Bottle Lady
When we first moved to the city of Hanoi, Vietnam we lived in the district called Chong Vi. We rented a two-story house that was shaped like a piece of pie. On both sides it connected to a neighbor – our outside wall was their wall. At the front there were three steps and then the street. We would pull our motorbike or bicycle up the steps into the living room to secure it. The ground floor had the living room, behind that the kitchen, and behind that the bathroom, all decreasing in size – like a piece of pie. The stairs were near the back by the bathroom. Up two flights of stairs, you came to a small landing and the main bedroom and a smaller bedroom. Up one more flight was the flat open roof area where the clothesline hung. Behind the house was an alleyway. There was no yard whatsoever.
Our place was small, but we enjoyed living there. It was a convenient location to the language school we attended and a couple of small street markets. I could walk about in the neighborhood with no worries. People there were suspicious of foreigners but used to seeing them. Right after we moved in a lady began appearing daily directly across from our front door. She set up a little tea stand and sold cups of hot tea. Actually, her real job was to be a ”watcher” and to keep track of us. She reported to authorities who came and went from our house daily. I tried to be friendly and practice my Vietnamese with her, but she was not interested in friendship. She had a serious job to do.
But there was another little Vietnamese lady who came around every day. She made her livelihood by collecting bottles and cans for recycling. She had no husband to support her, and she had a young daughter she was raising on her own. She was friendly. When I realized what she did, I would save any bottles or cans for her. She showed her appreciation by sweeping off my steps with a little stick broom. I looked forward to her coming because she was gentle and unassuming.
One late afternoon when I was walking home, I saw her hurrying along the street with a distraught look on her face. I asked her if she was okay. She wasn’t! She was beside herself with fear. I asked her what was wrong. Her daughter hadn’t come home from school and she was missing. It was obvious that she felt something was very wrong. Her little daughter was the most precious thing in all the world to her. I told her I would pray that she found her daughter and we both fanned out in the neighborhood looking. There were no police or other neighbors who came to help. Bottle Lady was not highly esteemed and among the poorest of the poor, a nobody in society. I saw her walking on my street again later in the evening. She was calmed down and told me that she had found her daughter and she was safe. She thanked me for my concern and my help. I told her that God loved her and her precious daughter. She smiled with tears in her eyes.
This situation reminded me of the parable of the lost coin in Luke 15:8-10. Something (or in this case “someone”) was lost or out of place. There was great concern and frantic effort on the part of the mother to find her precious little girl. Her whole life revolved around providing for her daughter and keeping her safe. She didn’t stop until her lost daughter was found – safely back in her place with her. There are few joys that match finding something that was lost. It made me think of the joy in heaven when one sinner comes to know Jesus and how God is always watching over each of us. Wherever in the world we go, God is there pursuing those that are lost.
”In the same way, I tell you, there is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.” Luke 15:10
