When I first arrived here I had just
gotten to know most everybody's names. The girls were the easy part,
each one with her own distinct haircut, height, and manner of dress.
The boys all wore the same three t-shirts that had been donated in
mass along with the same navy blue trousers and all had the same
height. After I had finally mastered most of their names they all
went one day and got haircuts. I couldn't tell the difference between
thirty boys all wearing the same three t-shirts, navy blue trousers
and freshly shaved heads.
Now, after first showing up almost four
years ago I can recognize as somebody walks into the dining hall just
by hearing their footsteps. There are the fast, long paces of Victor,
he knows where he wants to go and isn't wasting any time. That's the
slow shuffle of Samito, never walking in straight line, always
glancing around from left to right as if he was daydreaming. There is
the thumping of Virginia, wanting everybody to know that she has
arrived. There are the quick, light steps of Ofeita running away from
the dragging feet of Jose. I have to replace Jose's sandals every
month because he can't walk heel-to-toe. He just shuffles around
driving his toes into the ground.
But, after first showing up almost four
years ago, after knowing these kids just like my own family, it's time for
me to leave. This is the last post I'll put up here, the last story
to tell.
There are a myriad of things I could
reflect on, a millions different experiences, thousands of stories,
hundreds of people. But if there is one thing I wish I could transmit
to you for you to fully grasp the entirety of my time at the
orphanage, the thing that will stay with me the most, it would be the
smells. Stay with me for a second here. Smell is a terribly powerful
memory indicator. I think it's because for most of us, scent works in
a more subconscious level than sight or sounds. I've discovered this
more and more especially as I am removed from things that are brought
to mind by certain scents. One day I may be reminded of the scent of
the hand soap from my grade school, another day the interior the
truck I used to drive, perhaps the food concessions at a little
league game.
Other scents conjure memories and
emotions far more specific and vivid and evocative than simple time
or place, memories that move me for no discernible reason. All of a
sudden my nose catches a scent so distinct for some unknown reason
from the millions of other scents I've sniffed in my lifetime that
and I'm transported to the dinner table at my grandparents, sharing a
meal as we did oh so many times. Another occurs while driving on the
road as the breeze comes through the cabin carrying with it the scent
of wildflowers and suddenly I'm not driving across African grassland
but am transported on a road trip across the great American West with
friends. Walking through the market and catching a waft of a vendor
frying eggs for sale and suddenly being thrown in the kitchen as dad
prepares breakfast on a Saturday morning before starting the day's
sundry chores.
The memories, the ones that give me
pause and transport me to a time and a place so foreign to this one
that I've inhabited for nearly four years, the ones that without
warning or explanation move me to tears of both unexplainable sadness
and indescribable joy are not focused on the scents themselves, nor
an activity or place, but the memories associated with them. The ones
that grip the core of my being are the ones where I'm surrounding the
people I love, I miss dearly, and care about deeply.
I know that soon those scents and those
unfathomable pauses will come not because I'm overcome by things and
people which are once again familiar, but by those I am leaving
behind here. The scent of fresh cookies being sold to the kids at
elementary school as I am returning home for the day hand-in-hand
with the kids. The hint of thyme on the evening breeze, sitting
around complaining about how late the rains are. Grilling chicken
inside of a broken down wheelbarrow. The dust settling in the evening
as I lay out staring at the milky way, sitting with kids who are
constantly puzzled at the joy it gives me admiring God's creation.
One evening I found myself sitting
around rather melancholy in such a moment as I contemplated that I
live a very long way from all my family and friends and everyone I'd
ever loved when one of the little girls we have here came over to sit
with me. She could tell I was a little out of sorts and asked what I
was thinking about. I said I was thinking about my family and that is
what was was making me said. Without missing a beat, she just said,
"Hmm, I don't know why you're sad. I'm your family, and
you're my family, and here we are together." I then had
to explain to her that my tears were not because she made me sadder
but in fact the opposite. Then she asked me to stop hugging her so
tight.
The memories I take with me are of
teaching and coaching little Victor to pass 7th grade.
Spending hours with him studying and then hours more praying and
fasting and interceding while he was taking the exams. The memories I
take with me are of putting out kitchen fires and killing snakes.
The memories I take with me are of sitting around with my battery
powered radio one evening when the power was out and the dining hall
was lit up by candles. The radio then started a program of only Glenn
Miller songs (remember, the radio is weird). That night I taught the
kids swing dancing till the batteries died. The memories I'll take
with me are the first day we sent kids off to stay with their
relatives for Christmas and only about eight kids stayed behind,
including three little girls that had no family to go to. I spent the
evening with sitting with them and holding them while they cried
themselves to sleep having no family to go and visit.
Like the memories, the photos are of
the things I'll remember. They are not of the imposing mountains, the
sunny beaches, the starry skies, the building we built, the events
and activities, but of people.
I know you're not supposed to have
favorites, but I do. It's also hard not to be impartial when you have
certain kids that are always setting things on fire and other that
aren't. The one's I'm drawn to are not because of anything they've
done. The thing is, as I've explained before, nobody is without
anybody. Everyone has an uncle, and grandparent, a mom, and older
brother or sister who has left the orphanage, a cousin that goes to
the same school. There are only a small handful of kids that have
absolutely nobody to rely on. In part, it's because they completely
realize that they are forever dependent on God. One such family is
Jose, Jordao and Dorcas, who have absolutely nobody to rely on other
than their senile Grandma—Jordao said one day, "I think Jesus
is calling her because she has got to be getting close to going."
The ones without family are the ones looking for it, for care and a
connection, for protection and love.
Just as I have long known and only more
fully realized here, my relationship with God is also fully realized
when I am truly dependent on Him. Not just dependent for happiness,
peace, forgiveness, and spiritual niceties, but for food, water,
health, life. In the same way, I feel the kids here who grasp and
have the simplest, purest picture of what Jesus does for them are the
kids that have nobody to run to when it gets hard. As difficult as it
is to imagine, we are not the first place the kids run to with
problems. But for some there is nowhere to run. Little Victor has
nobody to help him. Victor has a testimony that will break your
heart, and his mom lives shouting distance from the orphanage. Victor
is the kind of kid that come Friday I'll give him some spare change
to get a pop after school or some fresh sugar cane and he instead
offers the money to his mom, not out of fear or obligation, but
because he knows that it truly better to give than receive.
In line with the immeasurable joy that
comes from seeing a life transformed by Jesus also is the ache and
frustration of those that don't accept the truth. For every Little
Victor that has not only been spiritually changed by Jesus, but his
entire destiny rewritten there are countless more that end in
tragedy. People that make tragic decisions and set their lives on a
tragic path and you spend you time trying to speak to them and reason
to them for them to see that the decisions they are making are taking
themselves on a path they can't come back from. It is the absolute
definition of tragedy, in which their decisions seal their fate. I
have written about so many kids that we have sent off to jobs and
training and schooling. How many times have I written about when they
came back?
People that come here and experience a
family that loves them and treats them as equals. And when it comes
time for them to make their own life, for some that is the last we
hear of them. One boy still has a horde of younger siblings here in
the orphanage and almost three years after for a job in another city
and he has never looked back, come to visit, or even check in. If I
call, he will eventually pick up on maybe the second day of me
trying. Always cordial and polite, as soon as I tell him I'm standing
right next to his younger sister who would love nothing more than to
hear from him the line goes dead.
You can even say that it's like the
prodigal son. They are people that, in some respects, the best parts
of their lives have come from the orphanage—the first place where
they weren't always sick, the first place where they didn't have to
go labor everyday, the first place where they weren't shuffled around
between relatives, always a burden and unwanted, the first place they
knew they wouldn't have to fight for food, the first place they knew
they had a bed to go to at the end of the night and wouldn't be
living in abandoned houses, the first place their relatives didn't
lock them out of the house at night, burn them with coals for not
returning with enough money after a day of begging on the street.
It's like the prodigal son, except they haven't come back yet.
One thing that has deeply encouraged me
is 10%. That's where the bar was set. In the Gospel of Luke, Jesus
encountered ten lepers who cried out to him from a distance. Jesus
told them to go find a priest and they were healed as they went. The,
only one came back to thank him. You think receiving a sentence like
leprosy—destined to die a slow and painful death over many years,
possibly decades, cast out from society—to have that erased, your
destiny changed by God himself would merit the lepers going back to
Jesus. But only one did. If Jesus only got ten percent, how much can
we hope for?
And that probably sounds like a real
drag. I've only invested in these kids from three or four years and I
am distraught knowing that some of them will leave and never look
back. Like the multitude that followed Jesus after he gave them all
bread and fish, he told them to all go back home because they were
only in it for the food.
I know that part of it is my maturing
process, but this is the first thing I've done where you don't get to
say that the payoff just at the end of the year. It's not cramming
for tests at the end of the quarter and then you're done. It's not
doing development on a project and then passing it off another group
for the next stage of development and testing, finishing a remodel,
completing a roof. It's not even like working on a car, because while
things here are clearly breaking down all the time, my cars never
improve, they just stave off death for another day. It's not even
like prepping for a concert and then there is a big performance, or
leading new Christians through discipleship where you see the growth
and struggles in vivid leaps and bounds. This is the long approach,
the realistic approach. Only a fool goes to a third grader and says,
"You are going to learn everything you need to now right now.
Recall these lessons later as you may need it."
One of the most vivid experiences of my
entire life was a certain trip to the toy store with my dad. Normally
they were great occasions. A new whiffleball bat, a puzzle, a board
game. It was near Christmas and I was in second grade. As we walked
in the door my dad said you can have up to fifty dollars total. It
was amazing. There was no Christmas list and then hoping and praying
you got what you wanted. It was cutting out the middleman. I got
vetoed on a Nerf gun, but got a board game and set of Legos. It was
turning out to be the best Christmas ever.
And then the happiest Christmas ever
turned in to the worst Christmas ever. As I carried the bags to head
out the door, my dad asked me to hand it over to the marine that was
at the Toys For Tots donation table. I was speechless, dumbstruck,
did as I was told, and I went home empty-handed. In the car ride home
I must have gone through all twelve stages and grief and then looped
right back around whichever stage is responsible for being just plain
pissed off. I got home, was sat down, and explained that while I was
having the worst Christmas ever, it meant that another young boy that
ordinarily wouldn't get anything would be unwrapping the toys that I
donated. I was assured that one day I will understand that, just as
Jesus said, it is better to give than receive.
I understand now.
Those are the lessons I'm hoping stay
with the kids. Not painful lessons that they will carry with them
until one day they realize it was true all along, but that one day
when they need to call on it, they'll know the right thing to do and
the way to act and how to please God. That is the long approach.
Whenever there was something (usually work) I didn't want to do I was
told by my dad the reason to work was that it would put hair on your
chest (my dad had it easy only having sons, because that motivation
is clearly not universal to both genders). I try to get the kids to
realize that when we have work and chores that the purpose is to
prepare them for everything to come. Sometimes, work is its' own
reward. When you are faced with a tough choice, it's always better to
follow Jesus, even if it means life will get harder, because that's
the great paradox we follow, that to live your life is to lose it.
And those things I picked out at the toy store, I ended up unwrapping
them at Christmas several days later.
When Peter is out fishing, Jesus calls
to him, "Follow me." He doesn't say, "Let's go to
Starbucks and have a chat," or even come right out and say,
"Hang out with me for three years before everybody I know turns
their back on me, including you, and I die a horrible death."
Even after Jesus is resurrected, he asks Peter to follow him again.
This is right before Jesus ascends into heaven. Peter obviously
didn't know where to go, but he agreed to follow.
And now it's time for me to follow
Jesus somewhere else. In some respects it will be easier. I'll get a
job (Lord willing), find a place to live, and look for that special
someone. I believe the common term used to describe it is "settling
down". I would like to know what part of it is settling down. I
went from bouncing around during college, never having to do
maintenance and home repairs. I went from not having kids to taking
care of fifty of them. I got to skip the newborn phase but got them
as they were colicky 4 year-old, ten year-old boys running around
breaking bones, filthy teenage boys that you wonder if he is going
to wear that t-shirt till it falls off his body or if he's going to
shower sometime, and moody teenage girls that you just have no idea
what is upsetting them (answer: nothing, and yet everything).
Settling down is
the scary part. I came to Mozambique knowing at the deepest part of
my being that it what God made me to do. And I leave with that same
trust. It does not mean that either decision is any less scary. It
doesn't mean I have an idea what I'm to do any more than I had
absolutely no idea what what to do when I came to Nampula. I just
know that it was needs to be done and I am thrilled by just knowing
that much.
I was talking with a group of friends
before I left to come here way back in 2010. They were mentioning all
the exciting happenings I'd miss by not being in Seattle. One friend
was joking and had asked just why I had to go to Mozambique. My
answer was, "I have to. It's what God made me to do." The
answer caught them off guard for its simplicity and unexpected
profundity and halted the lighthearted mood of the conversation.
There was then about a minute of silence and staring off into the
abyss, each one wonder for him or herself, "Wow. Then what did
God make me to do?"
This is not my sunset, this is not the
close of my book. It is the close of one chapter, the end to one part
of the story. Better parts are coming, and worse part are coming too.
Happier and sadder and fuller and richer and more fulfilling and
challenging. Yes, even more challenging than life in Nampula. This is
not the cliffhanger where it looks like all is lost for our hero—stay
tuned till next week to find out if he makes it! I'll make it.
Because I know what I was made to do.
I enjoy weaving stories. I can't say
that there is a defining thread or current that courses from one
episode to the next. I don't even know that many of the stories are
that coherent on their own. But I do love telling the stories. There
are plenty more stories to be told here, but they're not for me to
tell. They will left to tell for someone else. As the children here
that I've come alongside with have grown, are growing, and will be
writing their own stories someday. They will be nurses, lawyers,
farmers, engineers, mechanics, chefs, policemen, carpenters,
teachers, pastors, fathers, and mothers. They will struggle
mightily, fail spectacularly, and succeed monumentally. I won't be
here to see their story unfold. I won't be here to participate in it,
to help it, to mold it, to encourage and chastise and correct and
encourage and celebrate in it. But he story will be written because I
am not The One writing it.
The scary thing is that I don't know
what I'm going to do. Much like coming here. That's why it is fun and
crazy. I believed that if God was truly calling me to Mozambique than
he would also provide for me after I got back. I still believe that.
It's hard and scary to trust, but I do.
There are many things that I will
remember from my time in the orphanage, but there is one set of
memories I'll keep with me the most. Not of chasing after bandits,
nor going to the beach with the kids, nor coaching basketball,
sneaking into the high school and substitute teaching, attending
feasts, watching movies projected on the wall, staying up past
midnight huddled around the radio listening to soccer games. The
things I remember the most are entirely different. Sitting around
chatting in the evening.
Planting and gardening with the boys.
Playing soccer on Saturdays.
Doing homework, teaching multiplication
tables, having spelling bees.
Laughing at absolutely nothing over dinner.
The movie Up, aside from being
the only movie I've ever seen that made me weep within the first five
minutes, features the most unassuming, profound, life altering quote
I've heard from any movie.
When the old man Carl sets off on his
adventure and his house floats away tied to a thousand balloons, he
is joined by a young tag-along named Russell. One day, Russell was
reminiscing about his dad: "And afterwords we'd go get ice cream
at Fenton's. I always get chocolate and he gets butter-brickle. Then
we'd sit on this one curb, right outside, and I'll count all the blue
cars and he counts all the red ones, and whoever gets the most, wins.
I like that curb.
"That might sound boring, but I
think the boring stuff is the stuff I remember the most."