Her Name is Marilyn

At 14, she stands a few inches taller than me, her body still lanky and still to be grown into. Her smile, wide, her eyes, hopeful and the grip of her fingers on my arm, tight.

"Bet-ty, do you remember me?"

Scanning her face, I frantically search my brain- she is familiar, but where from? Joska last year? Modoya? I want to remember - this moment feels important. Don't we all want to be known, to be remembered? To be seen amongst the crowd of faces that crowd around us each day. 

"I do remember you" I reply slowly, still reaching for a name. Esther? Priscilla? Faith? 

Her grin grows and her eyes light up. My heart sinks a bit as I make a decision- it's better to admit defeat than say the wrong thing. I pull her in tight for a quick hug.

"But I'm sorry, I seem to have lost your name."

"It's Marilyn. I remember you from school"

Modoya. 4 years ago.

We spend the next hour together. I learn of her siblings (she is the firstborn of 3, the other are still in Nairobi), her talent (the high jump) and that she knows all the words to the theme song of Sophia the First (of course, there was a performance).

As the bus pulls away, there is another high five. And as I went to bed last night, listening to the rain fall, I prayed a prayer for Marilyn. That she would know that God knows every detail of her life. That He cherishes every part of her. That she is remembered and seen and loved so deeply her heart can't comprehend it.

As for me? I asked Paul to take a picture of us together, and you can bet that if I'm ever blessed to go back to Joska, I'll remember Marilyn's name. Because I felt so blessed that she remembered mine.