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| Tell Your True Tale
Lupita
by Amy Denney*
Sweat grosses out some people. It doesn’t bother me.
Worn on an adult, it’s a sign of hard work that is something of which to be proud. Sometimes, that sweat comes with a paycheck earned; sometimes, it’s produced in the midst of hard labor performed in the act of volunteerism.
There was plenty of that kind of perspiring in Zaragoza , Mexico, as the men of our mission group started a stucco job and then built a long barb-wire fence.
There were beads of sweat on the foreheads of women toiling in the kitchen and hanging laundry. That “glow” was also a familiar presence on those who prepared crafts for 150 Mexican children expected at the next week’s VBS. Punching thousands of holes, cutting dozens of sheets of paper and gluing relentlessly is not, as it turns out, easy work.
On Sunday, we witnessed men who perspired out of love for fellow man. They carried elderly wheelchair-bound Lorenza, being treated for gangrene, more than half a mile so that she could attend church.
That was sweet sweat. But the kind I appreciated most in Mexico was baby sweat.
Our firstborn was held a lot. I’ll never forget the summer naps as we held her in the recliner or laid side-by-side with her on the couch. Waking up, her short, fine hair was matted with sweat; her face rosy indicating the cozy nap she’d had.
No matter the weather outside, our son always wakes up with a sweaty head. There’s nothing more endearing to this mom than a mess of wet curls framing a sleepy face.
It was hard not to grin when little Lupita held out her still-chubby arms to me in the back of a Suburban on a very bumpy ride in the mountains. I suspected she would sit with me momentarily and then – distracted by something out the window or the lure of candy – move on to another lap. After all, she had coffee for breakfast and gobbled up a couple chocolate candy bars.
Instead, Lupita snuggled up in my arms like a newborn, her head tucked in the crook of my elbow, her feet smashed against her brother’s legs. Her eyelids quickly grew heavy. She didn’t seem to mind the jarring ride that whipped her head out of my arm and against the window every few minutes.
I thought she’d sleep forever, but she seemed to sense a change in terrain as we neared the tip-top of the mountain. She woke up suddenly, her sweaty face and hair coming unglued from my arm, leaving a mark of cool wetness behind. I felt a sense of peace and connection with a four-year-old girl who doesn’t share my language.
Later, Lupita was climbing on top of the Suburban during church services. She looked over at me and grinned a mischievous smile. Then she began clapping and stomping her feet in rhythm with the song.
I reached out to tickle Lupita, and she offered up one of her gruff giggles that contradicts her sweet, youthful face. I wondered if she would someday understand the meaning to the hymns, if she would minister to others, if the message of God’s redeeming grace would reach her.
I came home to Athens, Illinois with a gift from Lupita – a new interpretation of sweat: hope.
*Amy Denney lives in Athens, Illinois.
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