The Gift of Corn

She speaks as much French as I speak Dagara, which told me that our morning together was going to be interesting and full of hand gestures, awkward moments, and laughter. I also wanted it to be full of love, and thankfully love is not limited by language or any other cultural difference. 

She came knocking on my door early that morning just like I had invited her to, and I promptly used all the Dagara I know in the first thirty seconds as we did greetings and such. When I fell back on French to explain what we were going to do today, she gave me a blank stare and we had our first awkward moment followed by some shy laughter, so I went inside to grab her CT scan results and motioned for us to get in the car. 

I took her follow up appointment with her doctor and through the help of a translator, she received the good news that she doesn't need surgery. She can be treated right here in our city with medicine found right here at our local pharmacy. Relief and joy swept across her face - another thing that surpasses the language barrier.

Next we went to the pharmacy together and I bought her medicines. Once in the car again, I used what Dagara I know to ask her if she wanted me to drop her off at her house since I noticed that she had walked to my house this morning. What I actually said was probably something like, "We go? Your house?" But it worked, and so she directed me to her house (or as close as we could get before the roads turned to foot paths with tall corn stalks on either side) and I stopped the car and she gave me two or three long sentences in Dagara, to which I gave a blank stare and we had another awkward moment this time followed by genuine laughter. 

"Wa." She said, which is more along my vocabulary level at this point. Come. 

I walked to her house with her and saw where she lives. She pulled out a small key from a pocket she had made by rolling the waistband of her pagne (wrap-around skirt), and she opened the small metal door in her mud-brick, flat-roofed house. As we ducked out heads and stepped over the threshold, she pointed out a spot above the door where the rain hits the house and is making the mud fall off the walls, exposing the wooden interior support beams. 

The inside was bare but very clean. One room with two small closet-sized rooms off the side. One had some clothes. The other had some grain. She lives here alone with her four children. Her husband died four years ago. She still lives in the house that he provided for her, which is in the courtyard of his family, who now show little interest in her since her husband died. Being a widow in use is lonely, b especially in this one. 

She brought me a wooden stool about 10 inches high, and I sat down while she quickly changed into her "field" clothes. She grabbed a hoe and I followed her just right out the door to where corn was growing all around her house. 

People don't have yards, they just have fields. And every available space is used for growing something. Her entire house was hedged in by the corn growing high and ready to harvest. 

She promptly cut down about ten stalks. We plucked the corn off together and put it in a blue plastic sack, which she put on her head. She motioned for me to follow her. 

We went right back to the car, and she placed the sack in the floorboard of the driver's seat and said something in Dagara that probably meant, "This is my way to say thank you." 

My heart was genuinely touched. I was almost tempted to not accept the gift - it was too much! It was her livelihood! It was too much for me to eat alone and it could provide an entire meal for her family. I didn't expect such a gift; I didn't ask for such a gift; I didn't even need such a gift. But one thing trumped all of that: I loved the gift, and I knew instantly that the best thing to do was to accept her demonstration of love and gratitude. 

My goal today had been to show her love and generosity despite the langauge barrier, and here she was doing the very same thing back to me. 

She knows that she would never be able to afford the cost of the medical care that I have provided for her, but she doesn't know how much I've spent. She would probably be sick if she did. She has a debt to me that she can never repay, but when she handed me that sack of corn, it was worth more to me than all the money I've spent on doctors appointments, diagnostic testing, products, and medicines. 

I wonder if the Father doesn't feel the same way about us sometimes. We, too, cannot fathom the extent of the debt that we owe him, nor can we comprehend the cost that he payed with his life. What he has done for us to save us is immeasurable. But when we offer him the gift of our lives and our hearts in return (which much seem like corn in comparison), he sees that gift as a treasure worth more than gold. He doesn't need the gift, but he loves the gift, and more importantly, he loves the one who gives it. He loves us.  

I've been eating corn all week. Sharing it too. And each time, it reminds me of the surpassing generosity of the Father and his amazing love for us. It also reminds me to give my love back to him in return, for no matter how unworthy we feel or how seemingly small our gifts to him may be, he loves them. He loves us. He is our portion and we are his prize.