Alvin

It was one of my low-energy days, so instead of my usual soccer ball, I grabbed an Alvin and the Chipmunks coloring book and 10 markers.. I walked over to the cuisine where patients lie on mats in the shade, families cook over tiny, coal stoves, and where the only thing that can be found in abundance is time. Home health care is non-existent, so patients with any IV medications, wound care treatments, or follow up appointments can stay in the cuisine for free. I know patients who have lived in the same 8x8 square furnished with a cot for 8 months.

I smiled, greeted, and extended a short bow to everyone as I walked around to find my two little friends who love to play (Both around 6 years old. They don't speak a word of French, and I don't even know their names. We communicate via high fives, fist bumps, laughs, and hugs.).  We found a spot and sat on the small, shaded ledge outside the building. I pulled out the coloring book, ripped a page out for both of them, handed them each a marker, and showed them how to color (for what is probably the first time). As you can imagine, it didn't take long for the entire page to be covered in monochromatic scribbles. I showed them that they could use a different color if they wanted, but I don't think they really cared too much.

It's kind of hard to recall what happened next, but in the span of a couple minutes, a few women came over, and I offered them a page and a marker. Then more women came. And then a few men. And then I ran out of markers. And then I dug through my bag for extra pens. And then more came. And I ran out of pens. And then everybody started sharing their markers. And before I know it, there is a line of 25 chattering people sitting on the ledge coloring Alvin and the Chipmunks. I don't know if it was my lack of clear communication or if they decided to do their own thing, but the trend was that instead of coloring inside the lines, everyone colored the lines. They would carefully trace along Simon's glasses or Theodore's sweater, laugh, and proudly show me their progress. I congratulated them with a 'good work' or a 'very pretty'. They would laugh and hand their marker to their neighbor for a turn.

Sitting on the ledge with both of my little friends leaning against me and using my legs as their tabletop, I reached for my camera to capture the perfect selfie. But then I paused. I don't think taking a photo would exploit anyone (I am frequently recorded doing seemingly insignificant things). Most of the Togolese like having their pictures taken and might even ask for it. I obviously don't have any qualms sharing the story either. But a picture felt like such a cheap memory for a moment that felt so rich.

It took me a while to write this post because I couldn't find my hook. It's a nice story, but what could I do to tie it together or have a strong conclusion that didn't just include me losing several of my markers when I looked at the time and realized I was very late. I also didn't really know why I didn't take a picture or how to identify that feeling in that moment.

Truth is-I still don't really know. Maybe it's that these people have watched me play with their kids for a couple months now and were familiar enough to come and participate this time. Maybe it was that even though I stood out like a sore thumb, I still belonged there. Maybe it was because a picture would put me in center stage when in reality, I was in the audience. Maybe I discovered that the most significant thing I can do is sit on the ledge for an hour, bypass all language barriers, and show that I care just by sharing my time. Or maybe it was a combo of all these things, but I know that it was special.

And after all that, I found my hook. I think it's more of a practical application than a theoretical musing or meaningful conclusion...
After that day, I started bringing more markers.

In Him,
Caroline