Blessing

                                                                                                                        February 26, 2013

"Odi?"

I waved her over. As she cautiously stepped toward me, I noticed a baby tied on her back over her ragged dress. 

"Hello!" I called.

"Hello?" she repeated, confused. She began mumbling something, and I noticed that her eyes pointed in different directions.

Kingsley, our gardener, ran around the house. "I'm sorry, Madam. I told her we have no piece work. She is asking for piece work to feed her children, but she is abnormal. I did not realize that she walked around the house to the khondi."

"Would it be okay to give her some money?" I asked, still unsure how to proceed sometimes. "Can I give her 100, 200, or 500 kwacha?"

"Yes, you can give. Maybe 500." It was the amount of a daily laborer (400-500 mk) and I knew the average Malawian would not give her so much. 

"How many children does she have?" 

"Two." She patted her fussy baby's bottom, trying to comfort it.

Quickly, I ran inside and got the money. Walking out of the house, I saw her sitting on the ground, nursing a very skinny little girl. One of the mother's breasts was completely shriveled up; she was feeding the baby from the normal side. I handed her the money.

A look of wonder, a tiny smile. She held the money almost reverently. "Zikomo kwambili," she whispered. (Thank you very much.)

"How old is her baby?"

"One."

"How many months?" I asked.

"She doesn't know how to count months," Kingsley replied after asking the mother.

"I think I have a dress for her. Would it be okay to give it to her?"

"Yes. If you do, she will know that she has been blessed by God."

I returned with a beautiful red dress, one that Jamie had picked up somewhere for Abigail. It was polyester, so would help her stay warm, and the color was perfect for the mud here. She rolled it up and stuffed it into a bag she carried. It was the kind of bag used for packaging, had no handles, and looked as if she found it in the street. I fished out a proper sized grocery bag with handles from the closet, then helped her put her few things in it. She turned and walked quietly away. As I watched her, I suddenly realized that Kingsley was speaking to me. "God bless you, Madam," he said earnestly. 

Me? Here is a woman who is obviously mentally handicapped, trying to take care of her two children. Maybe she is married, maybe not. Someone in her position is easily used by others, and has no hope of rising out of poverty. In the USA, there are government programs to help people like her, but here there is nothing. By all rights, she could have asked for a handout. Who would need it more? But she came asking for work, so she could earn money to feed her children. How could I not help her? God has already blessed me with a good mind, an excellent husband, abundance of food, shelter, and a hope and a future even while on this earth. How could I stand by and watch her nurse her obviously malnourished baby, trying to do her best for the little one, and do nothing? From the blessing God has given, I am compelled to give. This is one reason that He put us here.
--shallena