It is my first day of ministry at El Shaddai Children’s Home. I enter “the baby house” and find myself immediately overwhelmed by all of the little hands and feet and faces and squeals. I sit on the floor and children swarm me, pushing each other for a space on my lap, pulling my hair, singing me songs, and chattering away. They all vie for my attention.
I am taking deep breaths and trying to ignore the sharp pain of a child’s foot driving into my leg when I see him. He is running around pinching the other children, twisting the skin until they cry. He pushes an empty stroller into a small child, laughing as the child stumbles.
One thing I have learned in working with kids on the race is that I am no pushover. Kids stop being cute to me the moment they start acting out. I don’t put up with much. I quickly remove the children piled up in my lap, grab the small bully by the hand, and march him to a chair to sit in time out, all while giving him a talking-to about his behavior.
One of the staff pulls me to the side and explains, “His father severely abused him. He raped him repeatedly and bit him. He and his older brother were found hanging from a tree by their feet before they were brought here. That’s why he acts up. He still has a lot to learn here.”
The child is four years old. I am rendered speechless. I feel like all the air has been sucked out of the room. I stare at the staff member in shock. I look at the child and try to comprehend his little body enduring such evil, but I just can’t.
I let him sit in time out for another minute or so before scooping him up and asking if he would like to sit with me on the couch. We cuddle for hours. I sing songs over him and his wild, energetic toddler body relaxes against my chest. We read books and he points out pictures, asking me the names of different objects.
I can’t do much, but I can sing and pray and read and cuddle and love. So that’s exactly what I do.
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“Come on, girls! It’s time for worship!”
I groan inwardly as I look out the window. It’s dark, cold, and the rain is coming down in sheets. The last thing I want to do is trek across the campus with nothing but my headlamp to light the way, maneuvering in the slippery mud and small rivers of rainwater, to go sit in a cold building on a hard bench in sopping wet clothes to sing for an hour or two. Yuck.
I go anyway, mainly because everyone else is doing it and I’m afraid of what they will say or think if I try to get out of it.
I arrive to the chapel, and my jeans are drenched and clinging to me. I am cold and my head is pounding. I try sitting on the bench, then lying on it. Nothing helps. I don’t really want to be here.
I move to the side of the chapel and look around. Some of the children have made their way in the rain– without a raincoat or headlamp like mine– to the chapel to join in the worship they heard spilling out. The older girls pick up flags in all sorts of bright colors and wave them through the air in worship, wide grins lighting up their faces. One girl teaches a racer a short routine and they begin to worship in unison.
A small boy in the front of chapel finds a drum and begins to beat away to accompany our guitarist. He is off rhythm but a shy grin grows bigger and bigger as he delights in joining the worship in his own way.
I lean against the wall, close my eyes, and smile. These children are not fatherless. They have a Father who loves them, and they love Him in return. Their worship, joy, and peace are contagious. The cold, dusty chapel has turned into a beautiful sight to behold.
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I show up for construction duty in an old shirt and capris. We will be clearing out an old shed so that we can tear it down. El Shaddai has received funds to build a better shed, and they will turn this area into a large fire pit for the children and future racers to enjoy.
We begin gathering oily motors, dirty tools, and dusty crates and hauling them to their new, temporary storage area. It only takes a few trips before my chacos and feet are coated in mud and my pants are covered in oil spots.
We are making jokes and teaming up on the bigger items when the boys begin to arrive– first two or three and soon nearly a dozen young boys are at the door of the shed. At first, I think they are wanting to watch and ask them to move out of the doorway. Then, I realize they want to help us!
We give them whatever we can find small enough for them to handle and they take off singing and laughing, bare feet slopping through the mud, deposit their treasures, and run back for more.
I think of young boys in America who love helping their dads and granddads in the shop, how they delight in being helpers and working with their families.
Before long, we feel like a family, too. We work together, laugh together, dance together, and play together. The boys take breaks to play with a soccer ball or small cars before running back to join us once more.
I breathe in deeply, inhaling the scent of freshly cut grass, wet mud, and the pig pen in the distance, and as I breathe out, I smile, content and grateful to call this special place home and these delightful children my family– even if only for a time.
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These are glimpses into my first week at El Shaddai Children’s Home in Swaziland. As I look back at my experiences so far, the thing that strikes me the most is that these children are no longer orphans. They are not forgotten or hungry or lonely or afraid. They are loved, fed, included, remembered, and guided.
They have a Father who loves them intensely, and they love Him in return. They have one another for games of soccer and jump rope. They have men and women of God who come through– whether for a few weeks or years– and model the love of Christ for them daily. They are precious children of God, priceless treasures who bless everyone they meet. They are chosen. They are loved. They are HIS.
To God be the kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.
