Let the Children Come

'I love you Kani.' 

My whispers echo in my memory, and I wonder if she ever understood the words that flowed from my lips. I held this beautiful, 5-year-old girl in my arms, stared into her massive brown eyes and tried to convey the depths to which my heart yearned for her to know happiness, to know hope, to know love, to know Jesus.

Kani

Three little words and after excessive amounts of repeating them to her, I was soon aware that these weren't the three words she needed to hear. I was leaving her. I couldn't save her.

'Kani... Jesus loves you. He loves YOU...' 

She stared back at me. And I prayed that if she remembered anything from my short time with her, that those would be the words etched upon her heart... that Jesus' name would be the one that prevailed and mine would be forgotten. As much as it brought joy to hear the quiet voice slowly attempt to sound out my foreign name, my name isn't the one that saves.

I went to Africa with few expectations...mostly just assured that I would be uncomfortable.
I went to Africa, and I, quite unexpectedly, fell in love.

I don't know if I fully knew how engaged my heart was in the lives of these children until a little over a week into trip. We were saying goodbye, and sweet Kani didn't understand that we would see her a few days later. All she could grasp is that we were leaving, and as I watched her eyes well up with tears and her normally smiling face transform into sadness and fear...I had no control of the emotion that seized me in those seconds. Rationally I knew I would see them all again, but inconsolable tears streamed from my own eyes that day, as I looked at these beautiful children who had no family to go home to.

We rode on the back of motorcycles to where we were staying that night, and in the safety of the dark, I let myself cry for these children. For while I didn't know each of their unique stories, I knew that their lives had been defined by loss, by abandonment, by loneliness, by illness, by hunger, by death. And, in that moment, I wanted to run away. It was too much...it was too hard. It was too overwhelming to think about the extent of their needs, the extent of their loss, the extent of their brokenness. But, simultaneously, I was aware of how much I loved them, how much they mattered, and how, despite the pain, there was still hope. And that makes it worth it.

Elisa

Kani was the catalyst that opened my heart to what the Holy Spirit was doing in me...but it didn't stop with her. There was 12-year-old Brenda, whose stoic stares eventually became shy smiles as she informed us of her desire to be a judge or a lawyer some day. There was 3-year-old Elisa, whose self-reliant behavior of dressing herself and shutting others out eventually melted into a little girl just wanting to be played with and held by a father (and clung to a father, she did). There was 17-year-old Halima, who often cared for the younger children in addition to the daily duties required of her, but was inspiring in her willingness to ask hard questions about God and faith. There was 11-year-old Cathrine, who quietly confessed that she'd much rather laugh and play than go back into a world where she was hauling water, doing laundry by hand, cooking and cleaning. She was the same girl who grabbed my hand, rubbed my arm and insisted that my white skin was more desirable than her brown skin. No matter how many times I reminded her of her beauty, she shook her head in disbelief. There was Juan, and Tony, and Noel, and Sekwat, and Morris, and Patine, and Victoria, and Peter, and Faith, and Grace, and Jessie, and Patu, and Jackie, and... and... and...

Brenda, Cathrine, Noel

I love them.
Within minutes of meeting them, I loved them.

It's a terrifying thing to admit, and I'm still processing through what that means for my life. Because, don't get me wrong... Africa is certainly uncomfortable. I'm thankful for my hot shower last night, with running water. I'm thankful for privacy. I'm thankful for a toilet with reliable plumbing...instead of a hole to squat over that's often filled with roaches in the middle of the night. I'm thankful for a bathroom that's inside of a house. I'm thankful for Mexican food and for a variety of food. I'm thankful for being able to sleep without a mosquito net. I'm thankful for orderly traffic laws. I'm thankful for mirrors. I'm thankful for being able to wash my hands and actually feel like they are clean. I'm thankful for washing machines.

But, despite the discomforts and despite the hardships of life in Uganda...I feel like I walked away more entranced by the beauty of it all. The beauty in the broken. The beauty in the simplicity. The beauty in the people. The beauty in what Jesus is doing in that place. The beauty in the hope that they have in Him.

Juan and Kani

And I think that's why I could leave without shedding more tears. Because Jesus is taking care of His people, He is tending to His flock. I can trust Him to do that. It may sometimes look different in Uganda than it does here in America...but God is still God. He still saves. He still heals. He still brings hope to the hopeless. He still beckons the little children to come to Him... and there they are safe in His arms. He still moves in the hearts of people, inviting them to care for the widows and the orphans.

So while these children may not have an earthly mother or father, they have people that care deeply for them...people who have sacrificed much so they have a place to sleep, food to eat, clothing to wear. People in Africa and people in America. People who point them toward truth.

But there are more children. More children who are living on streets, selling themselves into prostitution, getting high off the metal pieces in the money that they are sometimes given. More children whose parents are dying of HIV, or killed in war, or overdosing on drugs. More children who don't have hope, who don't have a future, who only know loss and despair.

What do we do for these children?
And what do we do for the children in America whose stories might seem significantly different, but are really quite the same...when they are left abandoned, abused, and hopeless?

While I don't know right now what my future looks like with Africa... I cannot deny a call upon my life to respond to the (sometimes silent) pleas of the orphaned children of the world. To offer them the hope, love and redemption that can only be found in Jesus Christ.

Peter

A week ago, I decided to sponsor a little boy named Sseviri Asadi Peter in Kampala, Uganda. Two days ago, I got to walk through a zoo with him clutching onto my hand. I can't begin to describe how sweet it is to know this little boy who I hope to be helping for a long while. I'm more adamant about sponsorship now, especially in seeing the impact that it has on these children's lives. To see the joy when they receive gifts or letters... to see the hope they get when someone they don't even know is willing to give of their resources so they can have a future.

These kids matter.
They are worth it.
They are worth your time, your energy, your money, your prayers, your love.

The needs are too vast for me to do much on my own, but I pray that we would be a people who, like Jesus, let the children come to us... no matter how busy we are, no matter how annoying they seem, no matter how dirty they appear, no matter the cost. That we would be a people who offer hope to the hopeless because of the hope we have found in Christ.

Our stories cannot remain about us.
I'd encourage you to check into sponsorship--find a ministry/organization that is all about holistic care, tending to both the spiritual and physical needs of the children (Lahash International, whom I traveled with, is one I'd recommend). I'd also encourage you married folk to check into foster care or adoption.

Let's find ways to truly let the children come to us, and to speak boldly of the hope we have in Jesus Christ, praying that the truth would penetrate the hearts of everyone we encounter.

May we be a people who leave the whispered truth to children all over world that Jesus loves them...and may the truth of the gospel be the thing that lingers when all else fades away.