When they meet me I want them to see me as I saw the African children; love shining out of their faces, smiles so bright that the whole area surrounding them seems to radiate it.
I want them to see me like the trees along our walk to town do. The way they whisper as the rain pounds them almost as if they are making a silent covident to protect my team and I from the drops falling from the once sunny sky.
I want to be seen the way the rain drops saw me when they finally did touch my pale skin; giving me refreshment from the heat.
I want to be look at the way the doorway of my guest house looked at me; greeting me with cool concrete floors, hot breaths of air over cold showers, mosquite nets accenting chipped paint.
I want them to see me the way the little girl Beauty saw me next door; wild eyes taking me in and placing me into a wild world of a pink house with a broken window with some red mud to play hopscotch in–the place called home.
I want to be seen how the kids with the cubby cheeks and mismatched clothing saw me through the chain linked fence; someone worth looking at, someone worth a smile, a wave, a laugh.
I want people to be see the way the Zambian dirt saw me; clinging to me as I kicked around a soccer ball in the sprinkle of rain, the cheers of children watching us avoid the cement chuncks in the yard of our compound echoing still in my ears.
I want people to see me the way my team saw the children clinging to them, human junglegyms, laughing and spinning them around on their backs.
I want to be seen the way all the children’s big brown eyes see me, how all of Africa sees me because in my wildest dreams that’s how God sees me.
