The Yellow Sweater

It was a beautiful October day in Romania. The autumn rains from the night before had left the air cool enough to need a jacket despite the warming morning sun. My teammates and I had just walked up a long, winding and very muddy road into the tiny Roma village to see where our missionary friend had the vision to begin a small school for the gypsy children. We had ventured by car until the road was impassable. Horse and oxen drawn wagons lumbered laborously along, their drivers smiling and waving at us foreigners.

Suddenly the little community of ranshackled huts came alive and we were surrounded by a dozen or more young children, eagerly grasping our hands, laughing, smiling and speaking with excited voices in their own language.

A tiny hand or arm claimed every available space around my body. Welcoming hands that were filthy; smiling faces streaked with dirt and runny noses, and hair showing the signs of not having seen soap in quite some time. One child had her clothes held together with twine. No buttons. The weather was typically cool for October, yet some of these children were without footwear or even wearing shorts.

We walked up the side of the hill towards the site of the future schoolhouse, carefully picking our way around mudholes and manure. Small wooden shacks that wouldn't be considered worthy to use for a barn back in my community were scattered along the muddy trail.

Inside one elderly lady's home (about the size of my living room) was only a cot, a table and a cement wood stove. In the corner sat a 12 inch black and white television, on; but with no reception. There were no chairs, no microwave, no knick-knacks, no closets filled with clothes or cupboards filled with food. No matching towels, or Betty Crocker appliances.

A huge pig lay just outside the front door.
"Porku! Porku!" the children shouted and gestured to the pig.
I replied in English and then in Romanian, and then; to their delight; imitated the sound of a pig in it's universal language. The children laughed with abandon and we all joined in making pig noises.

As our team looked over the building site, a young girl of about 11 or 12 approached the group shyly, carrying a toddler of about 3 years old. The school-teacher who had joined us turned to me and said;

"When they heard that Popa Rim [our missinary friend] was coming to the village with visitors from Canada, her mother washed the little girl up and put on clean clothes in order to present her to you."

Something in me reacted.
Strongly.

I approached the young girl and touched the toddlers arm, smiling and talking kindly. As I reached out to her, the young girl proudly handed the toddler to me and put her in my arms to hold.

She was wearing an old yellow sweater over a faded blue dress and blue socks with canvas sneakers that had seen more than one pair of feet. But she was clean!

As I held her on my hip and sang softly to her,she shivered. Then, I realized something was missing.
Her underwear.
She was not wearing anything under that little blue dress.

My reaction was instant but not obvious to anyone around us.
I was emotionally unglued in that moment.

Knowing it would not be appropriate to burst into tears I simply buried my face in her hair and danced around with her singing to make her smile until she wanted me to put her down.

For some reason, despite all the poverty and oppression I had witnessed to that point in the past week, that little girl in the yellow sweater ravished my heart.

Maybe because I am a mother.
I identified with the nameless and faceless mother of this sweet child who wanted to show off the most beautiful thing she owned. Her pride and joy, yet she herself remained hidden.

Was she embarrassed? Was she afraid of the look of scorn or judgement? Was she unable to clean herself up as much as she would have wanted to? Was the approval of the foreigners towards her daughter all she asked of us?
I don't know.

What I do know is this; because of the work of the missionaries, these children are OUR children. Our brothers and sisters in Christ. The light that shines in their eyes is the same light we have in our hearts.
I have a responsiblity now. Ignorance is not bliss for me any longer.
I cannot use it as my excuse of choice to justify doing nothing.
I am moved by compassion to act. To do something.
For by it's very definition, compassion moves us to action.
And in different ways, I will continue to do so.

The children continued to surround us with their shouts and laughter and hugs as we made our way back down the hillside that day. They expressed unreserved acceptance and trust.
They kept a part of my heart with them when I left.
I left.
But they stayed.