Saturday, February 11 An opportunity to extend grace

I arranged, through Ibrahima, to have my laundry washed yesterday. He asked a niece of his to do them, and she agreed. There were about four pairs of slacks and the same number of shirts, along with several pairs of socks and a v-neck t-shirt. (I washed the other items of clothing myself, as it would not have been culturally appropriate for me to ask his niece to include that in her work.)

I received everything back this morning, Ibrahima bringing them to my door, all ironed and neatly folded. He reluctantly informed me, however, that his niece had made a serious mistake, washing some of the colored items in water that was intended for the white t-shirt. That water had some bleach in it, and as a result, some of my clothing had spots where the color had been washed out by the bleach. I inspected the pile, and it was as he had said. Multiple socks had pink blotches where the bleach had begun to work. One pair of slacks had a large spot of discoloration on one of the legs. And one of my favorite colorful African shirts had a spot right in the front where it would be very visible.

I don’t consider myself overly fussy about my appearance, but it was quickly apparent to me that I would not wear the slacks or shirt again. The socks would be hidden by my shoes and slacks, so that was less of a problem. But how should I respond to Ibrahima. What message should I give him to pass on to his niece, who was so ashamed of her mistake that she wouldn’t come and greet me when I was at the house yesterday.

I didn’t feel like there was any point in expressing anger over what was done. It was a mistake, and there were consequences, but I could easily get a new pair of slacks. (That pair was obtained free at the JAARS used clothing shop that people donate to for Wycliffe missionaries.) The shirt, while one of my favorites, was showing strong signs of wear and was ready to be retired anyway. (And when I was in Dakar, I bought more of that material and ordered two more shirts to be made from it.) I could wear the socks, as only one of them had any discoloration on the part that is not inside the shoe. So I told Ibrahima that the damage was not serious. Even though I would choose not to wear some of the things again, I was still glad that she had done my laundry for me. I asked Ibrahima to tell his niece that I was not angry with her. This was, of course, a mistake she could learn from, but I would not hold it against her.

Ibrahima and his family, like most people here in Senegal, are nominal Muslims. This was an opportunity for me to extend grace, just as God extended grace to me for offenses much worse than putting bleach in the water used to wash colored clothing.