By Bruce Smith
In keeping with Rev. Laura’s August travel theme, I decided to share a travel experience that left an indelible impression on me. As Jeanne described a couple weeks ago, one of our early overseas experiences was in Goma, a part of Congo that had been devastated by conflict overflowing from the Rwanda genocide. While quiet at the time we were there, life was a struggle. We repeatedly heard, “Life is hard,” from our contacts. The poverty, barrenness and poor housing gave every indication of life being a struggle.
My experience occurred on our final day in Goma where we were helping to build an orphanage. I’m not the greatest kid guy and, despite working on an orphanage with a flock of kids around us, I spent more time on the work site than with the kids. Yes, I played a little ball with them (and saw a couple with great athletic potential) but my wife and a couple others had the touch with the kids. Most of my time was spent with the workers helping them and attempting to develop relationships despite the imposing language barriers. In fact, on our last day I was saying farewell to some of those workers and, specifically, stumbling through a French conversation with the project manager. Then something special happened.
Suddenly there was a little hand nestled in mine. I looked down to see a dirty little waif of a girl smiling up at me. I smiled back and finished my conversation, smiled at her again and began to move away to say goodbye to some others. But, clutching my hand, she moved with me. For the rest of our limited time, she was my constant companion. It was as if I had gained a daughter out of nowhere. There was something indescribably right about our being together. We walked all around the site and were together until it was time for me to get into the van for our trip home. Suddenly, leaving became immensely more poignant that expected. My eyes were wet with tears as I watched her from the rear window.
During our ten days on site with innumerable children in and out no one had seen this girl before. We were told later that they thought her home was nearby. Details were uncertain. I continue to wonder whether she was just a little neighborhood girl or something more.
Back in the States I did my best to express the feelings growing out of the encounter in a poem that I share with you here.
The Little Goma Girl
In the midst of heartfelt good-byes
A small hand slipped into mine.
A little hooded figure in dirty clothes
Skinny with braided hair
She diligently held onto this surprised pale man’s hand.
For moments beyond time
We walked the grounds as if bonded
Large hand and little hand linked in sudden trust
As if always
A photo and we parted to our different worlds
But I wonder now
Was she only a lonely child or had I held an angel’s hand?