a bible and a pair of boots

It was early December and I was eighteen. Bundled up from rosy face to four-layered sock toes, I entered the doors of the Falesti orphanage in the post-Soviet Republic of Moldova. This was not the first nor was it the last. Many orphanage doors had been opened to my team that week, two or three a day, as we came yielding a plethora of winter boots for feet that would otherwise be frostbitten. By the middle of the week we had our routine down—the children would file into a room and sit one at a time in front of a team member who would remove her soiled socks and ragged shoes to replace them with two fresh pair of socks and a newly fitted pair of boots. Even as I write this nearly two years later, the odor of those rooms persistently refuses to elude me or even grow faint.

Falesti is a rather large orphanage compared to the others I saw. There were organized classes of children sitting together, gaping at their strange visitors and whispering to one another in voices sweet yet indecipherable to my English-attuned ears. On this particular day, after every child had been served, a little girl of about seven or eight appeared in the doorway, lingering, looking like little girls do when they want to be beckoned to come closer. Her boots had been buckled by my hands, and she earnestly gazed at me again. I approached her, kneeling down. With her head hung low and her beautiful eyes sad, I tried to console the girl by gently caressing her hanging arms and brokenly speaking one of the only three phrases I knew in the Romanian tongue: What is your name?

“Me-chi-ella,” I heard so softly escape from her lips. Michelle. Although pronounced differently in Romanian, our names were one. I entreated a translator to enter the moment so that I might discover why Michelle had returned. Maia spoke ever so gently to the girl and then looked up at me.

“She wants one of the bibles, and she wants you.”

If a heart ever really did, as they say, melt, it was mine at that moment. What do you do when you find yourself willing to offer anything if only able? What do you do when aching with every fiber of the soul to draw nearer to someone but held back by every force upon the earth? If only our souls were water spouts and I could pour everything I had into her…I think I would have.

I brought Michelle a bible; I wrote her name—our name—in it and underlined one of my favorite verses. I wrapped her small frame in my arms for a moment. Although my words were in English I spoke them anyway, telling her how beautiful she was, how wonderful. Michelle’s face blossomed from shy and sad to a sincere smile in the light of my attention.

She left with hands full—that book. Yet my heart ached knowing how empty she remained. Mother, father, family, food and clothes, warmth, protection from trafficking, a hope and future—these I could not provide.

Days later I eventually had a breakdown. The world was becoming bigger and more broken than I had ever known before. I was becoming smaller and more obsolete than I had ever before possessed the humility to imagine. In those moments I lacked the ability to process too much. It was enough to be stunned and overwhelmed.

I am still yet to understand, but I am beginning to comprehend. Sometimes you fly halfway across the world and the best you can do is a Bible and a pair of boots. I mean, sometimes you reach out to serve and they need a lot more than there is to give. Michelle taught me that I do have something to offer, however small it might be. She taught me that her need did not equal my inadequacy because-

"I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me" (Galatians 2:20).

Though tears still escape from my eyes in reflection, she makes me feel inspired. There is work to be done—big work. I am small, but somewhere there is still a little girl with sad eyes standing in a doorway, lingering, looking like little girls do when they want to be beckoned to come closer. And I think that is something I can do.