face a new day.

Veronica passed away soon after the girls were sent away. I always wondered what became of them–where they might be now. I pray for them. Would you also say a prayer for them, please?

Grace and mercy will follow me all the days of my life.

*A note on the picture used for this post: Although taken in Ethiopia, this picture is not of one of the young girls mentioned in the post.