The Quiet Heart

It always amazes me how in a heart beat I can be back in Dera. And today, in the recognition of my racing heart, during a perfect sun salutation, I was back there. Holding hands with my Benhamen.

I met this little guy's mama 1 year ago and have spent time with them each visit...

When he sees me walking through the market or clinic or dusty road of the village, he runs to me, takes his place at my side, clasps my hand confidently and looks up with this knowing expression: "she's mine."

And I am.

And though there are no words exchanged, we both know it.

Often adults will drive the huge crowds of children away from us by whipping them or throwing rocks at them. It's horrible. I know they are trying to give us space and they don't understand that one of the greatest joys of being there is loving their children... holding their hands and praying that my touch will give them hope, peace... joy. And so I pray for tolerance. For understanding. For patience.

On one particular day, well meaning "grown ups" were driving the children away, and I could sense my buddy's fear. When I reached down to protect this little boy, I could feel his heart beating wildly. I could feel his fear. And so I took him in my arms and we both cried.

I knelt in the middle of that dusty road and held him. And hollered at those grown ups to just leave us alone. I think they understood my tone!

In that moment, my mind couldn't help but wander into his quiet heart and the other times that his heart might race like that. (Sometimes I do a good job of blocking out the reality of what their lives really are. Especially when we're singing and playing and when I see such beautiful smiles and light in their eyes. I forget.)

Maybe his heart has pounded in his tiny chest when his mama brought him to this village for the first time a few years ago?

Or when he couldn't understand the language the other children were speaking and thought they were saying bad things to him?

Or has he ever seen that man that gave him life, that man who I don't think deserves the title of father, beat his mother with an iron rod?

Does he see the photographs of their life before? So different from the extreme poverty and sickness this man has brought them to? Does that cause his heart to pound?

It does mine.

So today when I felt my heart beating, I remembered his. And I was back there.

I kept my eyes closed as long as possible during my yoga practice this morning. I wanted to be there. With him. With his mother, Maka.

Tears leaked through my clenched eye lids. Similar tears to the ones his mother wiped from my face as I said goodbye to them this last time... just a few weeks ago.

Imagine this beautiful 21 year old mother wiping my tears. MY tears. When it's her that is suffering. Yet. She wanted to comfort me.

This orphan, teenage bride, married to a man who has another family. To a man that took her from a pretty good life and has taken her to dirt floors, mud walls, and continual illness. Who steals her money, beats her, then shares her bed.

I'll probably never see her again. I've encouraged her to leave Dera. To go back to her home in the north.

Though her parents are dead.

And she will be leaving this man. (There's shame in that. At least in her culture.)

But she'll be safe. And alive. And be able to start a new life. And maybe get healthy again.

And so she'll stay in my heart. And I'll remember her and her children when my heart starts to race. Or when hot tears leak through clenched eyes. I'll remember her comforting me.

And I'll go back and find Maka and her children. In the middle of my quiet heart.

Saying goodbye to Maka...