“So…what do you want to do?” Shrug. Run away. Repeat.
It was our first day together. We had nothing in common other than being stuck on a mountain so remote it wasn’t even in a town. At the beginning of the week, I found out that I was assigned one buddy for the entire month. It was my job to play with my buddy for two hours a day. I was nervous and apprehensive. I knew exactly three things about him: his name was Fana, he was 7 years old, and he was a double orphan abandoned by his extended family. He was my buddy and I had no idea what to do with him. The first day, I saw almost nothing of him. He walked away from me each time I got close to him and ignored me when I asked questions. I started preparing for a long, difficult month.
I met Fana on August 9th. I shared 25 afternoons, 3 nights, 2 meals, and 1 birthday with him. He hammocked with me, danced with me, and laughed with me. I wiped away his tears, rocked him to sleep, carried him to his room, and cleaned his scrapes. We played. We sang and we talked and we learned each other. And last Thursday, when I left El Shaddai Orphanage, I left my heart with him.
It’s funny how quickly things can change for children. On our second day together, I busted out my hammock. He told me that he didn’t have a journal, so I gave him my spare. We wrote our names and he wrote that he loved me. The day was going well—I was excited to see him finally opening up to me. He and his friend sang for me and flipped in and out of the hammock, showing off for us. But then it was time to go. As I was stuffing my hammock into its pocket, Fana suddenly started to panic. Nearby, in the (extremely ripe) pigpen, a young piglet started to wander around. Overhead, thunder was beginning to crack. Fana desperately turned to me and shouted that the baby would be cold. Thinking nothing of it, I reassured him that the baby was going inside to be by its’ mommy. His panic intensified and he started walking into the pen, all the while repeating that the baby needed to get to his mommy. I tried to comfort him, but he was adamant, so into the pigpen we went.
We saw the piglet squirming around, trying to get inside the fence to its’ mom. Fana walked, barefoot, through the mud and poop. Tears filled his eyes and he had concern all over his face. He kept repeating to me that “the baby is going to be cold. The baby needs his mommy!” He told me the baby couldn’t get to his mommy. “He needs his mommy.”
He stood, tear-streaked and desperate, on a half wall of cement. I looked into his panicked eyes and suddenly the breath was stolen from my lungs. This wasn’t about a pig.
I coaxed him off the wall and into my arms. “Do you trust me?” I asked. “Yes.”
It was a week later and we were all—all 54 of my squad mates and all 50 children of the orphanage—gathered in the large chapel singing worship songs together. Fana sat, uncharacteristically, alone off to the side. I realized something was wrong. He wouldn’t respond to my questions but stared blankly at the ground. I pulled him onto my lap and told him I would stay with him. He wrapped his arms around me as the people around us lifted shouts of praise. His head buried in my shoulder, he fell asleep through the noise and chaos. I started to weep. Flooded with images of my own childhood and my mom, it was at that moment that I realized…
He should have a mom to hold him as he cries. He should have a mom to rock him while he sleeps. He should have a mom to carry him to his bedroom after a long day.
He slept and I cried, rocking him gently. His Superman pajama shirt was just too short for him and his small belly popped out underneath. His hair smelled like the smoke from the fire he loved to play with. He felt so small in my arms. There was something painfully sweet about it all.
There were two more instances in which Fana fell asleep in my arms. Once, a few nights later, at a bonfire, he pulled me off to the side and assumed the comfy position on my lap. Again, I carried the sleeping boy to his room. Then, on our last night in Swaziland. Exactly one week ago.
We were having a pizza party to celebrate with all of the kids. The kitchen staff had been cooking all day and everyone was excited. The small kitchen was overflowing with people, pizza, and noise. I drank in every one of the final moments with Fana. Earlier in the week, we had celebrated his 8th birthday. Every day was sweeter and more painful than the last. He sat on my lap as he ate not one…not two… but FIVE pieces of pizza. And everyone’s leftovers. In the midst of the chaos—shouting teenagers, music, flying food, and craziness—Fana quietly looked at me and said, “I want to sleep now.”
And just like that, he laid his head on my chest, wrapped his fingers around my thumbs, and sweetly fell asleep for the last time in my arms. I carried him to his room for the final time. Whispered that I loved him. Walked away. Attempted to sleep.
In true Africa fashion, our vans to Mozambique were 2 hours late the following morning. I couldn’t complain. I had—have—a badly sprained ankle (another story for another day) but I held him glued tightly to my hip for the entirety of those two hours. He was quiet. It was cold out and we rubbed our hands together to stay warm. After a long few minutes of silence, he said to me—looking at the floor—“You must not go. You must stay.”
I fumbled over my words in a weak attempt to tell him that I have to go. In a voice quieter than I knew he was capable of, he said, “You can come back.”
He’s right; I can come back. But I probably won’t. Right? Who knows, but the Lord, what life has in store for me? Everything in my heart wants to go back. For Fana to wrap his arms around my neck and for me to tell him I’ll never leave him. But I left. Like his parents, I left. Like his aunt and uncle, I left. Like his buddies from the past, I left.
And it broke my heart to do it.
But there’s one person who will never leave him. Jesus has been with Fana for every second of every day. When his parents left him, Jesus was there. When his family left him, Jesus was there. When past racers left him, Jesus was there. And now—even though I’m gone, Jesus is not and never will be. It’s easy to feel like I’ve only done more damage in Fana’s life—that I abandoned him just like everyone else did. But that’s not the case. God intertwined mine and Fana’s lives for a reason; he crossed our stories for a reason. That now eight year old boy has taught me more about life than anyone else can boast and I can only hope—in the 4 weeks I spent with him—that I showed him something more than temporary love. That I showed him Christ’s love—that that is a love that does not abandon. A love that does not leave. A love that does not give up. An unfailing love. And that he is worth it.
He is so, so worth it.
