I wandered out of the kitchen and into the school yard. The sparse
grass gave way to a fine sand. Clumps of green gathered in spots, but
between the coconut trees and the sandy ground it was hard to remember
that this country school was actually a long ways from the beach. The
backdrop of the white and blue classroom buildings, chapel, offices,
dining hall, and a few teachers’ houses completed the beachy scene.
We had driven a half hour into the country and down some
way-past-minimum-maintenance gravel roads. It was raining. And as we
made our final turn I seriously questioned if we were on a road or in
a creek bed. A small stream ran down this rutted and gutted “road”.
The van made it up to the blue school gate. I am not sure how, maybe
it was because we were in the ever-so-popular Toyota Noah. If it was
going to flood, we were pretty sure that God had provided for us our
ark.
The kids we met at New Life Academy were definitely more reserved than
their city-kid counter parts we had met last week at Good News
Academy. I chalked it up to being good ole’ country kids who knew how
to work hard, play hard, and who maybe had to grow up a little too
soon. I have learned that no matter what country you are in, some
things never change.
I watched a small child throw a temper tantrum the other day. I have
seen Rwandan children stand a foot from a TV screen – mesmerized by a
cartoon. I have had a talkative 5 year old chatter my ear off about
her family and her life without stopping for a breath. She unabashedly
told me (while playing with my hair) that she and her mom will be
getting new hair in that will be “even better than yours”. I laughed
inwardly, thinking of all the similar chattering’s I have heard from
my nephews and nieces. Kids will be kids, whatever the country. In
Kenya it was now a reminder that city kids and country kids will act
differently, no matter what continent you are on.
But back to the kids at New Life.
I had wandered out of the safety of the kitchen into the land of the
unknown – the land of children. I was determined to befriend one of
these miniature humans. I saw a volleyball net and breathed a sigh of
relief. Inside a volleyball court I could maybe find some sort of a
comfort zone. I had last week – it had not led to any friendships or
connections, but hey, at least I had been within a few feet of the
kids and played with them.
But this week I knew I should do more than just be a mere presence. I
felt like God wanted me to share more of myself with these kids. To
share His love and hope with them.
James and Brooks were preparing the kids to play a game of Four
Corners. James was going to stand in the middle of the yard, close his
eyes, and count to ten. During this time all of the kids were to pick
one of the “corners”, marked by a few of our team members and the
teachers holding colorful paddles. After James would say “10!” he
would, without opening his eyes, pick one of the numbered corners and
anyone in that corner would be “out” and would have to go sit down by
James in the middle. Then the running, screaming, counting chaos to
the corners would start again.
I joined the crowd, ready to run around in this Kenya heat. I started
pouring sweat, without even moving. I had been outside, what? Maybe 2
minutes? As I looked at the “corners” I noticed three of them were in
the shade, I decided those would be my three favorite corners. I
looked down and saw a young girl at my elbow. I caught her eye,
smiled, and asked her “Jina lako ni nani?” A Swahili phrase I have
been learning to master. “What is your name?”
Vishnu. At least that is what it sounded like. I asked her if she was
ready to play. She nodded her head and smiled. As James started
counting she looked up at me with a shy kind of joy, grabbed my hand
as her friend followed suit and grabbed the other. We ran to one
corner. Then the next. Then the next. Often stopping to sneak a smile
or let out a giggle. Eventually we got “out” and headed to the middle
to sit in the sand.
I asked for the friend’s name. Elmer? A picture of Elmer Fudd popped
into my head. That could not be right. Between the quietness of their
voices and their accents getting a name could be hard. I asked what
class they were in, they just finished Standard One.
They knew English well enough to talk to me, I just had to be careful
to use small, familiar words. I asked them to spell their names. Each
took a finger and took a turn writing their names in the sand. Vishnu
turned into Vision and Elmer turned into Elma.
I met a few of their friends as the week went on, Anne and Paha.
During chapel and during lunch I would make sure to catch their eye
and smile. During games I would go and find them to run with them.
During our free time sometimes I would seek them out, just to watch
them play with the others. Vision was always polite and always quiet.
Sometimes she wanted my hand, and other times she seemed wary.
I had been warned about this. I had been told not to go into these
places thinking that the kids will run to you with arms wide and eyes
joyful. Not all children will crawl into your lap and cuddle safe in
your arms. Many kids will be wary, distant, and unsure of how us
Westerners show love. Others may be used to abusive relationships and
may act in a way that will confuse or even embarrass us. I had heard
these words at training camp. A picture of the real world had been
painted for me, and I had forgotten. I had expected Vision to open up
and bloom. I expected her to ask for a hug, to want to sit on my lap,
to just soak in all of the love.
Instead all week she would be herself, but that is wonderful. It was
not my job to change her. Her smile and her sparkling eyes were given
when she wanted to give them. She held my hand when she wanted. She
sang quietly at times and louder at others. Sometimes she enjoyed
taking pictures with me and other times she just wanted to be away
from me. She is a child. She is God’s child. And she is perfect just
the way she is.
I told her that I loved her often. I said my goodbye to her and Elma
on the final day, telling them that I loved them and that God loved
them and they should never forget that. The goodbyes were rushed and
awkward. I have been coming to learn that goodbyes are never like they
are in the movies. There was no great way to sum up everything I
wanted to tell them.
I wanted them to truly understand how much they are loved. I wanted
them to find lasting self-esteem, courage, and hope. I wanted to
instill in them how beautiful, smart, and wonderful they are. I wanted
to go home with them and see where they lived, how their parents
treated them, and how they got along with their siblings. I wanted to
find a way to say something that would make their whole world into a
fairy tale. Instead it was a goodbye, an awkward handshake/high five.
A final smile and wave. I love you and God loves you. Never forget
that. Then we were rushed away into our Toyota Noah and we drove out
of those blue school gates and down that dry creek bed.
That first day at school Vision had looked up at my shyly. She had
just grabbed my hand. “I love you” she whispered. She had not even
made eye contact. All week she had often avoided eye contact. As I
answered that I loved her too, she was staring fixedly at the sand on
the opposite side of her.
I came home on Thursday. Laid down on my bed. And cried a small sob.
There was no warm fuzzy feelings about all of the good I had done at
the school that week. There was only disappointment in how limited I
am as a human. How limited we all are in changing this broken world of
ours. I had done it wrong. I had said goodbye wrong, I had loved them
wrong, I had missed something I was sure of it. I had not done enough
. . . but the thing is that even if I stayed here for years and years
and spent every minute of my life pouring into these kids I will have
never done enough. I can do some good. But I will never have done
enough. I cannot. I am just a human with limits.
I let it go. I wrote down my feelings in a prayer to God and let it
go. He loves these girls more than I ever could and He will do far
more for them than I ever can. I pray for them to be God’s forever.
May they continue to feel God’s hands holding onto theirs. May they
continue to hear His voice saying “I love you.” May they turn their
eyes to Him and never look away.
I gave them back into His hands. I let them slip out of mine. They are
not mine to hold. They were only mine to love for a short while.
