The Boys of Busia

We had
met couple of the boys the first day we were in Busia at the market.
One of them had come up to us and talked for a few minutes about who
we were and where we were from. When we ended the conversation and
turned to leave, one of the boys, Charlie, had grabbed my hand,
pulled me back, looked straight in my eyes, and said with desperation
in his voice, “You pray for me!” as he placed my hand on his
head. Surprised by his strong desire for prayer, in that moment,
Charlie and all the other street boys stole my heart.

We hung
out with Charlie and more of his friends another morning at their
home, the town dump. We came that morning with a few loaves of bread
to share breakfast with them. When we arrived right after sunrise,
there were only about 4 or 5 boys standing around a pile of burning
trash. As we started handing out bread, it was like they started
appearing out of thin air. Within ten minutes, I looked around and
there were at least 25-30 boys gathered around us, devouring their
two pieces of bread and shaking our hands with huge smiles on their
faces. It was early in the morning, so most of them were just waking
up and hadn’t had a chance to get high off of glue and fuel fumes
yet. I could see the emptiness and pain in their eyes that hadn’t
been numbed yet for the day. We spent the next several hours just
hanging out with them, talking with them, and praying over them.
When we left, we told them we would be back to pick them up for
church on Sunday.

Sunday
morning came, and I wasn’t sure if they would remember that we were
coming for them. When we got to the dump, would any of them be
there, or would they already be lying along the side of the road
somewhere, already out of it and high for the day? We walked up to
the dump and greeted about ten boys. They all smelled of glue fumes.
Some of them were lying in the garbage, sleeping. We told them we
were on our way to church, and we wanted them to come with us.

“Yeah!
Let’s go pray! Let’s go sing to Jesus!” was their response. So
seven of the boys decided to come with us. We walked along the dirt
roads toward the church, past the staring eyes and curious looks. We
were quite the unusual sight to most people in the small town of
Busia. Not only were we a couple of mzungu (white) girls, but we
were walking with a group of dirty, smelly, high street boys. We
were talking with them and laughing with them, instead of running
away from them, afraid that they would hurt us or steal from us.

For the
whole twenty minute walk to the church, my heart was anxious, not
because of the boys, but because I wasn’t sure what exactly we would
encounter when we arrived. When we got there, how would people
react? Would they welcome them into the church with open arms,
without judgment of their dirty, ripped clothes and their lingering
scent of glue fumes? Or would they turn their faces and hearts away
from these boys because they weren’t cleaned up and in their “Sunday
best”? I prayed silently the whole time that God’s overwhelming,
unconditional love would be on display this morning for these boys to
experience. That this morning, the church would really be the
church–not just a building where people congregate, but a family of
believers who are the hands and feet of Jesus, the body of Christ,
the love of God with flesh on.

When we
walked onto the school grounds where the church met, I could tell the
boys immediately got apprehensive about going in. They weren’t sure
how people would react to them either. As we kept encouraging them
to come in with us, they followed us in slowly, not sure of their
places in this group of people. They sat down in the back and
started clapping and singing, joining in with the worship that had
already begun. Immediately, one of the pastors, Joshua, came walking
back towards them. He had a huge smile on his face and held out his
hands to each of the boys, welcoming them into the family. God’s
love was written all over his face as he showed them to the front, to
the seats that are normally given to the elderly or special guests.
These boys were their special guests for the morning. The rest of
the congregation smiled at them, shook their hands, greeted them.
There were no judgmental stares or condemning looks. There was just
love. Relief flooded my heart as I thanked God that my prayers had
been answered.

The rest
of the service I mostly spent praying for the boys–that God’s
Spirit would fall on their lives, that His word would sink so deeply
into their hearts, that today would be a day of deliverance. I
prayed that God’s words would sink in even if they weren’t really
listening, that Jesus would show up to them in their dreams, calling
them into a healing, redemptive relationship with Him. Some of the
boys were completely focused in on Pastor Rosemary’s words, while
others fell asleep on the school benches. Some of the boys went
outside and slept in the grass, while others stole out of the
building for a couple minutes, only to come back in reeking of the
strong stench of glue fumes. But instead of being told to leave or
be more respectful of the church service, the boys were allowed to
rest or even get high in a place that was a sanctuary for them, where
they could have a few hours of uninterrupted peace and quiet in
safety and cleanliness instead of danger and garbage.

This
was a true picture of the body of Christ, of the church, the way that
God intended it–not sending people away because they didn’t fit our
picture of what church should look like or telling them they had to
change to be more like us before they were welcome in God’s house.
This was God’s love in action, meeting these boys right where they
were at, in the midst of their dirtiness and pain and emptiness.

After
the service, we spent another hour or two just hanging out with them,
taking pictures, and loving them. This was our last day in Busia; we
were jumping in a taxi to leave in just a few hours. So I knew when
we walked them back to the dump and gave them hugs and said goodbye,
that that would probably be the last time I would see them. My heart
was breaking as I walked away, wanting nothing more than to be able
to go visit them the next morning and the next and the next; to be
able to invest in them and speak truth and life and worth into them;
to tell and show them the truth of their identity in Christ over and
over until they finally realize that they are children of God who He
desperately loves.

This is
one of the hardest parts of the World Race–having your heart and
emotions stolen by something or someone or someplace only to have to
walk away from them after a few short weeks. I know
that God has plans for those boys that aren’t contingent on my being
there. I know that my prayers for them are still
powerful and effective even if I can’t actually lay hands on them.

But
as much as I know  these things, my heart hasn’t quite
caught up with my mind yet.

Pray for
these boys–for Charlie, Dennis, Cody, John, Godfrey, and all the
rest of the boys in Busia that call the dump and the streets their
home. Pray for deliverance from the chains of addiction.
Pray for provision of food and clothes and shelter. Pray that
the church would continue to really be the church there and reach out
to them in love. Pray that God would burden people’s hearts
to invest in these boys so deeply that change is inevitable.
Pray for redemption and freedom and hope.

“While
Jesus was having dinner at Matthew’s house, many tax collectors and
sinners came and ate with him and his disciples. When the Pharisees
saw this, they asked his disciples, ‘Why does your teacher eat with
tax collectors and sinners?’ On hearing this, Jesus said, ‘It is not
the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. But go and learn what
this means: ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ For I have not come
to call the righteous, but sinners.”

Matthew
9:10-13