Contributed by Rahma* (not real name) in Indonesia. (Klik disini untuk baca dalam Bahasa Indonesia)
One afternoon, as another teacher and I were sweeping up the playground area after school, the other teacher yelled, “Hey! Don’t come in here!” I looked up and saw her broom raised threateningly as Mulia, a middle-aged man in our community who suffers from mental illness, stepped into the playground area.
“Don’t be scared,” I reassured her. “It’s Mulia—he’s not dangerous.” But I could see fear in her eyes as she retreated into the school.
My husband and I have known Mulia for as long as we have lived here. He used to live with his grandma in a little shack by the canal that runs through the neighborhood, but when his grandma died a few years ago, someone took possession of their house, leaving Mulia to wander the streets. Sometimes he disappears for months at a time; others we see him walking past our street almost every day. He refuses to talk to almost everyone, but occasionally will respond to someone he trusts. We are not afraid of Mulia because we know his name and used to visit him in his (previous) house, where he played dominoes and listened to a radio.
The other teachers in our kindgergarten do not know much about Mulia, only that he is the “crazy” homeless person who wanders around our neighborhood in the same dirty pants and shirt and sometimes peeks into people’s houses.
I walked towards Mulia and greeted him, then asked if he was okay, as he only appears at our door if he is sick. He pointed to his foot, which was dirty and very swollen. I asked what had happened, but he didn’t answer.
My husband arrived soon after and asked Mulia what had happened, but he still didn’t answer. Then my husband knelt down and washed Mulia’s swollen foot from the water spigot that the children use to wash their hands when they come into the playground. We had just celebrated Easter a few days before, and my eyes teared up as I watched Yanni wash Mulia’s foot, following our Lord’s example.
Mulia’s foot did not have any visual wounds on it. “Did your foot get run over by a car?” Yanni asked. No answer. I gave Mulia some ibuprofen for the pain, a glass of water, and some ointment to rub on his foot. Then Yanni gave him a shirt from his dresser, and Mulia limped away to wherever his feet might carry him.
Weeks after the incident with Mulia, the scene in the playground kept playing over and over again in my mind—my coworker’s fear of the “crazy person,” my husband’s simple, counter-cultural act as he stooped to wash Mulia’s foot. This living picture of the gospel reminded me that we are to follow our Lord in serving those whom the world fears and views as unclean, unwanted, or dangerous. Jesus invites us to know their names, speak to them in love, offer hope in the face of despair.
During my years in Jakarta, I have seen many homeless, mentally ill people wandering the streets—often with long, messy hair and dirty clothes. Though I feel powerless to help them, I remember that each one has a name, a family, and a story—like my own brother, who has struggled for the past ten years with bi-polar disorder. These mentally ill people on the streets are also my brothers and sisters—precious people whom I am called to care for and love.
Mulia’s name literally means “great,” which is a title that is often used for God. This name seems beautifully appropriate, for in washing Mulia’s feet, my husband was showing love to our great Lord—the one who promises to meet us in whatever we do for “the least of these.”
We still see Mulia walking past almost daily. Though he did not put on the new shirt, he carries it on his shoulder, and so it is now as dirty as his old shirt. We do not know what is going on in his mind or heart, but we trust that somehow he knows we care.
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