Animals were all around us – goats, stray dogs, chickens. They were scattered amongst the locals looking as lowly as the beaten down shacks. Piles of garbage were gathered in every direction.
We got off the bus after a bumpy drive across town and walked briskly along the dirt roads for about 7 minutes before turning into a side street and unlocking what looked like another shack. The door opened to a small room with only one window to let the sunlight in. Bright shades of blue and yellow with red handprints scattered along the bottom covered the walls in an attempt to brighten the room up. Pictures scribbled over with crayon hung on the walls. Despite those things, it looked nothing like a typical classroom.
No light. No desks. No seats.
I took off my shoes, as is custom, and my bare feet tensed against the icy cement. Air crept into the room through cracks in the walls, leaving me cold despite my many layers.
Children ages 4 to 8 arrived in a group, smiles on their faces as they ran to greet the teachers. They sat in a circle on several rugs to keep warm. Beside me sat a young boy named Ancoresh. Although his small frame made him look to be around 4, he was actually 6 years old.
Meet Ancoresh. He’s curious. He’s sweet. He’s a joy.
At first, Ancoresh was shy; uncertain if he could trust a stranger. I could see the curiosity behind his large brown eyes, but he kept his distance, leaning away from me. But the pure joy that I heard in his infectious, musical giggle had me hooked within five minutes of meeting him. His bright eyes lit up during our story, but even more so when we sang songs together. It was through these songs and games that he eventually warmed up to me.
I learned a little bit about Ancoresh’s life throughout my first day there. Both Ancoresh and his sister attend school four days a week for 2 hours before heading to work – begging with their mother. At the young age of 6 bringing in money to support himself is a daily weight in Ancoresh’s life. Most likely in a few years, he will have to stop attending school altogether so that he can join the older boys in picking up used plastic from the road at 4:30am.
For Ancoresh, school doesn’t guarantee a successful career. Attending one morning doesn’t mean he’ll be there the next. School is a short break from a life that is otherwise filled with premature adult responsibilities. It is 2 brief hours in which he can escape the reality that is his life, and, for a short time, be the child he was created to be.
Getting to know him opened my heart to the reality that is life in the slums. It’s grimy and rough and unfair. But spending time with him showed me something – God is all around him. You can see that in the twinkle that lurks behind his eyes, and the mischievous grin that emerges while he plays. And in the unconditional love between him and his sister, who is so quick to comb his hair for him, fight the other children when they pick on him, and help peel the eggs we hand out for breakfast.
Jesus told his disciples that unless they “become as little children” they would not enter the kingdom of heaven. Ancoresh showed me why. His joy is not contingent on what he has, or an easy life. It is despite a difficult and demanding existence. His love is not given with restrictions or suspicion. It is given freely with childlike trust. His forgiveness for the boys who bully him is not with reservations and conditions but quick and limitless.
I left the slums and somehow my heart was smiling and breaking at the same time for the little boy who has to be a man at such a young age. I can’t protect this beautiful boy from the harsh life that he lives. I can’t take him out of it. So, instead, I write this story hoping that you, too, will remember Ancoresh with love and prayers, and hope that somehow the hugs that I gave him, the love that I showed him, and the time I spent with him makes a difference.
Ancoresh washing up for the breakfast we fed the kids after school, before getting ready to head out to ‘work’.
