Sitting here on the plane, thinking this week through, it’s hard to contemplate everything I’ve experienced. To do a quick synopsis of the rest of the week after last Tuesday, Wednesday was when Anna Gentry and I started to do one-on-ones with our kids. We did these until the very last day and kids usually chose Anna, but I was honored when a few smiled and pointed to me. Some of them I was even surprised that they pointed to me. On Wednesday, I talked to a boy named Rolent, who was our translator’s nephew. He lost his father a few years ago and his mother moved to Lusaka to work in the markets selling things to support her family. Rolent lives with his grandmother and told me that he goes to church every Sunday. He was the first child that I led to Christ and afterwards, I could see his eyes go red, but Zambians don’t like to let their kids cry, especially the boys, so he kept himself composed. It was a little heartbreaking, but I let him know he was a part of a new family that would never be broken up by death or someone leaving. He was thoughtful and quiet the rest of the day. On Thursday, he was smiling at me again. I talked to a few more kids before we had to leave on Friday and I heard so many stories.
Except, they weren’t just sob stories. Most people would hear them from someone else and when you’re home in the U.S. and you’ve never met he child and you’re surrounded by all your luxury, money, and pride, it’s so easy to say, “That sucks,” then change the subject to keep it from getting you down. We just hate to be brought down, don’t we? Sadness is such an inconvenience, but for these kids, there gorgeous, joyful, smiling, and innocent children, it’s a daily reality. With every child, my heart broke. It wasn’t the small feeling of someone tapping at your glass heart and the sound of the tapping makes you grimace. It was the feeling of someone throwing a rock at it, the pain of the visible crack making you collapse. It was all I could do to look strong and comforting for these children.
There was one boy that I just wanted to sweep up in my arms and take him away from his home-heartbreak. His name is Ackson and I told Momma, which is what we call Margaret, the woman who is in charge of the My Father’s Houses, about excepting him into a home. He told me he lost both his parents and he lives with his grandfather, two older sisters (17 and 18 years old), and younger 6 year old brother. It sounds sad, but liveable, right? At least he has family? Except the facts that his grandfather doesn’t feed Ackson or his siblings at all, beats them, and has flat out told them and everyone that he does not want them. He sees Ackson, adorably and easily-lovable Ackson and his no doubt lovable siblings, as such burdens. His sister are the only ways Ackson gets any food, and even what they give him is very little. He told me that they are old enough to marry now and that if they marry, they will leave the house and not take him or his little brother with them. That almost did me in and my vision was clouded with such anger. That meant that Ackson and his little brother wouldn’t get any food at all, because their own grandfather sees them as such inconveniences. It was the kind of feeling that made you both want to steal those children away from that pain and slap the grandfather right across the face.
But while telling me, Ackson had this sort of smile of his face, the kind of expression that was reluctant and a “oh well, this is my life,” hopelessness.
There is some good news, though. Ackson accepted Christ into his heart on Friday around eleven o’clock in the morning. I gave Ackson a big hug and I wouldn’t let go until my Translator told me it was probably time to get back to the group. Please pray for him. He is the sweetest child you’ll ever meet. All of them are. They seem so much better than American children. There are some sweet children out there in our country, for example we had some kids on our mission trip, the Gruvers, and their children were so cute and sweet and happy. But there are also children, especially where I live, Loudoun County, the richest county in America, where kids have everything—all the food they could want, iPads, iPods, computers, phones, shelter, both parents, love, friends, school, and futures set—and yet they whine and scream and throw tantrums. I admit I was that kind of brat when I was younger too. I wouldn’t get the Barbie I wanted and I’d embarrass my mom so badly right in the middle of the store because I was so spoiled. And yet here are these children and they don’t get enough food for the day, and they’re still coming to camp with smiles and they give a little curtsy when you give them something as simple as a t-shirt and craft. It’s amazing and heartbreaking and incredible. This is the type of experience that makes you want to laugh with the kids and then cry yourself to sleep over their sorrows.
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