Never have I ever loved a group of children more than I love the group of children that live in my apartment complex in Africa.
We live on the top floor of a 5 story apartment complex. From our balcony you can see the whole place. In the middle is an empty plot of land which is pretty much dirt with a couple trees and a light pole.
When I first got here, I so badly wanted to go and make friends with the little ones who play down there every day. I would get home from ministry at the ports and sit on the balcony or look out my window and watch them play soccer, do gymnastics, and sing and dance.
I finally worked up the courage to go down by myself one day. I prayed before I went down that language wouldn’t be an issue and that I would be able to love them well. I took some pretzels to share, just in case. Snacks are always a way to win a kid over.
When I got down there, I was immediately drawn to a group of about 5 little boys probably ages 3-8. Let’s face it, younger kids are just easier to approach and they don’t care who you are as long as you’ll give them a high five and a good hug.
I approached them thinking I would have to gain their trust in some way, but before I was even halfway to them they ran to me from across the field and jumped right into my arms. They climbed me like a jungle gym. They wanted me to hold them, tickle them, chase them. Their hearts longed for attention that I was so ready to give.
We played a crowd favorite- jump the tire. I rolled a car I tire across the ground at them and they would jump over it right before it hit their little legs. As soon as they were over it they’d fall on the ground and giggle until I couldn’t help but giggle myself.
Soon a crowd of little ones formed around me. And the number grew from 5 kids to 50 kids. There are SO many children who live here. And they all wanted to learn about the American who had just moved in.
I tried asking them questions in my broken French. “What is your name?” is pretty much all I knew at that point. They were so eager to tell me their names! I stood in the middle of a mob of children yelling names I couldn’t even pronounce at me. Asking my name. Asking other things I couldn’t understand. It probably looked violent to anyone who was watching from above, but really they just wanted to get a chance to touch my freckles and blonde hair.
We ran around and played tag, soccer, and jump the tire until I was drenched in sweat and the sun started to go down. After we were done playing, they all shook my hand (you shake one hand, you gotta shake them all) and said goodbye. A few of the boys walked me up to my apartment. Total gentlemen.
After that day, any time I would peek my head out on the balcony, I would hear, “Abby! Abby!” Any time I would come home from ministry or walk down the stairs, I would be greeted with hugs and high fives.
Word got around fast in the group about which apartment I lived in. At least 4 times a day, little ones come to my door to greet me before they go to school, ask me to come out and play, ask for a drink of water, bring me a popsicle (something frozen and pink in a bag) or a piece of sweaty bubble gum, or ask to borrow my frisbee.
They rang my doorbell at least 20 times and yelled “Abby!” Into the house until I came to the door. Cuties!
Their little faces peer through our gate at me and I sometimes have to muster up the strength to tell them no. Sometimes my ministry at the ports is exhausting and I can’t play. Sometimes our water is off and we don’t have the extra to give out. Sometimes they ask for pizza and cake and I have to say no because I can’t afford to buy some for everyone.
And every time I tell them no, a little piece of my heart breaks.
Because what I want to say is,
“Here’s everything I have. All I own. All that I am. Take it all.”
What I want to do is open the gate to my house and have them all sit on my couch or carpet with me and just giggle until we cry.
What I want to give them is a big southern meal and clean water and a good bath and maybe some bandaids for their little ouchies.
I want to read them the Christmas story in my living room with our little twinkle lights. I want to tell them I love them every single day. I want to dry their little cheeks every time someone knocks them over and they get hurt. I want to give them all piggyback rides around the complex.
I want to give them all the things and be all the things for them.
But I cannot.
What I can give them is Jesus. And that’s more than enough.
Jesus’ love is more important than cake and pizza and Christmas lights. Jesus can do more for them than a good bath or a good meal can.
It’s sometimes hard for me to see past the physical needs of those I’m serving or loving and see their spiritual needs. Especially kids. I’ve never seen this level of physical poverty before. I’ll never be able to give every child a pair of shoes, clean water, or a safe place to sleep.
But I can show them the love of Jesus. I can tell them stories about Him. I can tell them how much He loves them. I can dance for joy in His presence with them. And I can pray over them every chance I get.
So I’ve committed myself to giving them Jesus. And creating healthy boundaries. (Mostly because Allison told me no kids in the apartment.) But also because I know that the love and knowledge of our savior is the greatest and most important thing I could ever give them.
Showing me their acrobat skills!
They love taking selfies/looking at themselves in the camera.
Playing “Tire Launch.” Dont worry, they’re all professionals.
These kids truly have my heart. The Lord is using them to love me and let me experience joy upon joy.
“but Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven.”
Matthew 9:14
