The Little Girl at Starbucks. And How God Can Expand Your World in 2016.

It’s six days after Christmas.

We’d been shopping. All three of my girls surrounding me in the car.

“Want me to go get you coffee?” I probe my oldest, knowing it’s a long drive from Seattle to our hometown….a drive we’ll likely face in a sea of traffic.

“Sure.” My nineteen-year-old googles Starbucks to find, we “just happened” to be sitting in front of one….and didn’t even know it.

I leave my three angels in the car and race into Starbucks tucked tight in the corner of Target.

Conscious of my three daughters waiting, I try to be quick, but feel blocked by the slow cashier, the people in front of me. those sitting at the tables near the order line.

I notice a lady in a black burka. She sits with a little girl, maybe six or seven, a boy about four, and a new baby in a stroller covered by a blanket…..

Symbolic of her own mother who was also hidden from the world…except for her own eyes.

The mother holds a fork to her face, bows her head low, tries not to make eye contact with anyone. Then, carefully slips the food in with one hand, holding the burka slightly up with the other.

I try to peak because, who doesn’t want to see why someone’s being purposefully sheltered…insistent on living different?

Who can’t question, a mother (just like you or me) who makes it almost an Olympic level activity, just to get food in her face.

Her eyes Egyptian looking. Long eyelashes, thin bone structure. Her face, more precious than many I see on magazine covers; tucked, airbrushes, altered by media.

My mind starts reeling with selfish questions, while still standing to take my order.

• Why in the 21st century, does this mother not stand up, walk away, live like a free women in the land of the free, the home of the brave?
• Hasn’t she heard of women’s lib? We can vote now. We can stand strong in faith? For goodness sake, even two women are running for president? Why is she covering her face?
• If she looked like that, what could keep her in a place of shame? (I get angry, defensive, scanning my own life and how abuse and oppression tried to make me too…cover my face and hide.)
• But these are different times. What is she teaching her children by hiding, retreating, being manipulated into thinking, her face isn’t worth the world seeing?

I spin with questions, but then almost instantly notice my own judgments; so I step back, pray, ask God to give me His heart for His children, this woman….these people.

“Lord, let me see this woman like you see her. Take away my pride and give me your eyes.” I say, right there, underneath my breathe in the Starbucks line.

And like a movie reel, almost instantly it comes. I see fear, intimidation, sorrow, and emotional captivity playing across my mind.

Instantly. I feel sorry for my judgement. Pity replacing my criticism.

Then, I get my order, and wait. Three daughter’s still sitting in the parking garage.

I look over, the little girl at the table with the lady with the burka looks up at me.

She glows…like the Star of Bethlehem…at a table surrounded by quiet and covered people.

What makes her different?

I smile. (Like I usually try to do at all Muslim women) She smiles back big. Her mouth wide open.

I think she says, “hi”, but I try to ignore it.

Her mother still cowered, her brother silent and even the baby still hiding in the blanket covering the place she lie motionlessly….mute as the others.

I look over again.

This little girl is still staring at me. I look around to see if it’s me she is talking to.

Her eyes pierce me and my soul knows it is true. This six or seven-year-old is not zoomed intently on them…but me.

I keep waiting. Stand. And just keep smiling uncomfortably.

Then, the Muslim mom stands up, takes the little boy by the hand, and leaves. (I am guessing to the bathroom.)

The little girl sits alone now at the table. Still smiling, putting her hand somewhat possessively on the handrail of the stroller…still looking in my direction.

“Hi”, I hear her say again.

“Hi”, I smile bigger, resolving it is me she is talking to.

“How are you”, she says with what could be a Syrian accent.

“Good. How are you?” I turn my body in her direction, grab my drinks, and keep talking.

“Are you having a good day?” She says, almost rehearsed, as if she’d heard it on t.v. somewhere. Her eyes still piercing.

“I am. Are you having a good day?” I courteously answer back, ready for interaction.

“Yes.” I hear her say, still noticing a different accent.

“Is that your baby sister?” I take a guess at the gender. My eyes darting to the stroller, the one her hand won’t let go of.

“Yes. And she has long hair that is up in a ponytail.”

She takes her one hand from the stroller and makes a gesture like a circle around the top of her head.”

“How cute.” I’m genuinely captured now.

“Do you like having a baby sister?” I recall my own girls in the car.

“Oh yes.” Her words remind me of Shirley Temple, though her eyes are dark, like olives. Her nose pointed, looking more middle eastern than Shirley Temple-ish.

Then, she does something that captures me, completely, as I move forward, towards her with my coffee.

She looks back to where her mom had departed. Then turns to me and joyously lifts the covering blanket to show me her baby sister.

The new daughter, uncovered by the sister…not hidden like the mother.

Her sister glowing even more at the unveiling, the bold act of uncovering and revealing a child once hidden.

I rush over to the stroller, realizing what an honor it is that this little girl revealed to me possibly the most precious thing in her life.

“Oh, she is beautiful. I can tell you are are a really good big sister.” I admire her vulnerability with a smile.

“Oh, I AM.” She says confidently. “I carry her.” Her eyes sparkle. “I even give a bath to her. I do everything.”

She sits taller, still holding up the blanket, so that I can get the gift of a peak at this treasured baby daughter….the one innocent, unsuspecting. This angel sleeping, yet, few even knowing she is there.

Then, the little girl’s head drops. Her eyes get dark. Her face looks sad. “My mom is busy all the time. So I do everything.”

I step back.

This little one (maybe seven at the oldest) grieves the implications, reflects on generations before her….the life-style that will likely one day be without choice, inherited to her.

I don’t know what to say. “I am sorry.”

Then, knowing my own unapologentic daughters are still waiting in the car….I slip out, “Well, good talking to you. Have a good night.”

Yet, I long to scoop her up in my arms. Take her and the baby daughter and that burka-wearing mama, and teach them….

Women are more than care-givers, commodities, hidden spectacles, covered over in shame and condemnation….possessions of some religion or man’s property.

We are daughter’s of the risen King. Princesses, chosen vessels, allowed to vote, go to school….even be President. This is America, not some war-torn country.

But then, she startles me with what I am sure was a courtesy, “Have a good Christmas night.”

Again, did she hear that on t.v.?

“You too”, I yell back without even thinking, as I race the cooling coffees to my own princess’ waiting in my car.

You too?….I think, “Why did I say that?” 

It’s six days after Christmas.

And I wonder if God gave me this interaction to show me His heart for Syrian’s, those suffering in Middle Eastern conflict, those caught up in oppressive religions?

Revealing His presence found in a little girl, wanting to determine who she, for her own self….

Her feet in this land. Her voice, still loud, bold…like any other American.

And yet, she did not know what day it is….or even when or if Jesus was born a day they clearly don’t celebrate in their religion.

It’s six days after Christmas. 

And yet….the glimpse behind the blanket, the joy in the eyes of the daughter of the burka woman, the encounter of a little girl drawn to me like a magnet….

I slip in my car with the coffees. Struggling to speak.

“I just had this crazy encounter with this little girl.” I tell my oldest….

 

He is waiting to show you His heart for the stranger, the one different, those who might have offended or betrayed you.

Will you ask Him to show you His heart in 2016?