“What are you doing for others?” Martin Luther King Jr
Last week I visited several children’s homes, places of safety and a hospice in the dustbowl that is Hammanskraal, north of Pretoria, with some women from our church. I wish I were as eloquent as Lisa-Jo over at The Gypsy Mama when sharing about the experience.
I wish I had taken better photos, photos that represented the places we visited more adequately, but the morning was a whirlwind of activity – meeting the heroes that are the staff and house mothers, being mobbed by children desperate for attention – laughing and walking and pointing and begging for individual photos – driving from one venue to the next, amazed at the energy and love so many from our church have dispensed into these children’s lives already.
It’s tough serving in areas like this. It’s tough seeing children that are hurting and displaced and angry. It’s tough seeing the HIV-positive mother, still a child herself, crying for the baby she cannot hold. It’s tough looking into the eyes of those in the hospice just waiting to die. It’s tough handing out armfuls of fresh fruit and vegetables, not knowing when the children will see good, wholesome food again… By the time I got home, it felt as if I had been dragged through an emotional wringer – seeing the huge need… A need that we could (in reality) never meet.
My heart broke for the two little Afrikaans girls amongst the sea of black faces, straggly hair – as if it hadn’t been washed or brushed for weeks – dirty clothes and yet giggling with their little “brothers and sisters”. They were more at home speaking Tswana than English or their own home language. But they, along with so many other children, are stuck there. Stuck in a state system that just doesn’t have the capacity or care to serve their needs.
My heart broke for the myriad of children, snot-streaked faces, who attached themselves to my legs like little leaches as I wandered around taking photos… One little one, as quiet as a mouse, sidled up alongside and patted me on my leg – starting at my pocket and getting ever lower just waiting for me to acknowledge his existence. To pick him up, smile, tickle him, and tell him that he was special… My heart broke for the little girl who proudly showed me her false leg – the one that was amputated shortly after she arrived at the home – while sucking contentedly on some candy.
One of the women I was driving with mentioned the Bible verse in Psalm 27, “Though my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will receive me.” She pointed out that we quote that verse never imagining that our parents would in reality ever forsake us. Yet many of these children have experienced just that. But the verse remains true: "…the Lord will receive them”. There is hope.
In all, we saw around 100 children in three homes. And I realised that one can’t save every abused, abandoned, malnourished child. One can only do what one can do. One can only help one at a time. One day at a time. By the grace of God.
“What difference can you make?” That’s a question I ask myself often. That question took me to Mongolia, into Africa more than once, to France and Madagascar… And now it’s taken me just down the road, into one of the most uncomfortable, yet rewarding places I’ve ever been.
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