My mate Miriam

There are plenty of possible candidates for ‘Best Thing About Being In Malawi’ – the friends I’ve made, the sheer beauty everywhere, the freedom of simplicity - but right now there is only one, clear winner; and she’s 2 foot tall and 1 and a half years old and called Miriam.

She’s Brian’s (who I must have mentioned in nearly every post) only daughter, so we’ve known each other now for 4 and a half months, but I must admit the relationship, like the proverbial rollercoaster, or a truck ride on the dirt road to Mtunthama, has had its ups and downs. The first 4 months, in fact, was a gradual and painstaking process of familiarisation. I say painstaking, because to start with, every time she set eyes on me or Michel she burst into tears of pure terror. After a while the safety of Brians’ lap was sufficient to allow some gentle interaction – the occasional low five or foot tickle – but time and again, as Brian would start to life her across to me, saying “Pita, Dad!” (“Leave Dad”) in his most comforting and encouraging Daddy voice, she would start wriggling violently and use her voicebox as a sort of human parking sensor – pitch, volume and intensity increasing in proportion to proximity to the dreaded AZUNGU (white person).

But then, just a couple of weeks ago, a glorious incident occurred. We were eating some groundnuts at Brians, and she was sitting on his lap, and I was playing with her – I have developed a tickling technique where I wiggle my finger up to her neck like a work so that she even starts to giggle and shrug away before it’s reached the ticklish spot behind her ear! So all was joyous and bright. And then, Brian had to go and teach, so he put her down, told her to go to Mama and started to leave. I put out my hand to hold, and she took it, and we walked together to the back step. She stood, atop the steep precipice of about a foot, paralysed. Brain saw an opportunity and said – “Try to pick her!” – so I stooped down, and picked her up.

And SHE DID NOT CRY!

I took her to her mother in the kitchen, and set her down, jubilant. And ever since we have been the best of friends. We play together, I carry her around, and I can even comfort her when she’s crying! And every time I leave she says, “Bi!” and waves to me. And I absolutely, desperately love this little girl. Just sitting and watching her play – picking upa  stick and trying to sweep the ground like her elder cousins do, or throwing a little plastic bag ball at me and running after it with bouncy, unsteady, determined toddler steps – is an unadulterated joy. I could, and sometimes do, just do it for hours on end. She is glorious. And it makes her happy that I am around, and this is even gloriouser.

And what makes it even more beautiful for me is what I’m discovering through it – the feelings, the love for a little child, that is a delightful picture of the love God has for us. I wrote, somewhere in my diary, “Once again I am living in a rich metaphor.” I love it when she talks to me – even if the words are not really words, and make no sense. I love it when she sits with me or lets me hold her, but in a different way I am delighted when she strikes out alone to play with the older kids, or explore some new corner of the dirt and tree roots, or invent some bizarre and slightly incomprehensible game. And then, when an older girl bumped into her mid run and tumbled over on top of her, I got the tiniest glimpse of what it is to love a child, and see that child hurt.

I just love it. I just love her. And I thought you would all like to know.