Day 95: Loving More People, More

While Jesus was having dinner at Matthew’s house, many tax collectors and sinners came and ate with him and his disciples. When the Pharisees saw this, they asked his disciples, “Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?” On hearing this, Jesus said, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. But go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ For I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.” Matthew 9:10–13 niv

You’ve probably heard the old adage, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Well I beg to differ. I can identify with the first part of that statement—especially in light of the proliferation of AARP ads jamming my mailbox the past few years—but I disagree with the inability to learn new stuff part because I’ve learned at least one new thing every single day since I brought Missy home from Haiti.

Besides having a brave warrior spirit and the predisposition to wiggle gleefully in the grocery store and greet bemused nearby shoppers with the impish invitation to dance with us (that’s another new thing I’ve learned—dancing like nobody’s watching in public places!), my little girl also has, as you know by now, HIV. Partly because of Missy’s medical condition, but mostly because of her joyful exuberance, I’m learning to love more people, more.

One of my sweetest tutoring sessions took place right after I brought her home from Haiti, in the private pharmacy we now visit monthly that specializes in medication for people with HIV and AIDS. They don’t sell candy, cards, breakfast cereal, toothpaste or Chia pets. Just pricey medicine. It’s tucked away on the fifth floor of an old building that used to house a low-budget shopping mall. While coming and going from there, Missy and I have chatted it up with a few scantily-clad ladies of the evening, several rough-looking ex-cons, a transvestite in towering red heels, and lots of men in the latter stages of AIDS. The first two groups I was familiar with because of the time I’ve spent volunteering at an addiction recovery program, but I’d never spent any time around gaunt men with dark circles under their eyes and Kaposi’s sarcoma (cancerous dermatological lesions that often accompany late-stage AIDS). That is, until God lavished me with the undeserved gift of becoming Missy’s second mama.

Most of the other customers glanced at us with curiosity back then, probably because Missy was so tiny and was usually wearing a bow as big as her head and a plaid school uniform. They probably assumed we were lost, thinking surely this darling kid and her pale chaperon weren’t going to the “special” pharmacy. But one day a man we were sharing the elevator with on the way to get her meds literally averted his gaze and exhaled in protest when Missy blurted out happily, “Hello Sur! How awe you?” I put my hand protectively on her shoulder and tried to stealthily scoot her a few inches away from him because he looked disheveled, had multiple sarcomas, and reeked of anger. But this was one of those times when her enthusiasm was not easily redirected. She tugged on his sleeve and persisted with more animation and volume, “I’m Missy Haar-Purr, SUR, and I’m FIVE! And this is my MAMA Haar-Purr!”

He threw me a look of frustration and exhaled louder, emphasizing his irritation at our presence. It was all I could do not to grin at his surprised expression when we walked into the pharmacy behind him and the darling women who run the place swarmed Missy like a bevy of favorite aunts. He seemed startled when they asked her to sing and she responded by belting out the praise chorus of “Your Great Name” followed by an enthusiastic, hip-swiveling encore of “Shake Your Booty” (Missy’s musical repertoire is surprisingly vast). A few minutes later, after she’d proclaimed, “I lub ya’ll!” and handed a big sucker to each staff member, she turned to him, held up her last remaining lollipop and asked sweetly, “Wood chu like a sucker, Sur?”

His expression softened as he leaned down and replied gently, “Well, yes honey . . . I believe I would.” My daughter hugged him before bellowing a rather bossy “Goodbye Sur, it was nice to meed you!” At which point he reached over her head and shook my hand. When our eyes met, we both smiled. I couldn’t speak because I was too close to tears. But I don’t think we needed any more words. Enough had already been said.

• Who have you learned to love that you probably wouldn’t have crossed paths with, or noticed if you did, five or ten years ago?
• And who would you say had to “learn” to love you?
• Why do you think we often back away from loving rough-and-tumble people the way Jesus did?