The children all stared as I pulled
into the school-yard. They always do. Running about in their tattered
blue and white school uniforms, they looked at me as if someone
famous had arrived. If only they knew, in my eyes they are famous.
They endure what i've never been asked to face. And they smile...
still.
But I noticed, with a tremble that went
clear to my core, they were gathering long sticks. Sticks about ½ to
1 inch thick. Not the kind of sticks I see gathered here for
firewood. These sticks looked unkind. But I responded to their
friendly, timid waves with a smile that tried to speak through the
space between us. Trying to silently say, “You are seen and
precious and oh He cares for you”. But the space between us was not
just measured in feet... it was much bigger.
Stopping our Lori-car at the main staff
offices, I grabbed the bag of fruit and locked the gearshift and the
doors. Everything here must be locked. It's the home of the hungry.
Hungry people steal. It's the way it is.
The bag of tree tomato fruits were the
result of the promise to little Charles. He's seven and sick... with
HIV. He doesn't exactly know what is wrong with him, but he wonders
at the specs of white that cover his face and the growth that comes
and goes on his neck. When you are born sick, the normal measurements
of feeling healthy are all skewed.
Two weeks ago we took little Charles to
the hospital at the request of kind Mrs. N-----.
I had first visited this school at the
edge of the slum to try and help determine if a child had a learning
disability. Another child. Not Charles. But that initial visit turned
into paying for lunch for 3 children and buying school uniforms for
them as well. Children wearing clothes that I would toss out of my
dogs sleeping bed... too torn... too tattered. But oh God, these
children wear them, and they smile. Mrs. N----- had explained that
the “first” step to helping little Robinson with his possible
learning problems would be to make sure he had food in his stomach
and better clothes on his back. She said, “Perhaps he can not learn
because he is hungry and suffers from such a low esteem of himself.”
I could see I would only gain the privilege of trying to help him
learn to read (at age 12) if I was willing to “own” some of his
more immediate problems. Lord...? And so lunches for the term were
now covered and new, clean, proper clothes were provided. Thank you
God for the shillings in my pocket. Help me use them well.
But on that day, Mrs. N----- said, “If
you are willing there is one boy here who no one cares for and he
breaks all our hearts. He has a skin condition that is concerning.
Can I bring him to meet you?” It's in moments like these when the
word “no” is impossible for me. I nodded, she smiled and quickly
left the room. Moments later she returns with little, smiling,
Charles tucked behind her. He looks at me timidly, but with an awe
that is undeserved. Oh God... He is perfectly beautiful. Everything
about him draws my heart right out of my chest. And then I see the
greyish-white specs covering his forehead. A Kenyan friend had joined
me on that initial visit and she shared with me in English that she
knew well what the specs meant. “What?” I whispered. “This
child is 'positive' and the specs are a sign of his bodies inability
to fight off a fungus that a healthy immune system would easily
defeat”, my friend M----- softly shared. Mrs. N----- looked down
and quietly said, “It is what I wondered might be true. You see,
his mother is dead, she died just after he was born. His father left,
and has never once returned. The boy lives with his old sho-sho
(grandmother) who does not harm to him but she is a drunkard and as
such is unable to care for him. In a world full of people, this boy
is alone.” We spoke in English, Charles understood not a word of
it. He just stood there smiling at me in a shy,
I'm-so-happy-you-asked-to-see me sort of way. His life had just been
fileted before me ----- and he stood there “alone” smiling. Black
shoes far too big, from the second hand market, covered his feet.
Blue shorts torn on one side with zipper broken and pooched open sat
below his torn white-ish shirt with several buttons missing and one
ripped sleeve. But... he smiled straight into my heart.
She said, “Can you do something to
help him please?”
My heart and mind joined forces and
screamed at a volume that deafened my ears ----- “i can't, this
little man needs so much more than I could ever begin to do. I've
been called here to this place to... not to... but someone should...
oh GOD...” Still over the roar in my ears that screamed of my
inability, I said, “How do you propose we begin?”
“He must go to the hospital to be
tested. But it costs money. Then we can begin to know how to treat
the specs on his face and the swelling on his neck. But it will all
cost many shillings. Are you willing?” My mind settled into one
clear thought... “so this is what the shillings in my pocket are
for today...”
I explained to Mrs. N----- that I would
need to speak with my husband first, we would pray, and then I would
call her. “But, for today, I will pay for school lunches for the
three children we've spoken of, and I will go to town to purchase
uniforms for these same three.”
In 3 split seconds, my mind traveled
back to my elementary school days, where no uniforms had been
required, but each child wore their own chosen clothing. Her name was
Rita, and she was woefully poor. Her hair always looked like spiders
lived in its many wads of tangled mess. And her clothes were not only
torn and dirty, but oh how they smelled of wet dog and outhouse. But
in those days I watched her from a safe/clean/i'm-better-than-you
distance and I laughed at her along with the others. Oh how painful
dear Rita's world must have been. But I had done nothing, nothing,
NOTHING to soften it. I could have given her my extra clothes... I
could have invited her over to my house for a long bubble bath and
warm dinner... I could have invited her to sit beside me on our
bus... but those thoughts were as foreign to my young mind as the
idea that fish could read or cows could climb ladders.
Rita sat beside my heart as I looked at
this little boy, and inside I whispered, “Rita, I didn't help you,
but I will help this little one ---- you taught my heart lessons Rita
---- i'm sorry your suffering was used to teach me.”
So on that rainy afternoon, M---- and I
went to town and purchased the needed uniforms and shiny new black
leather school shoes and backpacks. Sort of like all those years of
back-to-school shopping for my own sweet children... but different...
oh so different. The rains gushed on us as we dodged street-boys high
on glue and raced back to the car. My mind lying to me... “don't
worry donna, none of this is really real...”
Wheels sliding on buttery mud, we
finally made it back to M-----'s house/hut. She would deliver 2
uniforms and I would deliver Charles' the next day.
My dear Steve and I prayed when I
returned home as i shared all with him. He could see the ache inside
me, he gently said, we will do all God lets us do for little Charles.
A phone call to Mrs. N---- had us scheduled to pick she and Charles
up the next day... to go to the hospital... and begin unraveling the
tangles holding him.
At 1PM sharp we pulled into the school.
Mrs. N---- called for Charles and helped him put on his new shiny
shoes and clean, new uniform. Oh the smile.
We headed to the hospital and sat
before the doctor. He explained that bloodwork would have to be drawn
and then we would know. Charles screamed as they brought out the
needle. Little explanation was given to him, just big hands and a
needle. Things are done so differently here.
As we waited for the results, Steve and
Charles began a playful interaction that warmed my heart so deeply.
If I had not already loved this man beside me, I would have fallen in
love with him then and there. The gap between English and Swahili was
closed with playful gestures and funny faces. If every man living
loved so well... well, there would be no sick little boys in torn
clothes.
Called back into the Dr.s office he
quietly spoke in English, Charles understood not a word. “The tests
show the boy is 'positive' and the fungus on his face and swelling of
his neck are signs of his bodies inability to defend itself.”
period... Charles looked up at Steve and … smiled. He did not know
what had just filled the air around him. He only knew that this kind
mzungu man was safe.
Prescriptions were written, pharmacies
visited, and a plan was formed for the days to come.
Mrs. N---- would give him his meds at
school, since the sho-sho could not be depended upon for this. She
also said, she would be sure Charles had a good meal each morning so
he could begin taking the needed ARVs. My friend M----- would begin
working with the grandmother to provide one meal at night so meds
could be taken then as well. I agreed to bring a back of fruit every
Friday to the school so Charles could be sure to receive the needed
Vitamin C --- which is vital for his health when taking ARVs and
fighting illnesses.
But we wanted Charles to have an active
part in taking care of himself as well. He can be taught “how to
fish” or we can ruin him for good and just give him fish everyday.
So I made a deal with Charles. I would
trade him a bag of fruit every Friday for a story. He would need to
write a story for me every week, about whatever he wanted to say, and
I would “purchase” his stories with a bag of fruit. He smiled at
the idea and we shook hands. Oh Lord...
Now two weeks later, i'm delivering my
tree-tomatoes; payment for a story.
Last Friday, a bag of oranges purchased
this “story”: (remember I told him he could write whatever he
wanted)
“My name is Charles Wafula Maiya.
(and 9 numbered sentences followed)
1- I don't have enough food.
2- I need medicine.
3- I have no fruits to eat.
4- I need pencil, rubber, exercise
books.
5- I have no clean water.
6- I have no home clothes.
7- I have no flask for keeping
porridge.
8- I need tea leaves and milk.
9- I need sugar for porridge and tea.
Need and lack --- it's what he wrote of
---
And my shoulders slumped. But God
whispered to my soul, “dear donna, isn't this often how your list
looks before me... be patient with him... he is just sharing with you
what sits first in his mind...”
I had dreamed of imaginative, creative,
tap-into-his-deep-well stories. Stories that would speak loudly, move
hearts, and astound the literary world ----- all written by a little
boy in the slum.
But real life isn't like movies... real
life is -------------hard.
As I arrived this second week with my
fruit in hand, there is no Mrs. N----- to be found. But instead, as I
walk into the office, I find a fat man sitting at the head of a
table. The table is receiving donations of sticks... sticks being
gathered by children who now stand along the walls of the shadowy
room. The man looks at me --- hard. I walk on to Mrs. N-----'s office
to leave the fruit. Another teacher assures me my bag of Vitamin C
will reach Mrs. N----- and Charles, she knows of our “deal”.
Everything around me plays out in slow
motion now. I can feel darkness coming hard. It's 3 in the afternoon,
but it may as well be midnight. I pass back through the ugly room
holding timid children, sticks for caning, and a fat man. I look at
the children... they smile shyly with heads down. I look at the
sticks... and stop. I look at the man... and feel his challenge. And
darkness swirls strong.
I am defeated.
Walking to my car, I get inside and sit
long. Tears come hard. What do I do?
There is nothing I can do.
there-is-nothing-i-can-do
I drive slowly out the gate and scream
inside my safe Lori-car. It's not the first time she's heard me
scream in this way --- in this country ---- so far from home.
I drive slowly home --- just 4 blocks
away over muddy, bumpy roads.
And the darkness keeps swirling ---
strong --- heavy --- hard-to-breathe- heavy.
That night there are nightmares.
The next day I fight with my dear
husband. It's not his fault. It's not even mine. But we fight. (If
you think because we minister to marriages that ours is immune to
attack --- then, well, you're wrong.)
The next night, more nightmares. And I
wake up with a very clear thought ----- as if it has been whispered
to me with a nudge to awaken.
The thought... with an ugly whisper
that chilled my bones... “you know you can't do this, you know you
are beaten, you know you're wasting your time, you know you are a
disappointment to yourself, to Steve, and even to the One you call
Abba. See, I win here, and you know it. So, get up out of this bed,
and open the bottle of ibuprofen, swallow them all down, and put us
all out of our misery...” !!!!!
and I weakly began saying, “He who
dwells in the shelter of the Most High, will rest in the shadow of
the Almighty... I will say of the Lord, HE IS MY REFUGE, my FORTRESS,
my GOD IN WHOM I TRUST... Surely, oh Lord, surely YOU will save me
from the fowler's snare and from the deadly pestilence. You will
cover me with your feathers, and under YOUR wing I will find my
refuge...”... and I kept on reciting the whole chapter over and
over and over again.
Then morning came. The rooster crowed,
the birds began their singing, and Steve woke to begin his morning
time with God.
I lay frozen to the bed. Knowing full
well the attack I had weathered in the night. Still shaken, but
breathing.
Steve brings coffee to me, he is a kind
man. I rise an open my devotional for the morning and here's how my
Abba strengthens His girl,
from Matthew 14:29,30 – and “Streams
in the Desert” by Mrs. Cowman
“When Peter was come down out of the
ship, he walked on the water, to go to Jesus. But when he saw the
wind boisterous, he was afraid; and beginning to sink, he cried,
saying, Lord, save me...”
“Peter had a little faith in the
midst of his doubts, says Bunyan; and so with crying and coming he
was brought to Christ.
But here you see that sight was a
hindrance; the waves were none of his business when once he had set
out; all Peter had any concern with was the pathway of light that
came gleaming across the darkness from where Christ stood. If it was
tenfold Egypt beyond that, Peter had no call to look and see.
When the Lord shall call to you over
the waters, 'Come,' step gladly forth. Look not for a moment away
from Him.
Not by measuring the waves can you
prevail; not by gauging the wind will you grow strong; to scan the
danger may be to fall before it; to pause at the difficulties is to
have them break above your head. Lift up your eyes unto the hills,
and go forward ------ there is no other way.”
oh donna ---- “Look not for a moment
away from Him.” Even if it's sticks on a table and a fat, mean men
before you, don't pause at the difficulties or measure the waves or
gauge the strength of the wind or scan the danger before you ---- but
lift up your eyes donna, keep them set on the hills, that's where
your strength comes from, from the One over all ----- there is
no-----other------way.
God sees the fat man and the sticks and
the children and Charles. Don't measure the strength of the darkness
in the room ------- focus on the LIGHT you bring with you. And move forward... with the Light.
“Not only so, but we also glory in
our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance;
perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does
not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into
our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to
us.” Romans 5:3-5
©2014 Donna Taylor/Reaching for the Robe
©2014 Donna Taylor/Reaching for the Robe