In Honor of the Little Ones

Our first month has come to a close.  I feel in my soul a silence, a mixture of awe, thankfulness, love, and for sure, brokenness.

God has blessed me with the opportunity to serve in so many ways here in Malaybalay, Philippines.  I have labored intensely to build stairs, a bathroom, and a soccer field.  I have preached, taught Sunday school, and given my testimony.  I have ministered in the prison, to local gang members, and to university students.  I have sung songs and prayed with others in a variety of contexts.  But there is one ministry that has set itself apart from the rest.  There is one ministry that has stolen my heart.  And it is to them that this blog is dedicated… the orphans.

Twenty two of the most beautiful, wonderful children live here at New Faith Family.  With all sincerity, and with abounding thanksgiving, I praise God, for I have been immensely blessed by these children.

And it is for these precious ones that my heart breaks…

It was the second to the last night before our teams were to leave.  Somehow I found myself in the older boys wing of the orphanage.  It was not something i planned on, but here I was.  God had something special for me.

I’m sitting on the lower bunk, my back tucked in against the wall.  Joshua, six years old, who I have grown especially fond of, lay beside me.  I had just laid him down on his pillow.  But as most youngsters, and even as I can remember… when I was little, the rush of excitement that would surge through my body when there was a visitor, when someone new was in the room, how sleep was the last thing on my mind.  And so it was not only with Joshua, but with the other boys in the room.  Placing them in bed and pulling a single sheet over their bodies was a vain exercise.

Their eyes, and even their whole bodies seemed to shout with anticipation as they said in somewhat of a commanding tone, “Dragon… tell us about the dragon.  A story about a dragon.â€�

I first laughed.  They had overheard the last name of one of the girls on our team, which was dragon, and it had sparked their pure faculties of imagination.  That wasn’t the only reason I laughed, and of which I am a bit ashamed… I had laughed because I thought, “that’s ridiculous!â€�  I’m not telling a story about a dragon.  I don’t know any and I don’t have one prepared.

Then it hit me like a wave.  Who has ever told these children a story?  I could read their faces, the depth of eagerness revealing the level of excitement, and sheer fact that story-time was special.  It was not something that happened often.  It was rather like they had stumbled upon some unexpected treasure.

As my mouth opened the room fell silent, every ear listening in.  A few of the boys from other rooms, sensing the excitement in the air, and in order not to miss out, came in and sat on the floor.  It was awesome!  We were well past bed time!  And how much fun is that!?

So I begin telling this story, making it up as I go along, trying to use different voices along with hand motions to create a more dramatic effect… as if they needed any help to get into the story. 

I told the tale of an evil dragon that held an entire village in captivity to fear, for He was a really mean and scary dragon!  And one day a child was born… His name was Emmanuel.  And as this child grew up, unwilling to give into fear, He dreamed of killing the dragon and saving the village.  And that is exactly what happened, Emmanuel cut off the head of the dragon, and the entire village threw the grandest celebration, for Emmanuel had overcome their enemy!

To my surprise, for I am not the best story teller, the childrens’ gaze and attention had only become stronger.  I then shared with each of them that they are warriors too!  And that Jesus has killed the dragon for them.  And nothing is impossible for them if they believe.

At this point my heart began to soften.  In seamless transition I moved from storytelling to something more reflective, to something sobering, the deep reality of these boys lives.   Amidst three bunk beds of kids and a few others, their faces more beautiful than any sunset or mountain I’ve ever seen, I sat somewhat motionless.  A deep stirring began to take place within me.

Then one of the children, who must have heard or rather sensed the inevitable. 

“Kuya (brother) Matthew,� He said, “When do you leave?�

How can I hear those words?  Even worse, how can I respond to them.

My eyes filling up with tears, “I leave in two days.â€� 

The reality of my near departure became heavy.  Surely they didn’t fully understand.  How could they?  They continued to ask more questions, each one like the pounding of a hammer, driving a nail deeper into my chest.

Before I knew it I was weeping.

By then Joshua had sat up from his bed and was now in my left arm.  Both his arms were around me.  The boys together were comforting me, “Why are you crying, Kuya?â€�  “Don’t cry.â€�

I was gathering myself, wondering even if this was appropriate that I was becoming completely undone before them.  Then a dagger, like rarely I have felt came through the voice of one of the little ones… spoken with such affection, and with such earnestness, one could only think he truly believed it to come true:

“Are you coming back for Christmas?�

“No.â€�  I told them.

“When are you coming back?�

“I don’t know.  I don’t know.â€�

Tears streaming down my face, kids now in both of my arms.  “I love you guys so much!â€�

By now the other boys had all filtered into the room, this only augmenting the anguish I was in.

Then Eric John, maybe five, started doing something so unusual.  In about all the English he knows, he points to the mural on the wall, at a spider, and asks, “What’s that?â€�

Then to the butterfly, “What’s that?â€�:.  Then to the leaf, then to the grass, then back to the spider.  And around and around we went.  It then dawned on me that he was trying to minister to me.  He was trying to distract me from my pain.  Obviously somebody had done that to him.  For the comfort we receive we give to others, and here this child was comforting me.  When I realized this I started laughing, or maybe I started crying more, I don’t’ know, it was a mixture for sure.

Then out of nowhere I receive a letter from one of them…

And another…and another…and another…. They kept coming.  As gifts for sure, but each seemed only again as the driving of a nail.

As my emotion cleared up, we were all led out into the common area for some of our last laughs and smiles together…

Oh how I wish I could stay in that moment forever!?… Why does it have to end?  Well one answer is that we were way past bed-time, and I was responsible.  But really, at that moment, I didn’t care.  Not at all.  And I wouldn’t have left if it was up to me… but alas, I had to leave.

Then, as I took Joshua to his bed for the last time, the hard reality of goodbye started to hit him.  He squirmed as I tried to get him on his pillow.  Oh precious Joshua!  He then sat up on the edge of his bed.  A flood of emotion poured forth from this little child.  I couldn’t tell what was going on.  He was crying, yet he had this really intense look about him.

I could see it plain as anything.  He was mad.  It must be what the experience of love sometimes drives us to.  Love is great until that love is lost.  Now I know that God is bigger than any love I could ever give, bigger than any circumstance, and of course, able to do all things.  But the reality for Joshua is that I was leaving him.  I mean what does a six year old know, but that some things feel good, and that some things hurt.  And this hurt. 

I tried to comfort him, but he would not budge.  He would not look at me.  I got one of the older boys to translate, and he shared, “Joshua is sad because he does not want you to leave.â€�

I’ve closed a lot of bedroom doors before.  It is fair to say that this door was the hardest of them all to close.  As I left Joshua, he remained upright on his bed.

That night I spoke to one of the staff there, like a mother to Joshua, Balin.  I told her what happened and she began to cry.  She told me this was the first time Joshua has ever felt okay to cry.  He had previously asked her if he could go home with me.  That before, he was afraid of adoption, afraid of foreigners, but now he was asking for it.  I hugged her and we both wept together.

It is the morning of our last day…

At an early rise, we head over to the orphanage to visit with the children before they head off to school, for in all likelihood, this is the last time we will see them.

The morning had a strange feel to it.  Its one of those days that you wish you never had to wake up and face.  Like a tidal wave slowly approaching shore… if only it could be delayed indefinitely, but then, as is the nature of time, it must come.

Last minute laughs, smiles, tears, and goodbyes were shared by all during these early morning hours.  I loved the innocence of the younger ones, they had no idea of the gravity of this morning, they just loved that we were all there… their faces, lit up with joy as always.  The older ones knew what this day represented, for they have had teams come and go before.  I can only imagine as they again experience the pain of loving much.  For to love much is to hurt much.  And these kids poured their love on us.  As much as we tried to love on them, our adult, tainted, impure love, had nothing compared to the strength and purity of theirs.  For they haven’t learned like us, to guard our hearts, and to be afraid of giving ourselves.  For theirs really is the Kingdom of God… they love with all their heart.

Our teams made a tunnel, much like you see at a sporting event, except this tunnel led not onto a field, but into their school bus.  One at a time we sent a child through, chanting his name and speaking affirmations to him.

The small bus gradually filled up with the older kids.  There was a delay, however, between when the kids got in and when it actually took off.  This in turn became a special time for us all. 

The kids had yet to show much emotion, but then one of the boys began expressing his pain.  At that, it seemed it gave freedom to the rest of the boys and girls to unburden themselves.  Before long love had filled the atmosphere.  There was a deep connection between us and the kids, and it was like corporately we all broke together.  Holding onto one of the children through a window, I looked as the rest of my team was in similar fashion.  It seemed in each tear was a flash of all the memories that we had amassed in the short 3 weeks together.  In each tear was a thankfulness to God.  In each tear was a great sadness for being separated from those we love.

We as a team weren’t just crying because we were leaving them.  We were crying because, as well, in a real sense, they were leaving us.  These kids had meant so much to us.  I, selfishly, or rather unselfishly, wanted them to continue being in my life.  They ARE the real joy-givers!

Several of us surrounded the bus, each showing his or her last minute affection in their own unique way.  And then, tears still rolling down the faces of both World Racer and orphan, the bus pulls off.

As if that was not enough, an hour and a half later our own bus was leaving.  It was then that we had to say goodbye to the younger children as well as to the staff.

While we are waiting to take off, packing up, the bus for the younger ones pulled up.  They were now on their way to school, but were waiting to send us off.  Joshua climbs out, and stands before me, and points up to the sky saying his favorite word, “shoulders!â€�

All too familiar with the meaning of that i replied, “You want to get on my shoulders?�

With an incredible grin, “Yeah!�

“You got it brother!�

He turns around, assuming the normal mounting position.  I place my hands under his arms and lift him up over my head and onto my shoulders:  His favorite place to be…

One last ride on kuya Matthew… and one more chance for Matthew to feel the joy of kuya Joshua!