As we walked through the village, the children came running with arms stretched out ready to receive the love they know we have come to offer. We walked for a few minutes and I somehow didn’t have any children hanging off of me quite yet.
Then…
A little boy in red shorts who had apparently decided to go shirtless that day turned the corner from a side street and ran into my arms. It was as if he knew that we were supposed to meet at this exact time and he didn’t want to be late.
As soon as I began holding and hugging him I wanted to tell him how much I loved him. Even without the language barrier, this would’ve been difficult because there’s a good chance he hasn’t seen the kind of love I have in my life. He wouldn’t understand what I meant no matter how many ways I could’ve told him through a translator. I hugged him tighter and let him lay his little head on my chest. If I could’ve held him closer I would have.
I could tell by the way he spoke to me with words I couldn’t understand that he wasn’t feeling well. Although hyper and seemingly well if you saw him running barefoot down the road, he had a weakness and exhaustion about him.
Shortly after saying a quick prayer for him the translator told me that he was sick; information he received from a woman who shouted from one of the homes we passed by on our way to the lot we play in.
Although I could already guess that, I prayed with more direction for healing.
As we started singing songs the boy stayed in my arms. I kept praying over him and his body. I was praying for God’s love to wash over him and for whatever sickness was causing him to feel bad to leave. I asked the translator what the boys name was.
Translator: “Naek chmuah ey?”
No response.
Translator: “He doesn’t know.”
I thought to myself, ‘That doesn’t make sense. Maybe he didn’t hear him clearly.’
Me: "Are you sure? Can you ask again?"
Translator: “Naek chmuah ey?”
Still nothing.
Translator: “No. He doesn’t know his name.”
I couldn’t believe it. He doesn’t know his NAME? From the time we are born, and even many months before we enter this world our name is thought about, talked about, discussed, and loved. My parents have called me my name through words of love, discipline, searching for me, cheering for me from the sidelines of all of my soccer games, calling me downstairs because dinner was on the table.
Although I was aware that the living conditions were poor and love seems like a foreign thing, I didn’t see this one coming. I couldn’t pray for this child by name because he didn’t know it. I couldn’t fathom the thought. His mother or father never calls him by name? Do they just shout, “Boy! Come here!” or “Hey, you!” He probably isn’t aware that he is worthy of a name. He must think that he deserves all of the ways his parents address him.
I held back the tears as these questions and thoughts were racing through my mind. I stepped closer to my teammate, Samie. I told her what I had just heard out of a sort of helplessness. She responded with, “Well that will make his name in heaven that much more important to him.”
Ahh, a breath of some truth in this place of darkness and hurt.
I held the boy with more purpose than before. I started processing all of it. He doesn’t have a name on this broken earth, and that is terrible. However, his Heavenly Father knows him. He knows him by the name that he has given him and not by the lies that have been fed to him about what the world labels him as. His Dad looks down on him every moment of the day and calls him by name.
I couldn’t help but rejoice in this beautiful and painful reminder. God knows his kids. He has created each of us and is with us in every moment.
(Stay tuned for part two!)
