I have heard this question many times: "How many babies do you think you are going to bring home back from Africa?"
I've come to recognize the error of this kind of thinking. I know the intent of this question is only meant in fun and recognition of how many children need rescuing around the world. However, I've also recognized a couple of things.
This month in Swaziland while I've been working at the preschool it has been coupled with "Buddy Time". It is from 3pm-5pm Monday through Friday. Each of us were paired with a child from El Shaddai to work on school work and just be a "buddy".
It sounds like fun. It sounds like an experience I get to come home and tell everyone how much my buddy loved me and how we connected so much in one short month. And then I would tell everyone how much I really want to adopt my buddy, but then forget all about the way I felt a few short days later.
The truth is that my buddy doesn't owe me anything. She isn't like a puppy that I get to pick from a pet shop and bring home the cutest one in my backpack. And if my buddy doesn't like me, that's ok. I'm only here for a month. She's already been here four years and will still be here when I leave.
The other truth is that I can't even rescue her if I tried as hard as I could. El Shaddai can't either. No matter how much I pursue her and let her know how much she is worth fighting for because no one fought for her over 4 years ago, I still cannot touch the deep places of her heart. That only God can connect to. He alone is her rescuer.
The final piece of my story about "Buddy Time" is that it was very hard and I was told I had a girl who struggled more than most. And in the end of all the fighting to love her, I immediately noticed the "rescuer" in me. I had to remind myself that only God is her rescuer.
I also noticed the "mother" in me. Yes, I do want to bring her home with me. Not in my backpack like a puppy, but in my arms like a mother. She is one tough little girl who I fought with till the last moment when she turned around on her way to school the morning we left to say, "Goodbye, Jen."
