I have to be honest about something. And this is actually something I struggled with at training camp as well, that I’m finding it hard to engage emotionally with where we are. It was a struggle for me, honestly, to muster up the joy and excitement that seemed the easy overflow of every other racer when we were reunited with our squad. It has not been an overwhelming cultural shock for me. Even ministry, as cool and impactful as it is, has taken its sweet time in bringing me to a place of full engagement. I still occasionally find my mind and my emotions elsewhere. And in the end, I have to fight to feel the emotional weight of what just happened.
So I’ve spent much of this week wondering when it was going to hit. When the reality of the love and struggles of our new family would actually feel real. When the ministry we were doing would turn from simply ‘ministry’ to people I fell for deeply and passionately cared about, faces that would burn imprinted on my mind for days afterwards, inciting zealous prayer and fervent intercession.
That face finally came in the form of a sunflower.
Honestly, she caught me off guard. I came into this year excited for Muslim ministry, passionate about engaging with mature adults in excited conversation about their faith, excited to see old ladies healed and men, after 60 years of putting their faith in the wrong place, finally come to understand the Father’s love. But the three faces that arrested my heart this week were each no older than 7 years apiece.
I literally had to fight back tears as Sing pulled me along by my pinkie, his little hand tightly leading me around the block, his home, while with a yell all 5 of us broke into a run, laughing profusely. I don’t know anything about Sing, really. I don’t know his family background, where he came from, anything beyond his name and his age. But I know that he likes to draw houses. Big ones. I know he has no problem with strangers, and loves to act like a ninja. His default isn’t smiling, and he might even be aggressive to some of the other kids… and me. But that smile is there, and it’s beautiful. He loves to run, as most kids do, and he’s got one of the smallest waists I’ve ever seen. And also what appeared to be ringworm. Is that contagious? Oh well, I’m over it. His teeth are black and he loves physical affection. I know he’s bad at subtraction, but can add almost anything as long as there isn’t a 1 that has to be carried. He communicates in faces, and will occasionally become distracted from math, thinking it really funny to punch you in the nuts. Our team started calling him ‘little Danny’ even before they saw us interact. I love Sing. But knowing him breaks my heart.
I knew this would be hard. I’ve been around kids before, even 3rd world country kids. I know what this is like, and I know where they come from, and where they too often go. And I know how hard it is being around them a short time. So I was prepared I thought. I knew what I was getting in to.
But knowing these kids, watching them grow up in this environment, with almost no surety of the next meal, almost no chance at a loving family actually able to provide for them, and almost no hope of a proper education or opportunity to get out of this cycle of poverty, knowing Sing and where he’ll most likely end up… It breaks. My. Heart. It doesn’t take more than ten minutes for me to feel like these kids are mine. And it seems like a cruel trick, to put me here for a few weeks and then wave goodbye with a handful of nice pictures and a few tough hours of English teaching under my belt.
And then while I was stewing on this, my whole being boiling, Caitlin and I headed back from tutoring to stop by for the end of the Chinese Church Sunday school the rest of our team was leading. Pounding down the rice they served us, my attention was drawn to the smallest kid in the room (I honestly thought she was a boy for a while), playing with Legos in her own little world, swimming in an oversized dusty red rain jacket, her bare legs spread out like burnt baguettes. She was young, and didn’t speak much. She had short matted hair, and a face that absolutely glowed. She was ticklish and got indignant when I would pull her hood down over her eyes. She weighed next to nothing and she built her Lego structures recklessly, with little to no understanding of structural integrity. And she wore a dirty white dress under her jacket, an old faded yellow ‘sunflower’ blazoned in peeling decals.
And as I was already exhausted from the morning’s emotional endeavor, it took even less time for my heart to break, as Crystal came over and shared how Sunflower’s mother had recently left them and her dad worked constantly, leaving her and her two brothers to mostly look after themselves. And as this precious, dear little thing crawled around under the chairs upstairs, every once in a while peeking up in a burst of light that radiated from her toothless grin, I was bowled over by a vision, and words, of this beautiful child being trafficked at a very young age, sold into sex slavery before she reached ten. It was a vey quick thing, but it almost knocked me off my feet. And again, for the second time that day, I had to fight back the tears as she smiled up at me, this bright little thing. And so I prayed, and I prayed, and I prayed, and I prayed, and I prayed, and I prayed. And I got her a bracelet, the same bracelet I wear as a constant reminder of the Gospel, and I fixed it on her baby wrist, to her delight, as the only protection I could think of. And I waved her off, as she beamed, to whatever broken home she had left.
Nie was different, mainly because I received different things from the Lord. And because, after 2 big hits already, maybe I was more prepared. But I knew the second I locked eyes with his I wouldn’t ever be able to forget him. He looked like Jamal from Slumdog, 7 years old and a smile as bright as the sun, dark Indian skin stretched over this tiny frame, trying with all his might to keep up with the older bigger boys as we ran around with a soccer ball. Him and I were partners, high fiving every time we passed, me constantly receiving high-strung Tamil instructions to pass the ball to him. He couldn’t sit still to save his life, unless it was on my lap or on my shoulders. His hands fit right in mine and we had this dumb high five back hand high five back hand combo he couldn’t get enough of. But somehow I knew God’s hand this time, and could see it more clearly. And as I prayed for him and played with him, my heart was broken in a whole new way, one of spiritual burden, that my prayers had impact, and my prayers for him were some of the only prayers he would receive for a long while.
As I lay in bed last night, these three kids raced around my heart, and I prayed over them fervently. I just hadn’t been expecting this, that the hardest part would be having to leave every few weeks. And the unfairness of it all boiled up inside me and I shared that bluntly with our Father. I pleaded for each of them, unable to shake the image of Sunflower being sold into prostitution. And I almost shouted at God, “How could you do this?! Why would you bring me to here to show me this, to break my heart, if there was nothing I could do??” And He responded, there in the dark, “Danny calm down, she will be fine. She will know me and she’ll know my love, and what I showed you won’t happen to her.” Taken aback, I asked back how I could know that. How I could know that she would be fine. And then God answered, softly, in a way that entirely changed the way I view my work here.
“Because you asked that she would be. I brought you here so you could ask.”
Love,
Danny
