Little hands and miniature limbs poke out every which way as seven tiny bodies try to squeeze their way onto my lap.
I spread my arms wider and even more children clamor onto the couch with me.
For hours they sit with me, content just to be held. Peaking between their dark afros I read to them “Favorite Poems for Children,” a hand-me-down book of poems written in old British English. It was the best choice out of the three books these orphan toddlers had on their bookshelf, the other two were 600 page adult novels. But they didn’t seem to care.
The children’s mountain house sat in a fat rain cloud and the 40 degree wind and drizzling rain kept the children inside listening to my best impression of a British accent. The more bodies that crammed onto that couch, the warmer their little mitten hands and hooded heads stayed.
I’m not sure what it is that keeps drawing me back to the toddler house after a full day of physical labor, but I have grown to love every moment spent with these babies. Perhaps its the way they race over to me when I poke my head in. They shout my name and run to grab the movie “Orphan Annie” as if to say ‘see, you are just like us.’ Or maybe it’s how a three-year-old will fall fast asleep in my arms, embracing my neck like it’s rare to have a mother-figure all to himself.
My heart feels alive when I’m in that house. Something deep within me stirs and a rush of fiery adoration for these children fills my chest. For a second I think feel the Father’s extravagant love, and it’s refreshes and revives my soul.
Though, it isn’t always easy being there- feeling such love and then noticing subtle symptoms of neglect.
Like the other day when little Angelique lay in my arms, heaving soul-deep sobs for hours without end. Her body hung limp and eyes looked dead as fat tears welled up in them and spilled down her cheeks while she stared into nothingness. I had never seen such deep sadness in a child and when we asked the house mom what was wrong with her, she said Angelique has been that way ever since she came to the orphanage. They don’t know what she is remembering as she stares off into the distance, nor does anything ease her chronic sadness.
And then there is little Brian- the 14 month-old baby that has the muscle development of a 3 month-old. When they got him last month from his mother who only fed him corn starch, he was a big blob of fat and bone that couldn’t hold up his own head or lift his arms.
Today, Brian tried to crawl and Angelique danced around the room and rolled on the ground laughing with me.
Perhaps that is what keeps bringing me back- watching these children light up with unreasonable joy and witnessing supernatural healing work through their hearts- our prayers for them answered day after day.
Truly, I am the one blessed by the time I spend in the toddler home.
I came into this month weary- tired of Africa, heavy-hearted, and at the end of my own strength. Little by little the Lord is restoring my joy, renewing my faith, and reviving my spirit in the presence of these little ones. From the inside out, a love that is not my own is growing in my heart and it makes me feel alive again. It’s humbling that the joy I’ve been searching for in my quiet times, the Lord dumps on me through a bunch of three-year-olds.
I think many of us try to escape from life when we are at the end of ourselves- ‘resting‘ through quiet times and attempting to get our hearts into a good place again so that we can go out and ‘do ministry’. But it seems to me that God doesn’t need us to be in a healthy spiritual state to use us for His kingdom. He wants us to offer ourselves exactly as we are- broken, weary, tired, frustrated, even angry- and trust that He is going to be the power working through us. As we choose to engage in the work He calls us to, even when we are at the end of ourselves, HE provides the energy that is necessary. And strangely enough, in the process we find the rest and restoration that we were desperately searching to obtain.
