Every day when he comes in, Jonathon stretches out his arms, asking to be picked up. He plays with my necklace; I mouth “mi casa” as he fiddles with the silver Texas on the chain.
Sometimes he reaches for my glasses, or signals for water. The first couple of days, we didn’t know what he was asking for until his older sister, Pamela, told us. Jonathon balls his first and puts the thumb-side to his mouth once he realizes that his little brother, Luis, is waiting for a cup of water from the kitchen.
Jonathon is seven years old and deaf. He and four of his siblings came with their mom every week-day afternoon, and my team took care of them while their mom learned to sew. Jonathon’s entire family currently lives on less than $1.50 USD a day.
I don’t know how much Jonathon is aware of, as he runs after his siblings in his Perry the Platypus sweatshirt. I don’t know if he understands the point of the game they are playing, where they tickle one person until they can’t breathe, then pick them up by all four limbs and take them to the “hospital”. His siblings always make sure he is included in the game, but they don’t try and explain things to him. Pamela will corral him when he wanders off, but even she doesn’t seem to have a way to communicate well with him.
But he is so smart. When we watch movies, we give Jonathon puzzles and picture books to play with, and he diligently sits on his knees and works until every last piece is in place. Once, I sit with him to make sure his little brother, Luis, doesn’t come and mess up his puzzle, and every few minutes Jonathon looks up at me to see if I am watching. When he finishes, he is so proud of himself.
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Every day last month, I left the house at 7:15 and didn’t come home for twelve or thirteen hours, the whole day a swirl of Spanish drifting around me. I spent almost ten hours a day attempting to communicate in a language I don’t understand, walking down streets that gave me sensory overload with their sights and sounds and smells.
And for a few hours every day, I hung out with Jonathon. A kid I could say even less to.
Children’s ministry is not my forte. Kids make me vaguely uncomfortable most of the time- I feel like I disappoint them by not being fun or energetic enough. When we found out Ecuador would be a month of children’s ministry, I felt exhausted just thinking about it.
But Jonathon broke my heart.
Unexpectedly, a kid I literally couldn’t talk to squirmed his way into my arms every day. He smiled up at me with a toothless, goofy grin, and reached out boldly for love.
Jonathon might not ever get the sort of education he needs, like Spanish Sign Language training, even though his mom will have a better source of income after she’s through with the class. He might not ever be independent from his family.
But last month, I got to witness how fearless he was in asking to be loved. Our host, Pan de Vida, gave his family the possibility for a better life, and maybe a brighter future for Jonathon.
And I got a better understanding of how uniquely and fearfully made we are, every single one of us. How brash we can be in asking for the love of our God.
