I sat on the ground surrounded by dozens of kids. They pushed and shoved just to be able to touch me somewhere, anywhere. They touched my feet and rubbed my arms. They ran their dirty fingers through my hair. I could see little hands reaching in from the back, unable to see the face the hands belonged to.
It made me think about Jesus, and the way people constantly mobbed Him everywhere He went. Everybody wanted to touch Him, even if only the hem of His garment. He never had privacy anywhere He went. I wonder if He ever got tired of it? Did He wish He could walk just for once without stumbling over people? Did He ever get sick of bringing attention everywhere He went? Did He wish He could walk through a village without being harassed?
I think maybe He did.
But then I thought about the way that Jesus loved. He never turned the children away, not even the snotty-nosed, dirty-faced ones in tattered clothes. He welcomed them every single time. I wonder how He was big enough to touch them all? He was in human form, and one human can’t possibly wrap their arm around fifty kids. How did He do it?
I’m angry because I’m not enough. My arms aren’t big enough to embrace all the kids who are grappling to touch me. I can’t kiss every one. I can’t possibly give all of them the individual attention I see they so desperately need. My heart breaks because I see the ones caught in the middle of the ruckus, crying. I want to be able to comfort them all. But how can I? I’m just one person. I’m not enough. I can’t reach around.
Life isn’t fair, and that sucks. No child ever chooses his nationality, or parents, or village. Why do some people have so much when others have nothing? Why do some kids get the best school in the best country when others don’t even go to school in shoes, there their pants are ripped at the crotch, and their bellies are distended from malnutrition? Or, they don’t go to school at all because they can’t pay the fees. Why? No child deserves a life like that. It just is not fair.
At the school there was a little boy maybe five years of age, dressed in all pink. He stood sobbing on the outskirts of the energetic kids dancing and singing. Tears streamed down his face. I took his hand and brought him over to sit with me. Even though he didn’t understand a word, I asked him what was wrong and told him it was okay. He looked at me through his tears and nodded his head. He tried hard to be brave. I sat with my arm around him, and then suddenly he started sobbing again. I asked someone why he’s crying. She informed me, “It’s because he peed his pants, and he’s embarrassed.”. Right then I wanted to be angry. Angry because it’s not fair he doesn’t have a change of clothes to put on, because he shouldn’t have to be ashamed, because his circumstances aren’t his fault, and because I couldn’t be a solution to his problem. My heart broke even more when I saw him get beat with a stick because he was crying. With every fiber in my being I had to resist the urge to take him, love him, and keep him.
Why can’t I be more?
