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Ruth: What if she were your mother? ** WARNING: This is a very difficult story. I had been standing thigh deep in mud and river water all day. The sun had been brutal; I was frustrated and exhausted. So close, yet so far. This was January 2006 and our first supply truck for orphan dormitory project had almost made it to the compound, but alas had gotten stuck, yet again, in the last river to cross before reaching us. Making my way to the river's edge, I sat on a rock and rested my head on my knees in prayer. Suddenly, I was aware of a crowd pushing in around me. I stood up. A group of Muslim men had encircled me. Some were asking if I was an American. Others, I knew, were trying to put a curse me. Within a few moments, James burst through their circle and grabbed my arm pulling me out. He sternly warned them not to talk to me again. It was nearly dark and painfully clear we would not be able to free the truck this evening. We would try again tomorrow. James stayed at the river to establish security around our supplies while I returned to our camp.
She sat on the desert floor in the mud made from her urine. Slowly, I walked around to face her. I knew she probably did not speak English, yet I was compelled to speak words of comfort to her. I sat in the mud next to her and began softly talking. She sang something to me in return. I do not know what. It only took a moment for me to realize she was blind. A man walked out from a nearby tukel, approaching us. He spoke very clear English; he told me his name was Peter and explained that the woman who had captured my heart was Ruth, his grandmother. Ruth had been at home with her daughter (Peter's mother) and Peter when the Janjaweed attacked their village. The men were in the market. Ruth hid Peter in a stack of wood when she heard the horses' hooves pounding toward the village. Ruth's daughter was quickly swooped up on horseback and taken away. They have never seen her again. She is probably still in sexual slavery in the North. As for Ruth, she was too old to be wanted as a permanent sex-slave, but not too old to hate and brutalize. Many men raped and beat Ruth on that long day. She lost her sight due to the severity of the beatings. Peter still remembers shaking in the pile of wood under which he curled; he was too scared to cry, but his bowels and bladder spilled over him.
When the men gave out from raping Ruth themselves, they took sticks from the top of the woodpile under which little Peter hid and forced them into Ruth, tearing her bladder, rectum and uterus. Peter remembers hearing the men laugh and say now these dirty people won't keep making Christian babies. As I listened to Peter, I wept with him. He said he was thankful that at least he was there to take care of his grandmother for most of the women in Ruth's ‘shoes' had no one. My mind went back to the Muslim men who had just threatened me and realized if James hadn't intervened, I, too, could be in Ruth's ‘shoes'. I thought of my own mother, who is about the same age as Ruth. What would I do if Ruth were my mother? What, then, does Scripture require me to do for the “Ruths” of this world? James 1:27 tells us that true religion is to take care of the widows and orphans. I am afraid and confess that far too many times I have feigned worship in something that made me feel comfortable rather than getting my hands dirty with the poor widows and orphans of this world. Most of the “Ruths” of Sudan will die a death of much suffering with no food, water, medical care or a home. Through the Make Way Partners' Slave Repatriation Ministry, we provide loving care, discipleship, food, jobs and a home. It costs about $1,000 per former slave to provide this Incarnational care including building them a home. Please consider sponsoring a former slave or widow, or find partners to share in the support with you. Your Fellow Bondservant, Kimberly L. SmithCLICK HERE to sponsor a former slave or widow! |
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Walking
home through the bush, I saw her. I walked up from behind
seeing she was so thin I feared her shoulder blades would
cut through her skin. Her skin was like ancient parchment
paper that had been wet, wadded up and placed in the sun to
dry in that condition - thick, calloused, hard and un-pliable.
She wore nothing but a piece of cloth barely held by a rope
around her waist. 