I often gravitate towards sensible, composed, and complete. Which is funny because I am none of those things; rather, I am messy, impulsive, and disheveled (as is most of life). As much as I (and many others) crave a neat package with a pretty bow, we often end up with the FedEx box, torn and squished, that arrives 2 weeks late and missing half of our order. We envision beauty and growth as a beautiful garden (or some other picturesque metaphor), when really it looks like the messy girl, insecure and unkempt, trying her best to hold a conversation. Sometimes, we cannot even see the beauty in a situation. Which is frustrating because we want to understand. We want to categorize. We want it all to make sense.
I hesitate to share this story even as I write it because it’s not one of the neatly packaged memories I have from the World Race- it leaves on a cliffhanger.
I was in Swaziland, on month two of my World Race. So far, I had held orphans, loved on children who were eager for kisses, shared encouraging Bible verses with ears eager to hear, and loved in ways that were more obvious (at least to me). In Swaziland, we stayed at an orphanage where many of the needs were recognizable- I knew how to love many of the orphans I met, my heart broke for different pains and wounds that I could at least somewhat mentally grasp (although never could understand), and I could pray deliberate prayers for each need that I saw. Until I met a little boy- a little boy who had been robbed of being a child.
This little boy of eight was possessed or being tormented by a demon- to be honest, I couldn’t even relay the details because I didn’t (and don’t) understand them. I know many had tried to release him from the demon, and yet he was still plagued every moment. This was not a problem that I could conceptualize- it made no sense. I would see him on the soccer field, and he wouldn’t say a word. He didn’t want kisses, he didn’t want words of encouragement- he was alone. And I had no idea how to approach him. Everyday that I saw him, I made it a point to hug him. Regardless of rumors of his violence towards the other children, I knew that he was a child (or at least should be able to be one). My heart cried for fairness in a world where justice has not yet arrived. I didn’t even know how to feel.
One day, our entire squad (as it was all squad month) decided to have an all-night worship service, where each person signed up for an hour of worship in the church on site. As I was leaving for my hour, I saw this little boy wandering around our dorms (an off-limits zone for the children). I caught his attention, I approached him, and I wrapped my arm around him. It was awkward, and I didn’t know what I was doing. I asked him if he wanted to come with me to worship. He said yes, even though he had refused to enter the church in the past. Again, I truly didn’t know what I was doing.
We walked into the church, and as music was playing, I sang along with many other racers as the little boy sat next to me, slowly leaning into me as time wore on. Eventually, his little head ended up in my lap, and I cried. I stroked his back, and I (the girl who was once convinced that I would never have children) felt such a maternal protection over him that I wanted to attack the demon with all of my might. I prayed over him, I sang over him, and my tears continued to fall. I read in Psalms to him, I prayed with him, and my hands enwrapped his as if I could protect him from the horrors he faced every day. And I awkwardly loved as my heart broke for a young boy that I couldn’t shield.
We soon left the church, and we hugged outside for a couple of minutes as I wondered what I could do. My neatly packaged solution had not arrived, and it seemed that it wasn’t even in route. He walked away, and a few days later, he would run away for the first (and not the last) time. He would continue to struggle, and I am unsure of how or where he is now.
My first reaction when I relay this story is insecurity, disappointment, and guilt. I feel that I could have done more. I should have a nice story with a concise ending to share, and I consider myself a failure. And yet, I share this story because I felt it impressed upon my heart from God to do so. We may never know the endings of the stories in which we partake. Often, we are a sentence or a page on a large book whose ending is unknown to all but One. And honestly, that can be frustrating. We want to see our big influence, we want to know our monumental impact, and we crave a flashy ending that makes sense and inspires. And while many of us have those faith-inspiring stories that bring us to our knees and lift our eyes to an all-powerful God, sometimes God wants us to remember that we are mere children. He reminds us that we do not know the ending and that we will not know it until we reach His presence in heaven…that we have no control, and we do not get to pick the packages that we receive. He sends them, in His timing, and they are for our benefit. Not our understanding. For His understanding, none can fathom (Isaiah 40:28), and He wants us to let Him take control as we meet Him in our unkempt mess and invite Him into our confusion, our pain, our tears, and our awkwardness. He loves us there, and in those places were remember that we are small.
