This is a shortened, simplified version of a journal entry from June 13th. Shortened, because it’s much too long to just copy the whole thing here for you (and it’ll still be long) – simplified, because the details I wrote down were more for me than for anyone else.
June 13th was my team’s off day. We decided to go into Kampala and hang out at Garden City (the mall) and maybe catch a movie, check internet, and get something to eat. After we were dropped into Kampala, it took us a good chunk of time, a lot of walking, and relying on directions from complete strangers to get us to Garden City, but we made it. We wanted to be in a matatu and heading back to Mukono by the time the sun went down, but by the time we did everything we wanted to do in Kampala, it wasn’t looking like that would happen. We were going as fast as we could to make the most of the daylight that was just barely hanging on. That’s the background to this journal entry.
My hope is that this story would become more than a story to you, more than “something” that’s going on in the world somewhere…and that God would give you a glimpse into His heart like He gave me, even for a short time.
Today was the most intense off-day I’ve had in a while…maybe ever. Not really because anything incredibly catastrophic happened; but today it was like I felt a piece of the heart of God.
A piece. A tiny, tiny little sliver – but definitely a piece. Something that hasn’t happened nearly as often as I expected it to happen on this trip.
We were a little rushed – ok, really rushed. Kampala is a dirty city, a dangerous city if I trust my instincts. It’s in the way the men stare at us that scares me a little…..not really fear though, just an awareness that it’s not safe and the unease that comes along with it. It makes me really thankful for having two guys on the team, watching out for us constantly.
We were walking on the sidewalk….and suddenly we came upon a child, no older than a year probably, sitting upright, unsteadily, in the middle of the sidewalk, hands open and begging for money. Only a yard away from the crazy dangerous traffic flying by. A child. Most of us would probably still qualify the kid as a baby.
Alone, in a great, big, dangerous city.
I couldn’t tell whether the child was a girl or a boy – all I could tell was the age range, somewhere around 1year old, wearing dirty, holey clothes, barefoot. Alone. I looked everywhere for the parent of this child, but no one was around.
No one.
And no one was stopping, either. The locals seemed unfazed by what I was seeing.
It felt like I couldn’t breathe. I told myself as we slowly began walking by that the mother is probably selling things in the street. Yes, that had to be it, my mind rationalized. That had to be the case. Right? The alternative was too ugly for me to fully accept. But still I couldn’t just walk away. It just felt incredibly…awful. More awful than I can put into words, walking away, leaving that poor little innocent child there. My mind was going a hundred miles an hour; within seconds I’d come up with an irrational plan to take the kid back to Mukono; it’d be easy enough. The child would be taken care of there.
But we had to keep moving…so even though it felt as though my body and soul were being anchored to the ground, I had to keep moving with the group.
And then, what I didn’t expect: less than a hundred yards past, another kid.
And then another, and another…
I lost count of how many tiny children were just sitting on the sidewalk, begging for money. Sitting perfectly still like little statues, one of them nodding off and falling asleep. Sitting, as though their lives depended on them staying put – in their little square of the sidewalk with their hands out in front of them, eyes staring straight ahead.
I lost count.
And every single time…it was like this wave came and took my breath away. A deep deep sadness that was too real to describe.
We passed one particular child before we crossed an intersection, and this baby was crying. Still sitting there, on the sidewalk, crying big tears by himself, not looking up or around at all, just sobbing so hard his whole body shook. We gathered at the side of the intersection waiting for a break in traffic for us to cross – still in a hurry to get to the matatu station – and it ate me alive. I couldn’t not do anything. I ran back and knelt down by the baby who was crying, and began to pray.
The prayer I said was more in my heart than out loud, although I did pray aloud. I had a bottle of water that I’d had left over from lunch, and held it out to the child, approaching the baby with slow movements because I didn’t want to scare him.
The bottle I held had an equivalent of maybe two or three adult-size gulps left – and the kid just stared ahead, made no movement, just kept crying. So I put my hand behind his head because he didn’t seem too sturdy, lifted the bottle to his lips, and he began to drink. It was more robotic than anything else. I think it took about 2 seconds for him to realize that it was water – but once he did, he drank it all….he was thirsty. I had a sinking feeling as I watched him guzzle down the water; if I’d only had a full bottle, if only I hadn’t drank so much of it during lunch, if only I had a bottle I could leave with him, he needed it more than I did.
I put my arm around him and kissed the top of his head when the water was gone and knew I had to run; the others were waiting…the prayer never once stopped while I was kneeling there on the dirty sidewalk with that precious little one. And as I left I felt like something was broken, crushed, inside of me. I was shaking, I was furious, and overcome with love all at the same time. How is it that so much anger and so much love can co-exist in one heart? Anger doesn’t come close to where I was. I told Sarah, I think I’m going to cry as tears involuntarily welled up in my eyes. My heart just hurt.
I guess I ran to the anger before I recognized the love. I thought about Slumdog Millionaire and realized that THAT was probably the cause of what I’d just seen with all those children stationed on the sidewalks, begging while just sitting there, alone. Someone’s done terrible things to these kids to make them sit still and silent like that for Lord knows how long…to make a child that obedient when NO ONE is around to keep an eye on them?
I got more and more angry the longer I thought about it (and it was a decently long walk). I’m not proud of my thoughts. I thought about what I’d do if I knew who it was that planted those babies on a crowded sidewalk next to one of the busiest roads in Kampala – thought about how I hoped they’ll burn in hell for the hell they’re creating for these kids…thought about how the city’s got hundreds, most likely thousands of kids who are literally put at the mercy of an evil world – at the hands of their own. Ugandans are using babies, Ugandan babies, as bait so they can make some money. I wanted them to burn in hell.
Everyone and anyone remotely responsible.
Oh God, give them what they deserve.
But God didn’t say to me, “Yes! They’ll burn in hell, don’t worry. It’s what I want too! ” God told me, “Why are you condemning them? Wishing them the second death? If they were to die, the problem of street children wouldn’t die with them. This, daughter, is what it means to pray for your enemies. The person who puts those babies on the sidewalk and walks away? That person’s heart can change. I can change them. So that they love and care for those kids instead of doing them harm. Don’t waste your time on murdering them in your mind. It’s not doing any good. Recognize the great miracle that I alone have the power to do in their hearts and recognize the grace I can offer them; the free grace that I’ve already offered you.”
Humbled.
Hurt, that I was so quick to hate. The grace that was and is and will be always extended to me is the same grace that is so hard to give.
And then I got a picture in my head, a story. There was a nameless, faceless person who was in charge of the little children, the ones I’d just seen. One night, this person had a dream where God spoke to them and because of that dream, they gave their lives to God. Quickly after this, they opened an orphanage for the kids instead of exploiting them…and it was a place where the children were finally safe and taken care of. The person wrote a book, and I one day picked it up in a bookstore and read it and was amazed at the redemptive power that only God has for the people He calls.
Today, the love I felt? Even part of the anger? I feel like those were things from God’s heart. I corrupted the anger quickly with my own ideas of justice, but the depth of those two feelings were too much for it to have been just me. I know it was God; I’ve seen a lot of street kid situations and honestly am normally not a complete wreck over it. I’m heartless on my own.
I have to believe God uses our little actions. The tiny things that we’re moved to do that may not look like they’ll amount to much at all. I have to believe that God is big enough to use our prayers, our wordless heart’s cries, to make change happen. I have to believe that when I kissed that little baby on the top of the head, it wasn’t just another form of cold abandonment, but that the love and healing and comfort of the Father was in it.
If God’s not big enough to do these things, I’m not following a big enough God.
We got back safely, but my mind was a hundred miles away. For the first time in a long time, I prayed for someone I’d wanted dead only minutes before. Someone I’d hated so deeply…now I ached for their heart. God’s been doing some work behind the scenes, and today I saw that He’s made some real progress in my heart. I should’ve been self righteous, proud; I know myself. But I wasn’t.
In the midst of my broken heartedness, God reminded me of the young woman I’d met in the waiting room of the clinic we’d stopped at in Kampala. Erica, who’s married and lives in the states, told me that she and her husband were working on adopting the little boy she held in her arms. They’d met him at an orphanage in Kampala not too long ago while they were on a short term missions trip. He was malnourished to the point of death, everyone thought he’d probably be mentally retarded because of it, IF he survived, and now he’s strong, healthy, and just a month away from a new home with parents who love him. He is a miracle child – and God reminded me that there is still good happening. Still.
I’m not too sure of how to end this blog…
…really, no idea.
I know this isn’t an “update” on where I’m at right now, but I’ll try to get one in soon!
