For as long as I can remember, the injustice that has stirred me the most is that of a neglected child. In the movie The Blindside, my theater experience turned into a full on waterworks show when Michael’s character confessed that no one had ever read to him as a child. Maybe it’s the fact that my mom is a first grade teacher. Maybe it’s because I was showered with hugs and kisses as a kid, but nothing cuts me to the core like a child who is not well loved.
Because of this, the decision to go on the World Race brought inevitability: my heart would break for children. I knew that at some point in the year, I would be tempted to adopt/smuggle a child by dumping my clothes in order to slip a precious little baby into my pack. What I didn’t know was that this would happen during week two of month one.
Two little girls live across the street from one of the churches we serve. The first time I met the cousins (ages three and five), I was immediately drawn to the older one, Mariali. She was dirtier than the other playing children, and there was apprehension in her actions. She sat alone and waited for me to approach her. She wouldn’t smile or talk until I did so first.
The house across from the church where the girls live
A quick handclap game and a few hugs were all that it took to form a lasting connection. Once the bond was made, it was all I could do to not hold her . . . or kiss her . . . or exclaim “muy bonita!” in reference to just how beautiful I think she is.
Something in her sad eyes and shy personality made my heart seem to catch fire. When was the last time she was bathed? When does she hear affirming words? How often is she simply held? I knew that jumping to conclusions about her life was not wise, but something inside of me told me that she does not get those things nearly enough.
I was holding Mariali in my lap while other girls were styling my hair. Suddenly, she stood up and grabbed the hand of her cousin as they left for her house. I was confused. Why did she leave?
In a few minutes, she was back. Both girls had changed shirts in an attempt to impress. She proudly walked up to me, smiling and showing off her striped shirt with the words “Cute Girl” written in cursive sequins.
That sealed the deal. This baby had stolen my heart.
I wanted to tell her that I love her no matter what clothes she is wearing. With the slight language barrier we have, I just responded with hugs and laughter and more hugs. She stayed in my lap for the rest of the day; we were both perfectly content.
This pattern continued with each returning visit. At church, she sat in my lap for the entire service as I rubbed her back and rocked. I have a nonstop urge to give her as much love and affirmation as I can during the short time we are together. I almost feel like the tighter I hold her and the more kisses I give, the more likely she will be able to remember that feeling, the feeling of protection and contentment that comes from a loving embrace.
A few days ago, we finally gained information about the girls from their neighbors.
With Mariali on my lap, the neighbors informed us that both girls were abandoned by their parents. They live with their mentally unstable grandmother and 19-year-old uncle. Most meals and baths that they receive come from these neighbors. My sweet angel hasn’t been to school in five months. The girls spend their days together but without any consistent adult supervision.
Heartbreaking. Learning this information literally made my chest ache. The younger cousin, Mariani, seems joyful and completely unaware of struggle. Mariali, however, has those big, sad eyes. They haunt me.
Mariani, the three-year-old. . . how precious is she?
I’ve been assured that our contacts will follow up with the girls. They will figure out why Mariali isn’t in school and see if the girls need a nutritional plan or medical attention. Even with this assurance, I have not been able to get those babies off of my mind.
I saw them for the last time yesterday, and saying goodbye was the hardest thing I’ve done on the Race. Thankfully, the Lord provides. Right as we were leaving, the neighbors were getting ready to give the girls a bath. They were both smiling and happy, completely oblivious to the emotional meltdown I was having internally. Janelle made each of them a balloon creation as we gave final twirls and hugs.
The car ride home brought my breakdown. The tears wouldn’t stop falling, and those faces kept flashing in my mind. All I could do was pray, cry and pray more.
“Lord, be with your daughters. Provide comfort when they are sad, lonely or afraid. Give compassion to the adults in their lives. Let them feel your love.
Thank you for giving them each other.
Thank you for the food that they eat.
Thank you for the fact that they have shelter.”
That's when it hit me.
“Lord, you have placed them in a house directly across the street from the church. Your hand is in their lives. You see them and love them and wrap your arms around them daily.”
I still wish that I could take these babies home with me; however, I know that their heavenly Father is with them. . . . and they couldn't be in better hands.
