June 10, 2013
I will never forget their faces. Scratch that. I can never forget their faces.
Plans had been interrupted for this unscheduled stop. But if I learned anything on my journey in Zambia, it's that God doesn’t make mistakes.
This “interruption” was orchestrated by God Himself and I will be forever thankful. The building in the bush we stopped at, was a daytime “home”
for abused children. There were probably 40 souls present. All of these precious children came to this home for love and safety during the day
and returned to their abusive home situations at night. When we emerged from the bus, swarms of dirty, unkept children greeted us. Then the most humbling scene began to unroll before our eyes. One by one, as each child approached, they shook our hands and then knelt to the ground and curtseyed, or bowed their heads to us. Tears welled up in my eyes as these untouchables, precious in the eyes of their Creator, paid undue respect to us who had never known hunger. Us who had never been homeless. Us who had never been struck or burned by the ones who had brought us into the world. Us who had secure and loving homes, stable upbringings, and every felt need provided for. My heart ached as I longed to grab their tiny hands, bridge the language barrier and show these bleeding souls who really deserved the recognition.
Who the real brave ones were.
We sang them a few songs and tried to bring them a smile; but these children were serious. Their painful past and nights of abuse etched on their tiny faces. There was no quick fix hug that could cure this deep scar. I wanted to come in, swing my cape around, snap my fingers and rescue these beautiful kids from this Hell on earth. The abyss of poverty had never felt so deep.
When our brief time was finally up, we walked back to our bus shrouded by children who gave us all their love for the few moments we spent with them. My feet heavier and heavier with each passing step. I found a spot in the back corner of the bus, dumbfounded at what I had just seen. My heart screamed inside of me knowing that these precious little ones would have to leave the safety of this place in just a few short hours to endure the horrors of Hell for yet another night. My thoughts ran wild and untamed. Outside my window was a little boy, barefoot and looking especially alone. Gaze fixed on mine. He reminded me of my 3 year old cousin Lincoln. I had to look away. And then just like a bolt of lightning the thought raced through my mind.
“What if that were Lincoln out there?”
The thought took my breath away. I sat there staring straight ahead, willing myself to not glance back into the eyes of that little boy as the bus began to pull away. Immediately as we started to speed up, the kids began chasing after us waving and yelling their goodbyes. It was then that I couldn’t hold it back any longer and the tears began to flow. I turned in my seat and watched as those precious kids chased us until their little legs couldn’t run anymore. I sat there, gaze unmoving, until they were engulfed in the billowing red dust. I couldn’t see their faces anymore, but I couldn’t shake that God whispered question from my head. “What if that were Lincoln? What if that was ME?”
I will never forget their faces. Scratch that. I can never forget their faces.
Plans had been interrupted for this unscheduled stop. But if I learned anything on my journey in Zambia, it's that God doesn’t make mistakes.
This “interruption” was orchestrated by God Himself and I will be forever thankful. The building in the bush we stopped at, was a daytime “home”
for abused children. There were probably 40 souls present. All of these precious children came to this home for love and safety during the day
and returned to their abusive home situations at night. When we emerged from the bus, swarms of dirty, unkept children greeted us. Then the most humbling scene began to unroll before our eyes. One by one, as each child approached, they shook our hands and then knelt to the ground and curtseyed, or bowed their heads to us. Tears welled up in my eyes as these untouchables, precious in the eyes of their Creator, paid undue respect to us who had never known hunger. Us who had never been homeless. Us who had never been struck or burned by the ones who had brought us into the world. Us who had secure and loving homes, stable upbringings, and every felt need provided for. My heart ached as I longed to grab their tiny hands, bridge the language barrier and show these bleeding souls who really deserved the recognition.
Who the real brave ones were.
We sang them a few songs and tried to bring them a smile; but these children were serious. Their painful past and nights of abuse etched on their tiny faces. There was no quick fix hug that could cure this deep scar. I wanted to come in, swing my cape around, snap my fingers and rescue these beautiful kids from this Hell on earth. The abyss of poverty had never felt so deep.
When our brief time was finally up, we walked back to our bus shrouded by children who gave us all their love for the few moments we spent with them. My feet heavier and heavier with each passing step. I found a spot in the back corner of the bus, dumbfounded at what I had just seen. My heart screamed inside of me knowing that these precious little ones would have to leave the safety of this place in just a few short hours to endure the horrors of Hell for yet another night. My thoughts ran wild and untamed. Outside my window was a little boy, barefoot and looking especially alone. Gaze fixed on mine. He reminded me of my 3 year old cousin Lincoln. I had to look away. And then just like a bolt of lightning the thought raced through my mind.
“What if that were Lincoln out there?”
The thought took my breath away. I sat there staring straight ahead, willing myself to not glance back into the eyes of that little boy as the bus began to pull away. Immediately as we started to speed up, the kids began chasing after us waving and yelling their goodbyes. It was then that I couldn’t hold it back any longer and the tears began to flow. I turned in my seat and watched as those precious kids chased us until their little legs couldn’t run anymore. I sat there, gaze unmoving, until they were engulfed in the billowing red dust. I couldn’t see their faces anymore, but I couldn’t shake that God whispered question from my head. “What if that were Lincoln? What if that was ME?”
I can't believe it has been 3 years since I wrote down those words, and FIVE since I was there physically in that spot. Revisiting this post has rubbed raw that wound all over again. Now at a different level.
I have a new person that has taken over this story for me and has given it an even stronger meaning.
I'm sitting in my warm home, sipping my morning coffee, music playing softly and my son growing quietly beneath my heart, nudging me passionately reminding me of his constant presence. We have such dreams for our child we haven't even met. He was dreamed of, prayed for, rejoiced over, and is anxiously awaited for. Every preparation has been made to ensure that he has a safe, secure, and comfortable home. A jumpstart to a successful life. As my mind runs back over the faces of those precious children, who were once just kicks and hiccups in their mothers wombs just like my son, my heart is troubled. Broken. I'm tempted to lament over the unknown futures. "What if they had been born one village over? One country? One continent. What if they had been conceived out of love instead of drunken lust? Born into a home that with morning cuddles, and laughter. Pa.rents who loved each other, and the opportunity to better themselves through education.
What if.
I can't stay here in this mindset before I feel suffocated with life's injustices. I can't change where he was born, just like my son didn't choose where he live his life! But I can make sure that this child is not forgotten. Not left sitting alone under the Zambian sun. I may never get back to that village, or to Zambia even for that matter, but I can bring this child that has so radically changed my life before the Throne of God. He alone has the power to take hopelessness and turn it into glory. Poverty into eternal riches, and the unloved into royalty. God has not forgotten his face or his plight even when I have gone months without a single thought of Zambia crossing my mind. He knows the sparrows and I KNOW He's watching those children.
Today I needed that reminder in the midst of my impulsive spending, temporal meaningless tasks, and pressure to live a perfected Instagram inspired cookie cutter life. I was gifted this life I am living. Great things were given to me and now great things are required. What am I going to do differently to live my life as a thank you note to my God?
God whispers to me.
What if that were Lincoln? What if that were your SON?
My soul knows its reply.
I would move Heaven and Earth to rescue him.
Disclaimer: I wish I had an actual image of that little boys face- but I don't have access to those particular images currently on my new computer. So pictured instead is a little boy we passed on our bus ride from our pastors conference, and one of the students at a bush school my ministry team sponsors.
I have a new person that has taken over this story for me and has given it an even stronger meaning.
I'm sitting in my warm home, sipping my morning coffee, music playing softly and my son growing quietly beneath my heart, nudging me passionately reminding me of his constant presence. We have such dreams for our child we haven't even met. He was dreamed of, prayed for, rejoiced over, and is anxiously awaited for. Every preparation has been made to ensure that he has a safe, secure, and comfortable home. A jumpstart to a successful life. As my mind runs back over the faces of those precious children, who were once just kicks and hiccups in their mothers wombs just like my son, my heart is troubled. Broken. I'm tempted to lament over the unknown futures. "What if they had been born one village over? One country? One continent. What if they had been conceived out of love instead of drunken lust? Born into a home that with morning cuddles, and laughter. Pa.rents who loved each other, and the opportunity to better themselves through education.
What if.
I can't stay here in this mindset before I feel suffocated with life's injustices. I can't change where he was born, just like my son didn't choose where he live his life! But I can make sure that this child is not forgotten. Not left sitting alone under the Zambian sun. I may never get back to that village, or to Zambia even for that matter, but I can bring this child that has so radically changed my life before the Throne of God. He alone has the power to take hopelessness and turn it into glory. Poverty into eternal riches, and the unloved into royalty. God has not forgotten his face or his plight even when I have gone months without a single thought of Zambia crossing my mind. He knows the sparrows and I KNOW He's watching those children.
Today I needed that reminder in the midst of my impulsive spending, temporal meaningless tasks, and pressure to live a perfected Instagram inspired cookie cutter life. I was gifted this life I am living. Great things were given to me and now great things are required. What am I going to do differently to live my life as a thank you note to my God?
God whispers to me.
What if that were Lincoln? What if that were your SON?
My soul knows its reply.
I would move Heaven and Earth to rescue him.
Disclaimer: I wish I had an actual image of that little boys face- but I don't have access to those particular images currently on my new computer. So pictured instead is a little boy we passed on our bus ride from our pastors conference, and one of the students at a bush school my ministry team sponsors.