Helen

There was a floor of black earth, and thick walls of dried mud. The intense African sun pierced through the doorway, as our eyes adjusted to the darkness inside. She sat across from us, on a faded, thoroughly worn-out couch that sagged until it was only a couple inches off the ground. Ancient yellow foam poked out from the threadbare fabric covering. The putrid stench of human sweat and excretion was suddenly overwhelmed by the light breeze that entered through the doorway. I inhaled with a prayer of gratefulness. Maybe this wouldn’t take too long.

We counted them. Little brown pills, round white ones, long red capsules. Yes, they were all there.

She took them with a brief nod, grimly smiling her approval.

“Helen weaves baskets,” we were told, and we politely bought two. Forty shillings each.

She was going to kill us a chicken, and I shuddered at the thought. The loud, gawking animals sputtered in and out of the house, some lean and others just starved. They ate from the piles of rotting garbage strewn about the landscape. Do not kill one of them for us, I thought to myself. There would never be a time when I could be hungry enough to eat such a rancid piece of meat cooked in such conditions.

So she gave us some melons. Fruit from her garden, I guess. I didn’t really ask.

Outside again, I welcomed the extreme heat that seemed to dehydrate my body in seconds. Although it was steaming, at least it was fresh air. She walked with us, and I noticed the bony elbows and ankles that protruded from her homemade dress. Her frame was frail, nearly decimated. But she had her pills, thanks to us, and they would help make her strong again.

She told us they would make her strong again.

“Goodbye,” we said, and I held my breath as I hugged her lightly. Momentarily feeling her body against mine made me tremble inside. There just wasn’t much of her.

She waved and called out after us until we were nearly out of sight. Next time you come, I will kill you a chicken, I think is what she said.

Drenching my hands with sanitizer, I wondered just one thing. Why me.

Helen had AIDS. She would not get strong again. She would not even live very much longer. The pills would help her system fight the symptoms of the disease for a short time, but they would not heal her.

She had contracted it from her husband. When he learned of her positive-HIV status, he abandoned her. But he had several wives, each with their own house. So he allowed Helen to stay on the land he had provided, but he refused to support her or the children he had with her.

And so Helen and her children did what they had to in order to survive. Helen wove baskets with dyed ropes made from straw. And she raised chickens, and sold the eggs to other families in their rural community.

The chickens. Her source of livelihood—that is what she was going to kill for us to eat.

I was amazed that someone with so little could have so much to give. But that was just it—she considered herself blessed beyond measure, and loved beyond belief. She was alive, and she was going to thank Jesus for every day that she breathed.

And so I asked myself, why me. Why am I the one with issues of self-pity and pathetic neediness? Why am I absorbed in my massive list of wants and desires? Why do I never have enough money left over to give to the church, or to a stranger in need? Why do I entertain myself with toys and things, ignoring the spiritual thirstiness of my soul?

Helen is most likely gone now. I don’t pretend to understand the social injustice and poverty she suffered. But Mercy was awaiting her just above the clouds.

Without reservation, refusing to hesitate, ignoring self and submitting to Christ. God, help me give it all.