An Arabic translator comes over to speak with them, then leaves once she realizes they’re deaf. Her skills weren’t needed. Do I know sign-language? No. But I’m surprisingly real keen at wordless relationships. In this context God has been teaching me that: Words? don’t matter. But, Love? does matter. Especially since my focus has been slaving away at learning Turkish, it was a divine change of perspective.
There we were, three girls: a twenty-three year old, an eleven year old, and a five year old. Getting to know each other as we colored and played hand games. My laughter, brimming with emotion, breaks the silence when I’m hit full force with the unconditional love God reveals to me for these two girls. Two girls who will never hear my laugh, but can see my mouth wide in love. Two girls who on earth will never hear the name Jesus through my lips, but can feel the Spirit heat through my hands -hands in service, Christ’s hands- on top of theirs.
As I expressed my delight in their creations and showered them with nonverbal affirmations, I simultaneously praised the Lord for blessing me with this unique encounter, one in which I am more comfortable than most, for touch is the primary way I both give and receive love. It’s my love language.
Without dropping a beat or second-guessing my natural tendencies, and without doubt of my language abilities since verbal conversation wasn’t even a viable option, the Lord used me as I was, giving me purpose to why I am who I am, reason to why I love the way I love.
My heartstrings melodically in-tune with every beautiful, olive-skinned cheek I pinched (cultural signs of affection), playing up to a powerful chorus as I keep falling in love more and more with my God. My God who’s hand reigns sovereign over the world, over these girls, and over me, all of which He created.
All of which are a part of His flawlessly wondrous and infinite Plan. A plan in which he has graciously chosen me to use my hands.
Like Father, like daughter.