By Juli McGowan Boit | Published: May 15, 2015
As I was walking to Living Room this morning, I stopped to greet a neighbor, a delightful elderly man who is among the best at teaching me to speak the Kalenjiin language. He refuses to speak anything else to me and continues to provide me with wisdom and insights into culture and life. As I shook his hand, he called me “Bot Jerop” (Mama Jerop) and explained, as he does each time we meet, that I have graduated from my other names and now should be known as Ella’s mama.
Every day, I recognize the high privilege that I have been given in being a mother. Ella has expanded my heart in ways that I did not know were possible. Because of my little girl, I understand more of the devastation that mothers lying in the beds at Kimbilio Hospice feel. These mamas have so much more than their own pain, disease, and death to face. In their depths, they know how much their babies need them. They ache with the disappointment that they will not be able to help their children navigate through this difficult world.
Our Living Room team cannot change these harsh realities. We are unable to fix what so often feels broken. Oh, but we are learning to love and to care, to be present. We are asking for the wisdom and grace to know how to step into the gaps, believing that this not only matters to these mamas. It matters to God.
I have recently been singing the old spiritual song, “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands” to Ella. I have our own verse, which says: “He’s got you and me, Ella, in His hands. He’s got you and me, Ella, in His hands. He’s got the whole world in His hands.” I sing these words because I need to be reminded of this truth, and it needs to be personal. I need God to have the world but also me and all that I love, including these precious mothers and their babies at Living Room, in His hands. So, I will keep singing.
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