What Mihri Taught Me

Mihri lifts her shirt revealing a track of wide scars that criss-cross over and around her entire torso. It is the first time I have met her, but she is eager to tell her story to a sympathetic ear. She is a wife and a mother of two. She brought her kids to the children's meeting that morning for the first time and is now sitting with me at the women's Bible study. After years of health problems, she tells me, she had major surgery and as a result cannot tolerate gluten and needs a special diet. After her surgery she came back home to her husband and his family, but suffered extensive abuse at the hands of her brother in law and her family was forced to move because of it.

Abuse of this kind is not uncommon here, in fact recently a woman was stabbed in the next village over by an angry brother in law seeking revenge.

Mihri escaped such a fate, however. Her family came to Malisheve to start anew, but then her husband was struck by a car while crossing the street. He survived, but hasn't been the same since. He cannot work, so Mihri is searching for a job for herself. In the mean time her family is living in a tiny apartment at the edge of town and buys groceries with the small pension they receive.

"How can I buy food for four people with only 30 Euros a month?!" she nearly cries to me, "My kids live off of bread and tea... I need gluten-free flour, but it is very expensive, you can't even find it here in town, so I eat corn and rice..." We pray together and I think it means a lot to her to have someone listen who cares.

Another day when we go to visit Mihri, this time in her home, she insists on letting my little daughter have the one pretty thing in her house, a pair of knitted potholders that she made herself. There are only so many times I can refuse without being rude, so I finally accept, inwardly shamed by her humble generosity in the face of poverty (what mountains of silly things do I hoard with fierce jealousy?) Maybe a shoulder to cry on meant more to her than I can know.

I am also encouraged by her attitude and actions, and think vaguely of the stories of the widow's mite and the rich young ruler. Counting the cost has been a recurring topic lately in our family discussions as well as the wider discussions of the Church group. What are we willing to give up, more importantly what are we called to give up? What does this mean at its core? In what ways does it practically apply to our lives? All questions we have been mulling and studying over. But the next time I feel myself clinging to some worldly trinket, I hope I'll remember Jesus words to a foolish young man -a man uncomfortably similar to all of us- and think of Mihri pushing her potholders into my daughter's hands as her children dip bread in their tea.