Today, I miss them. I miss them terribly. Of course I always miss them, but today the ache is more particular. Just for today, I wish I could hop on a plane and be with them. There's no special reason why, really-- no inciting incident that released a floodgate of memories. And there's really no reason why it should be those kids. Heaven knows I have been blessed with a myriad of Stateside angels as well-- lots of little cousins and a niece. And I miss them too. I suppose one difference is that if I really wanted or needed to get to the kids here, I could. They're less than a tank of gas away. But Kazembe...
I want to open the door of my room and be met with a half dozen cries of "Auntie Meghan! Play with me!" It is the sweetest sound I have ever heard. I want to feel that familiar dull ache in between my shoulders that never really goes away because Henry keeps launching himself up and fastening his skinny arms around my neck. I want Jennifer to ask permission to do something that she knows she really shouldn't do, and then I want to give it to her because she smiled at me, and there's really no resisting that smile. And then I want to run after her screaming, "Wait! No, Jennifer, that's not a good idea!"
Some of the things I want are long past, taken by time or eternity. I want to race across the courtyard towards Jack and get to him before he crawls from the nursery to the steps, because once he has seen me, he'll crawl towards me with reckless abandon. His eyes fix to mine and he will crawl right off the edge of the steps without a moment's hesitation. I want to see Denny making his way towards the kitchen with his furrowed little brow and unsteady Frankenstein waddle. Then I want to step into his line of vision and hold my arms out, and when those little eyes light up and the corner of his mouth starts to curl, I want to rush out to meet him and throw him into the air as his peals of laughter ring out into the fading day. I want to sort through laundry in search of clothing small enough to fit a tiny 4lb 12oz doll of an angel. Then I want to pick through the trunk full of shoes in an effort to find a pair to fit Lizzie's comically short but ridiculously wide feet. The kid basically has flippers.
But Jack is walking now, and Denny is probably outgrowing his waddle. Angels don't need clothes made by man, and Lizzie's feet are surely growing along with the rest of her.
I want to play tag in the playground, a game that inevitably ends up with me flat on my face buried under the six kindergarteners, five preschoolers, and odd assortment of toddlers that tackled me to the ground. I want to watch Johnny's eyes grow impossibly wide and almost pop out of his smart little head when he realizes that ice, steam, and water are all different forms of the same matter. I want to watch Sandra and Janet play with each other, because even though both of them took such great care to hide and protect their hearts from me last summer, they seem to have found hope, trust, and genuine friendship in each other. And so I just watch, and I thank God that each of them was rescued, if only so they could be there for one another.
And while I would never wish sickness upon any of these dear ones, if they do fall ill, I want to be there. I rather enjoy tracking vital signs, and I will do my best to cure them with the magical powers of hugs, kisses, cuddles, and bedtime stories. I don't mind the long nights or frequent dosage schedules. There's nothing to it, really... I walk from crib to crib, shaking each burning body gently awake. "Ima," I whisper. Get up. Moriah downs the medicine, licks the cup, and flashes me a tired smile. "Laala. Nalikutemwa." Sleep. I love you. I want to step into the nursery during naptime and scoop a screaming Ephraim up into my arms. Then I'll stand there and rock him back and forth and whisper to him that he is loved. And after just a few seconds, the shrieking and flailing stops. Within a minute or two, he is fast asleep. I lay him down and imagine the words that Ana's knowing look conveys: "Thanks for knocking him out. That kid is so obnoxiously loud while the rest of us are trying to sleep. Brothers are a pain." I smile back at her. She is such a joy-- my beautiful hosAna.
Basically, I just want to be with them. It's so strange to realize that so much of what I "want" are memories-- they were, and they always are in my heart, but they never will be again. This year will be inevitably different. Different is neither good nor bad; it is simply different. This year, two very dear friends will accompany me. They will live this story beside me. They'll know the faces that go with these stories, and I fervently hope that they fall every bit as much in love with them as I have. Nathan, Denny, and Theresa have pretty much been claimed. I suppose I can share.
Oddly enough, I kind of want to.
Huh.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Friday, February 3, 2012
We Are Just the Same
I love kids. I love their inhibition. If an adult acted this way, we would call it reckless and daring. When a child does it, it’s simply purity and innocence. Would that we could recognize that sometimes those are all the same thing.
Last night I babysat at an adult community group that meets just down the road from campus. I take the kids upstairs and entertain them while their parents meet in the living room. After about 45 minutes of being attacked by imaginary unicorns while the tiny toddler of the group played Godzilla and plowed through the intricate train set town that the two older girls had built (and rebuilt… and rebuilt… and rebuilt…), one of them grabbed a book and curled up in my lap. As I was reading the story, Ava, age 6, began examining my shirt. I was wearing the T-shirt that one of the Texas team members gave me last summer (Gail, if you’re reading this, thank you—it’s one of my most treasured possessions). I had traced each child’s hand onto the back. Ava laid her hand on top of one of the handprints and said, “We are just the same.”
What beautiful truth spoken from the lips of a child! Because in God’s eyes, we are. They are. There are so many differences between Ava and Queenie, whose handprint she picked out. Both are six-year-old girls, but that’s pretty much where the similarities end. A sea of social class, language, education, opportunity, and resources separate these two princesses in the perspective of this world. But to God, they are just the same.
There’s a video floating around facebook right now by Eric and Leslie Ludy. Please take the time to watch this video.
For those of you with sketchy internet connections (or who just won’t take the time to click play… you know who you are…), I’m going to quote a portion of it. Eric heard a story about a 4-year-old orphan in Liberia—a child with absolutely nothing and no one.
“And God asked me a question: ‘What if that was Hudson?’—my 4-year-old. Oh man… You don’t mess with a Father’s heart. If my boy was on the side of the road across the world from me, suffering, totally alone, not knowing what was happening… He’s not old enough to comprehend this! He’s abandoned! He has no one to fight for his cause, no one to give him a voice. He doesn’t even know how to articulate his circumstances. He’s hungry, and no one is feeding him… If my son was in that situation, you could stick a concrete wall in front of me and I would claw through it with my bare hands. This is my son we’re talking about! And if I couldn’t get there, I would call up every friend I have, and I would say, “I have a son, over in Liberia… and if you call yourself my friend, then I need you to get on a plane. And I need you to get to him. I’ll give you the coordinates, I’ll do whatever it takes, but I need you to get to my son, and be a father to him.
God’s response?
‘That’s my Hudson.’”
“We have a cause, but we don’t want to see it… We suffer from depraved indifference.”
And so we quote scriptures about God being a father to the fatherless and shelter to the homeless—we ask Him to feed the hungry and heal the sick. How ironic that we do so while surrounded by our families, in well-heated homes, with a hot meal on the table and a hospital down the road.
Do we have the luxury of family? Of defining who we would claw through a concrete wall for by whether we share the same blood with them?
“How great is the love the Father has lavished upon us, that we should be called sons and daughters of God!”
And so yes, we do have the luxury and the blessing of family—just not an exclusive one. Not if we’re going to call ourselves the hands and feet of Christ. Not if we call ourselves His friends, His servants, His followers.
Last night I babysat at an adult community group that meets just down the road from campus. I take the kids upstairs and entertain them while their parents meet in the living room. After about 45 minutes of being attacked by imaginary unicorns while the tiny toddler of the group played Godzilla and plowed through the intricate train set town that the two older girls had built (and rebuilt… and rebuilt… and rebuilt…), one of them grabbed a book and curled up in my lap. As I was reading the story, Ava, age 6, began examining my shirt. I was wearing the T-shirt that one of the Texas team members gave me last summer (Gail, if you’re reading this, thank you—it’s one of my most treasured possessions). I had traced each child’s hand onto the back. Ava laid her hand on top of one of the handprints and said, “We are just the same.”
What beautiful truth spoken from the lips of a child! Because in God’s eyes, we are. They are. There are so many differences between Ava and Queenie, whose handprint she picked out. Both are six-year-old girls, but that’s pretty much where the similarities end. A sea of social class, language, education, opportunity, and resources separate these two princesses in the perspective of this world. But to God, they are just the same.
There’s a video floating around facebook right now by Eric and Leslie Ludy. Please take the time to watch this video.
For those of you with sketchy internet connections (or who just won’t take the time to click play… you know who you are…), I’m going to quote a portion of it. Eric heard a story about a 4-year-old orphan in Liberia—a child with absolutely nothing and no one.
“And God asked me a question: ‘What if that was Hudson?’—my 4-year-old. Oh man… You don’t mess with a Father’s heart. If my boy was on the side of the road across the world from me, suffering, totally alone, not knowing what was happening… He’s not old enough to comprehend this! He’s abandoned! He has no one to fight for his cause, no one to give him a voice. He doesn’t even know how to articulate his circumstances. He’s hungry, and no one is feeding him… If my son was in that situation, you could stick a concrete wall in front of me and I would claw through it with my bare hands. This is my son we’re talking about! And if I couldn’t get there, I would call up every friend I have, and I would say, “I have a son, over in Liberia… and if you call yourself my friend, then I need you to get on a plane. And I need you to get to him. I’ll give you the coordinates, I’ll do whatever it takes, but I need you to get to my son, and be a father to him.
God’s response?
‘That’s my Hudson.’”
“We have a cause, but we don’t want to see it… We suffer from depraved indifference.”
And so we quote scriptures about God being a father to the fatherless and shelter to the homeless—we ask Him to feed the hungry and heal the sick. How ironic that we do so while surrounded by our families, in well-heated homes, with a hot meal on the table and a hospital down the road.
Do we have the luxury of family? Of defining who we would claw through a concrete wall for by whether we share the same blood with them?
“How great is the love the Father has lavished upon us, that we should be called sons and daughters of God!”
And so yes, we do have the luxury and the blessing of family—just not an exclusive one. Not if we’re going to call ourselves the hands and feet of Christ. Not if we call ourselves His friends, His servants, His followers.
I leave you with words written by a friend. The topic he was writing about was a very different one, but the heart of the matter is the same.
“As St. Paul wrote, ‘When we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly. Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous man, though for a good man someone might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us’ (Rom 5: 6-8). Let us be like Christ and be willing to die that others may live. That while they may still be sinners, we should die for their sake in His name. And if that means I must adopt a child before this night is through, then let me do so for the glory of God.”
Amen and amen.
John 14:8—“I will not leave you as orphans. I will come to you.”
Isaiah 6:8—“ Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, "Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?" And I said, "Here am I. Send me!"
“As St. Paul wrote, ‘When we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly. Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous man, though for a good man someone might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us’ (Rom 5: 6-8). Let us be like Christ and be willing to die that others may live. That while they may still be sinners, we should die for their sake in His name. And if that means I must adopt a child before this night is through, then let me do so for the glory of God.”
Amen and amen.
John 14:8—“I will not leave you as orphans. I will come to you.”
Isaiah 6:8—“ Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, "Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?" And I said, "Here am I. Send me!"
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