One day while walking through the village, such a small girl was experiencing an injustice which scrapes the walls of my heart like a pen to a blackboard. Her father was beating her with his fists. I didn’t witness it; Trever did. But I have personally seen many scenes like it. Trever asked his friend if there was anything they could do about it, and his friend said that they could report him. The father went inside while his daughter lay on the ground, crying out in father-inflicted pain. FATHER-INFLICTED pain. And here we see that the Kingdom of God needs to come to this man, that he has never experienced the love of the Father, and so does not know how to give it to his little girl. No one can give what they have not received, which means that we who have received need to give.
A nine-year-old girl came up to me at school. Like most Ugandan girls, her hair was shaved for easy maintenance. She showed me several marks on her body–her wrist, arms, and ribs–some looking like slices. I could hardly believe my eyes! Just a moment earlier I noticed that one of the girls in second grade had a black eye. I thought back to terrible Friday, when I stood in front of the class with an open book and a blank stare. I said, “God, how can I teach about this?!” I was given illustrations of different forms of child abuse. That subject–especially when presented right before my eyes–turns my stomach into excruciating knots. How could it benefit the students? Many have already experienced it. When I watched one boy punch another, I began a list on the blackboard, and we came up with ways to love each other better.
When the nine-year-old girl showed me her marks, I thought her parents had burned her with cigarets, and I wrapped her in a big hug, asking Jesus to comfort her. One teacher observed her and assured me that it was a skin disease. I was relieved, but only hoped she wasn’t saying that to keep the girl’s honor and the honor of her parents. We went back to our classrooms.
Around twenty-five first-graders greeted me, every hand-slap making my hand feel stickier and stickier. But the hands were small and eager to see the “Muzungu”, who, they’re convinced, came out of the television. These children are adorable and in so much need of love. They hit each other–a lot–and then want lots of hugs. Many noses run, and some children lie on benches, suppressing coughs with handkerchiefs. The sweet headmistress–she’s the first-grade teacher–came to class, despite supposing that she had Malaria. In the way God made me, I look at all this and plop down in a chair, thinking, “Africa needs a BIG hug, a big Father hug!” Smoke from somewhere constantly fills the classroom, causing my throat to burn; and every step I take is one step farther from ever thinking I’ll have clean feet again.
During math, two girls kicked over the class termite nest, and pulled them out for counting. “See Teacher Pamela?” they said. “There are five! Where is the other one?” They kept digging. Amazed and admittedly grossed out, I thought of how these girls would never need new batteries for their Leap Frogs like our Amerian first-graders do.
Many of the girls wear dresses with missing buttons, pockets ripped off. They are rarely-ever large enough for them. Children share pencils for assignments, and snacks, if someone can afford them. And for whatever reason, some are denied water by their parents, leaving them to ask their fellow students. Many have skin diseases covering their scalps, while others’ belly-buttons didn’t heal properly when their umbilical cords came off, and they live with large protrusions. On first grade’s wall is a chart showing such diseases as Polio, Diphtheria, Tuberculosis, etc. It was drawn on empty rice sacks. They ain’t no common cold or seasonal flu diseases! One teacher was moving from classroom to classroom to collect the equivalent of $5.50 from each student for a two-month fee, which, if some could not pay, required them to leave school, sent out with no understanding words. This is school in Kampala, Uganda.
In Kindergarten, a woman is hard at work to keep some forty-something children quiet and organized, to stop fights, and in the meantime to help them learn the alphabet. Her own baby is strapped to her back. She looks like the woman who lived in a shoe, who had so many children she didn’t know what to do.
We’re here to assist and to teach Bible stories. Caity and Trever are praying for an older student over in the corner. And me? Well, I’m hiding on my break. Teaching a song would have been fun this morning, had it not been for the fighting, full class shouting over me, and the extremely hard task of returning children to their benches somewhere away from their fighting opponents. So me? I’m over here in a corner where I thought no one could find me. But there’s one who I will always welcome interruption from, and she is the Moslem teacher. She found me and wanted to talk, an opportunity that will always revive me. I’m thankful for the continual opportunities to show her the love of Jesus!
The Kingdom of God is being like Jesus in every situation He places you. We are His hands and feet; and the more we put ear to chest to hear His heart-beat for us, the farther we can reach into others’ hearts.
Ready for some incredible pictures?? Coming up next!
