The Language Of Beautiful Feet

"We bring this to the streets because we knew the streets
I pray that more would be burdened to have beautiful feet
You never knew the streets but truth is what you preach
I pray to God you'd be burdened for beautiful feet.
Go, go, go (run with those beautiful feet)
You hold the truth that saves so run and shout it to the world
They can't believe in something they ain't never heard
Go, go, go and run with those beautiful feet"
 - Beautiful Feet, by Lacrae



I hadn't seen dust like that - so permeating, clinging to everything as though it desired to become a second skin - since visiting Tanzania. There, the red dust rose and covered all, traveling with you throughout each day.

A team of twelve people from Holland was visiting Ecuador for three weeks. They were from Desi's home church, and I loved seeing Desi able to speak with them in her native Dutch. As with most Europeans, the team also spoke some English, though no Spanish, so Desi asked if I'd help with translation.
That first week, we took a bus to the edge of North Quito, going as far as we could go before getting out to walk. The road turned to dirt and the dirt to dust. The dust was so soft and fine, laying the ground inches thick like snow drifts. We waded along the road, shaking it not only off our feet and legs but our arms as well, shielding our faces when the wind caused a mini cyclone to spin towards us.

The team was there to lay groundwork for when they'd return in a week and a half. They'd spend a week at the coast (while I watched baby Sael), then return to this community. A woman in Miguel and Desi's church, Maria, lived there and had several families in mind who could use help and love. She and others went around and invited children to come participate in games. We set up in the road - a part with harder packed ground - and played games before crowding into Maria's small home. All the buildings were made or cement blocks. Must were unpainted, simply one grey building after another, with dogs keeping watch from the flat roof tops or doorways. Most of the team went inside with the children to tell a Bible story, while three of the guys and I went with Maria to meet a family she wanted us to help.
"They have five children. The oldest son is 23 but has an illness which effects his muscles and won't let him speak. It's very difficult. But he's smart. They also have a fifteen-year-old daughter who is pregnant."
Maria explained this to me and I translated it in English to the men.

We came to the low-ceilinged home, nicely kept outside with flowers planted around the clothes line. The mother led us inside and introduced us to her son, Angel. I wasn't prepared for how tiny he was, a man who looked more like an eight-year-old boy, terribly skinny, his limbs curled in a fetal position. He lay on a bed, flopping one way and another, turning his head to look at us while grunting. We introduced ourselves and asked if we could pray over him. The men prayed in Dutch and some English, and I closed in rapid Spanish. When asked, the mother explained that the biggest need in their home was to have an indoor sink. She only had one outdoors, away from the house, which made cleaning and doing dishes difficult. I explained this to the men, cautiously trying not to promise anything beyond the team's skills and resources.
"My husband can install the sink, we just need the parts," the mother explained. So the team agreed to get a list of parts from her husband and see what they could do.

When we returned a week and a half later, the men bought the parts and delivered them to the home. They had also noticed that, taped above his bed, Angel had a couple of hand-drawn posters for the Ecuadorian Barcelona soccer team. So they bought a jersey, child-sized, as a gift. Angel's mother handed the jersey to him, and to our amazement he held it up in the air by his toes! He turned it this way and that, admiring it even as he lay on his back with his arms twisted at strange angles. Then he placed the jersey in a bag hanging from the wall, keeping it safe.

We asked if Angel would like to come with us to hear the worship music we were playing for the kids. His mother and sister (2 months pregnant and not yet showing much) strapped him into his wheelchair and up the hill we went. Maria had set up a small one-room building for us to use. There were 15-20 kids there, including an adorable, gap-toothed, African Ecuadorian boy named Surgio who sidled up to me and eventually held my hand as we watched the team perform a funny skit. I stayed near Angel in his wheelchair, becoming more and more amazed at what he could do with his feet. The children played a game where they had to dash and grab a ball, so Desi placed the ball in front of Angel 'to guard it'. Angel stretched out his legs, so I picked up the ball and immediately he grasped it with his feet. Throughout the game children would run up, gently take the ball, and when it was abandoned I'd hand it back. Later, when the children were doing a craft, I tossed the ball to Angel, who enthusiastically kicked and caught it. His fingers remained stiffly twisted upwards, while his toes flexed more useful, I'd think, than my own. When his sister came to talk to him, he nodded yes or no with his feet. It was encouraging to see people communicate with Angel. He couldn't speak, and often couldn't look anyone in the eye, his head lolling and jerking, yet it was clear that he heard and could respond in his own way.

Before we left that day, Maria thanked everyone for coming to show love to her community.
"Look at your feet," she said, smiling. We all looked down, laughing especially at those wearing flip-flops, their feet grey with dust.
"Your feet are proof of your time here, of how you've stepped into this community and given time and love. This dust is part of our lives, " she said, gesturing to the coated walls, "And you'll take some back with you."

We said goodbye, and thank you. The sun had blazed all through the day, and as it went down everything cooled enough for sweaters and hoodies to be pulled on. We waded back down the dusty roads.  Desi and I talked about trying to get Angel's sister into a home which helps young pregnant girls, helping them finish high school and make a plan for motherhood. I though about Maria, selflessly reaching out to people in her community. Every day the dust clings to her skin and seeps into her home, yet she is not deterred. She can communicate with Angel just through the motions of his feet. She sees the dust on the feet of strangers, and finds it beautiful.