Eleanora

As I was cleaning up Christmas this afternoon, I stumbled across an old journal that was tucked away in a forgotten box. I have always been a keeper of journals. I have my Mum to thank for that - from an early age, she instilled in me the important power of words. Mum constantly reminded me that there are lessons to be learned from reading about your past struggles and former dreams - that someday, when looking back at my memoirs, I would grimace, or cheer, or cry, or laugh with my younger self.

Today, as I turned pages of girlish ramblings in my forgotten journal, I stumbled across one entry that struck me as humbling, an idea that I needed to be reminded of in this new year. It's not often that when looking through old journals, I find something that I want to share. Mostly, I cringe at my near-sightedness, or I blush at my simplicity. However, today I want to share an excerpt that still rings true some five years later....

September 22, 2007

"I can't recall whether her name was Eleanora or not, but I know that she was definitely the last person whose hair I wanted to cut and style. She was big and slovenly looking. A long scar stretched across her mouth that made it difficult to speak and swallow. Her hair was thin and greasy. After having scrubbed and shampooed her hair, her scalp still smelled horrible and it was the most disgusting yellow colour. She made me want to gag. I had completely run out of genuine pleasantries for Eleanora before even half of her hair cut was done. And then I heard how she had been diagnosed with cancer in June, which prohibited her from having a proper shower or bathing of any sorts. This was the first time that she was able to come back to the salon to have her hair done in months. She was so excited to cling to the one hope of fleeting femininity. The cancer had deformed and bloated her beyond attractive recognition. And yet, Eleanora was like a young girl, excited about curls and bows and princess-like fantasies. As she sat under the dryer, I went into the bathroom to scrub my hands of the filthy, greasy feeling her hair left. The last thing I really wanted to do was run my fingers through Eleanora's hair. Then it hit me. For so long, I had been praying that the Lord would give me a servant's heart. And God loved Eleanora. She was a beautiful princess in His eyes. He loved the sick. He healed the lepers. He was a servant. Guilt washed over me as I thought of how insensitive I had been to a truly broken woman. As I combed out Eleanora's curls, I took on the servant's heart. I overlooked her peeling scalp, her disfigured face, the smell that permeated her whole being. In the end, she turned towards me and barely whispered, "You're such a dear. Isn't it so encouraging when we meet followers of the Lord?" I didn't know what to say. I smiled and looked at the woman who had transformed into an angel sent from God to remind me that His love extends to every Eleanora this world knows."