Saturday.

I slept until 11 oclock on Saturday, my body craving rest and sleep.
The past few nights have been full of tossing and turning—I lay in bed with my arms crossed behind my head, staring into the darkness, listening to the wind and the hum of bugs outside my window, my mind racing with words and images. Most of the images are of eyes—there is something intriguing about eyes to me, something about looking deep into people’s eyes that pulls at my heart, as if there were a magnetic attraction between my ribs and their pupils. As I stare into the faces of the men, women and children I meet, their dark brown eyes are mysterious pools that hold stories and feelings and sights untold, secret wells of unknown depths…I wonder about what lies in the thick brown waters...especially those of the children.
What horrors have their eyes seen? Have they seen their fathers stumble home drunk? Have they seen their dads beat their moms or burn them with acid? Have they seen their mothers cry and weep for mercy? Have they seen loved ones die from sickness and disease? Have they watched rabid dogs attack a baby they know? Have they seen their own blood from beatings and abuse? Have they watched their sister be raped by a neighbor or boss?

Horrifying and heartbreaking stories haunt my thoughts: women being beaten—to the point of mutilation and broken teeth, husbands having affairs—bringing home other women—kicking out their wives—but hunting them down for money each month and torturing them…children who are beaten while trying to protect their mothers—bitten and punched by their drunk fathers…brothers who pull sex-seeking neighbors off their helpless sisters…children suffering from fevers and sicknesses with no medicine at home…husbands that pour kerosene on their wives and burn them because “they are ugly”…
One pair of eyes has been seared into my mind since Saturday afternoon. They belong to a precious little Muslim woman who came over and had chapattis and cookies with Steph and I for a few hours. As she sat next to me at our table, her petite brown wrist slid out from beneath her black burha (muslim dress) that covered her from head to toe as she reached for a chocolate cookie, and she began to tell us about troubles with her fiancé and family. Her light brown eyes were captivating—standing out against her skin and dark hair—but they seemed to tiptoe around the room with caution as she unveiled some of her heart. Steph commented on what a beautiful woman she was, and embarrassed of the compliment, the precious little woman said that no Indian men thought she was pretty, and she wore a burka to cover her face from a young age, just because she didn’t think she was attractive.

My heart was so heavy for this shining little lady… that she covered her face because she didn't feel "beautiful enough" to be seen. She was without a doubt one of the most beautiful Indian women I have met, yet had no self confidence or sense of self worth. I longed for her to SEE her beauty, her value, her talents, her uniqueness, how she mattered to the God of the Universe who loved her with more compassion than she could imagine…I wanted to reach out and hug her and scoop her into my arms…for her to SEE and know that she is beautifully and wonderfully made...but my words alone could not heal her heart.

So her eyes burn in my mind, reminding me of the need for love, and the importance of treating every human being like what they are: a masterpiece, created by the hands of God, formed beautifully and especially for a divine plan.