Her name is Ester.
Upon inquiry about what she does, without hesitation she looked us straight in the eyes and said she’s a servant of God. She uses art and puppets to reach and teach either stories she has written or stories from the Bible to children of the highlands. It all started with an English class she was leading that became a Bible study, and now those members are the ones who help in her ministry.
Her name is Oahn.
It was 2004. She knew God was Almighty and that Jesus was Christ and Lord, and that he came for her sins and in him she had salvation, but she didn’t feel it here, in her heart. So one night she prayed that if God was the One God that He would then fill her heart, or she would go and follow another religion. At that moment, she felt her heart being filled with what she called a sweet warmth.
Her name is Nim.
She works with her family weaving fabric by hand. She and her aunt are the only Christians in their village. When we stopped with them and read scripture with them, she would cradle her Bible close to her heart like a precious child.
Her name is Qua.
Her son lost fingers on one of his hands, which makes it hard for him to work. And being an ethnic minority makes it hard in and of itself to get work anyway. She has been praying for some sort of cure. A miracle. She had been told this happened to him because her husband doesn’t believe in Christ, and the weight of that guilt rested on her heart. But as we prayed with her, one of our leaders put a hand on her shoulder and declared “You are the daughter of the King. There is nothing that can come between you and the Father. There is NOTHING that can come between you and the Father.” Later, she said she felt free.
Her name is Hicn.
She was more reserved and quiet than most of the others, but there was a fire in her eyes that came out when she and other women would dance in worship and try to teach me the steps. Her petite frame radiated strength, for her feet had complete trust in whom had built the foundations of the firmament upon which she tread.
Her name…I don’t remember.
When in 2000 she decided to follow Christ, her family and friends came and beat her, tied her up to the back of a truck, drug her around, and beat her some more. She was badly hurt, but she said it didn’t matter to her if she lived or died, for she had Christ.
Their names were never offered, so again I don’t know them.
It was at a women’s conference, and translators were few. But it didn’t matter. They clamoured over the language barrier between us and sang to me, touching my arms and nose and face, in so trying to tell me I was beautiful. So I would touch them back, so they would know they too were beautiful, that they too had worth and value. That they were loved. And we sat there, together, speaking a language that requires no words.
Her name is daughter, sister, mother.
They are my sisters, our sisters, our daughters, our mothers, our nieces, our aunts.
We are family
By Rebecca Dix, storyteller and M.Div student.
Learn more about WMI and the work they do by liking their page on Facebook or going to their website: http://worldmissioninitiative.org/