Shafik

The Good Samaritan Children's Home in Uganda was my home away from home for almost two weeks in September of 2012. This orphanage houses a family of children and volunteers who grabbed me by the hand and plucked me from the dusty taxi that delivered me from the airport, straight into their bustling, chaotic, joyful lives without a chance for me to even straighten my rumpled, travel-worn skirt.

There were very few introductions. I was family now and everyone called me "Mum" or "Mummy Julie".

 The children filled every vacancy on the personality spectrum: Edith was the perfect hostess, carrying my bags, smoothing my blanket-covered mattress and smiling shyly when I offered her a stick of melted gum. Jonothan ran circles around me and darted in front of my camera lens with his tongue hanging out. This made his friends giggle which only encouraged his antics to a new level of little-boy clown acts. And Sharon was like a little rabbit....curious about my fly-away hair and white legs, even sniffing me from time to time, but off and running if I let on that I was aware of her hand on my arm or her fingers touching the beads of my bracelet. If I ignored her, she continued her exploration. If I turned my head towards her she was gone, often in a fit of laughter with her girlfriends trailing behind, in awe of her bravery.

And then there was Shafik.

He caught my attention amidst all of the chatter and giggles,

 and the little hands grabbing onto mine,

 and all of the looks in my direction, of amazement and wonder mixed with healthy doses of caution.

I noticed Shafik because he refused to notice me.

I watched him often from my first day there. Studied him because he carried himself so differently from the rest; head down, shoulders hunched, his sandal-clad feet producing a slow shuffle on his way from one random point to another. Everything about him was drawn in. Like nobody was home in his little body. And no one was welcome to knock, either.

He reminded me of myself.

And for that reason I wanted to know more about him.

I inquired about the little three-year-old who wandered the courtyard.

"Who, Shafik? He's not three. He is five years old. Here, let me show you some photos."

And they placed in my hand a stack of images that made everything going on around me kind of fade into black and white.

This first photo showed the place where the Ugandan authorities found and rescued Shafik, from adults who were withholding clothes, warmth, food and of course dignity and love. He was covered in filth and waste from his own body and from the pigs that were sharing the same space with him. Shafik was literally eating dirt to survive.

 His guardians were arrested and Shafik was taken into custody and later placed in the care of the Good Samaritan Children's Home. When they brought him to the orphanage he continued to pluck away at and eat dirt until he realized that warm posho and beans were served daily in this strange but safe place.

His body bore the marks not only of malnutrition, but also savage abuse, no doubt at the hands of his "caregivers". I know little more about his story. How long had he been mistreated this way? Where were his parents? How did the authorities become aware of his need for rescue?

 This little boy had every right to be withdrawn and guarded. I felt like I understood now why he seemed like he was perpetually lost. Achingly alone. A backpack full of wrongs done to him hanging off his shoulders. I didn't need any more evidence to convince me of his "victim" status.

With those photos in my hand, I stepped towards the window that looked out onto the courtyard full of children. And this time I saw Shafik , who was unaware that I was watching him, laughing with another little boy over a piece of trash that they had turned into some form of entertainment. His teeth were rotten, but he had a fantastic smile, made even more brilliant by what I now knew about his story. His movements were animated as he ran his "toy" up and down the sides of a low wall, speaking and pointing in a flurry of Ugandan commands and shouts of glee.

I stepped outside, mesmerized by this sudden display of life from Shafik. His eyes flickered up momentarily to mine and then the shades went down, removing his welcome sign from the front door.

I knelt down and spoke to him in English, telling him that I liked his pink sandals and touching his head with a gentle pat. Everything about him said, "You cannot be trusted. I have no idea why you are here but I hope you go home soon."

I knew then that I was looking at a bodily representation of my own heart. The way that I withhold the best of me for a select few, not trusting that there is ever a safe place to relax and just be. And it's one thing to know that I have issues with trust, but another thing entirely to kneel in the dirt and see myself in living color in the form of an African orphan.

God knows how to get my full attention.

He had me in a place where my heart was already overwhelmed with His love for these children and I was in no position to argue with the message He was folding up and quietly tucking under my door.

"Let me love you."

That evening I ended up in the Baby House where the government children, those recently removed from their homes because of neglect or abuse or abandonment, were filing in for their nightly scrub down. I was ushered into a back room and handed a stack of towels and a small jar of Vaseline. As the children came from being doused with cold water, a quick lathering of soap, and a thorough rinse, my job was to towel them dry, apply that Vaseline from head to toe and help them into their night clothes. (Usually these were the same clothes they had worn that day and the day before. Sometimes something stiff and clean, albeit for the opposite gender, from the clothesline.)

Shafik was among the huddled children waiting in line for my attention. They were getting scrubbed and rinsed faster than I could dry, grease and dress.

He hesitated when he saw me and his eyes widened but the house mother urged him forward with a less than gentle nudge.

I can't even begin to give words to what transpired in the next few minutes. Here was Shafik with no choice but to allow me to help him get ready for bed. I don't know how either of us got through the towel drying, and the putting on of Vaseline and then night clothes. I was aware of every jagged line and scar on his head and back and I was as careful as I could possibly be. His bloated belly was in sharp contrast to his thin arms and legs. He kept his head down and his eyes locked onto the floor.I was astounded at both his bravery and the almost tangible walls this kid had constructed. The other children around us were in constant motion; grabbing towels from each other in a playful way, helping each other find their missing socks, chanting out little songs and sitting next to me on the bed, giggling.

With every moment that I had with Shafik there in that room, I purposefully tried to convey safety and love.

 I only had a few minutes.

 I spoke to him quietly, knowing that he probably did not understand my accented English, but speaking it out loud anyways. " Shafik, you are a good, good boy. You have a lot of friends here who are looking out for you now. I hope you sleep really well tonight. I love you.".

I kissed the top of his bristly head.

And when it was time for him to move on to make way for the next child......

 Shafik stood still.

So I took a risk....

slowly lifted him onto my lap

 and instinctively began to rock him.

The other children stopped to watch this unusual exchange. Some of the boys snickered while the majority of the kids just stood at my side, watching, and kind of rocking along with me. Shafik let his head rest on my shoulder. His body relaxed just enough for me to take notice.

"Let me love you."

It was the same message from a God who, I was understanding, wanted my trust as much as I wanted Shafik's. A God who sees our suffering and our wounds and our fears and never stops waiting nearby for us to let Him hold us.

"To do for yourself the best that you have it in you to do- to grit your teeth and clench your fists in order to survive the world at its harshest and worst-is, by that very act, to be unable to let something be done for you and in you that is more wonderful still. The trouble with steeling yourself against the harshness of reality is that the same steel that secures your life against being destroyed secures your life also against being opened up and transformed." Frederick Buechner

The very next day and every day after that, Shafik took every opportunity to show up beside me. He never made himself known or asked to be held. He just kind of backed up to me and stood still.

 Waiting.

And I held him every time.

"He reached down from on high and took hold of me; he drew me out of deep waters.....He brought me out into a spacious place; he rescued me because he delighted in me." Psalm 18: 16, 19

 I could tell this was a new experience for him. That he was still unsure, but it felt good enough to return for more.

He began to come in first for bath time and bedtime. And he looked me in the eye and smiled.

He invited me in.

"It might come as a surprise that Christ asks our permission to come in and heal, but He is kind, and the door is shut from the inside, and healing never comes against our will. In order to experience His healing, we must also give Him permission to come in to the places we have so long shut to anyone. He knocks through our loneliness. He knocks through our sorrows. He knocks through events that feel too close to what happened to us when we were young...a betrayal, a rejection, a word spoken, a relationship lost. He knocks through many things, waiting for us to give Him permission to enter in." John Eldredge

Shafik is leading the way for me.

And maybe it is the way for you, too.

A little boy who recognizes that despite his experiences and scars, there is still a safe place to be found. That he is loved. That it's okay to look up.

More To Say

   Anyone who knows me well knows that I enjoy putting pen to paper. I make lists, plan parties, set goals and write my thoughts into half-filled journals scattered throughout the house. You can't get past my kitchen without seeing something scrawled in my hand on random pieces of notebook paper, receipts, envelopes and post-its. And I'd much rather write with a pen than type on a keyboard. But even typing gives me another outlet for writing that brings me a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment that I can't seem to find anywhere else.

   For me, the past three months, maybe even four, have produced little as far as the written word goes. Especially when I look at my journals and this blog, showing a major slow down in entries and posts. I think I can easily track the shift to my return from Africa and the founding of Love Mercy Uganda, which is a bit of a head-scratcher, since that trip and those experiences and this new mission have more than saturated my heart with enough material to write a book. The big, thick, door stopper kind of book.

   Maybe there is just too much this time to lay it out there for you guys to get a real sense of what happened...or of what IS happening. I struggle myself to keep up with what God is speaking and orchestrating and unveiling, and even then it's not all on stage or in the wind and the earthquake and the fire, but in that still small voice of His that roots me to doing nothing but sitting still. And I don't get much writing done that way. 

   I write standing up, shifting from one foot to another, or on my way from the mop bucket to the toilet brush and even while I'm driving. I write in my head while I'm out shoveling snow or walking to the mailbox.

  Sometimes I'm sitting....but not much comes out when I TRY to write. 

   But I'm here at Come To My Rescue because I sense a shift that has occurred somewhere along the way that is allowing me to write again. I am an extreme editor of anything that I publish, always wanting to make sure I say it right and say it well or not say it at all. And I don't think that is going to change.

  But what might change is how much of me I allow into my writing.

  Because I have changed.

  And the lenses that I see the world through have been upgraded to a new prescription.

  It's hard to say whether you'll notice the difference or not.

  What matters I guess is that I have more to say. More to tell you. And my voice is more my own now. Or better yet, I'm more of who He intended me to be from the beginning.

   I'm looking forward to writing from this new place I'm in and letting Him use what I often see as rubble from a torn down, abandoned warehouse, but what He has clearly shown me to be some pretty valuable building material.

   I'm intent on cooperating with Him.

   Some of you will know exactly what I mean. The rest of you can catch up as we go along.

   Stay tuned for Anna's story. An abandoned one-year-old girl from the streets of Uganda who God is using to fit me with those world-altering new glasses I told you about.....who fulfilled a promise from a God I still haven't figured out....

   And Shafik.....a little boy who refused to give me anything but a backward glance and downcast eyes.....who reminds me every day what it means to take a risk.....to forgive......to look up.

   Both of these stories I thought were mine to keep. Stories too personal and telling for me to publish. But they are on the edge of my writing heart and they are meant to be shared, not hoarded.

   He has once again......Come To My Rescue.

Bravo!

We traveled four and a half hours one way to see a musical production called "A Year With Frog and Toad".

A bit of a drive for an hour and a half of college kids portraying darling forest animals and two loyal amphibians who live out a years worth of ups and downs in this thing called friendship.

And a huge test of parental restraint from pushing the eject button on one fourteen year old girl and one eight year old boy squished in the back seat of a tiny rental car, jockeying for ownership on every square inch of seat and objecting to every possible infraction of every possible rule that ever crossed the lips of every good intentioned parent this side of heaven.

Not to mention the fact that we will be making the same exact trip in a few days to transport one of those college kids home for a Hawbaker Hallmark Thanksgiving, complete with a  twenty-six pound, dried out turkey, bloody battles for the remote and hot chocolate made with water instead of milk.

"WHO DRANK THE LAST OF THE MILK!?" 

But oh, the trip was so, so worth it.

Zachary is our oldest son. A junior attending college in Ohio majoring in Social Work and English, with a long line of choir and theater credits trailing him.

I've been his mother for twenty-one years.

I did not know he could sing like this.

Or dance.

Or even that he could pull off the greatest portrayal of Toad, from the Frog and Toad series of children's books, ever.

He had me in tears while everyone else was chuckling at the action going on on stage.

I wanted to stand up and wave my hands and say, "He's mine! The toad is mine! I'm his mother!"

I couldn't believe the people around me weren't laying bunches of flowers in my lap in honor of my abilities to birth such a fantastic actor.

Suffice it to say.....I was and am proud.

We were not allowed to take photos during the show, and so the following pictures, I cannot take credit for.

What I can take credit for is that my son belongs on Broadway.

Well done, Zachary. Would travel three times what we did to watch you on stage, providing we leave your siblings home with Grammy. Maybe they can even move in permanently.

Worth the Effort

   The past five days have been one reminder after another that God is intensely personal and equally persistent with mere mortals such as I. Even more intriguing is this sudden awareness that He does not see me as a "mere mortal", but as someone He takes great delight in....a girl who looks to Him to be worth the effort.

   Now, I'm someone who likes to earn my keep.
Please, oh please let me take the messy jobs for You. Give me the swamp water to wade in with a thousand leeches and slimy eels circling my feet. And pick me for the dark, cobwebbed, dead ends to sweep. I have nothing better to offer than what I can DO for You, so my hand is up for the ugliest possible landscape You have going. You are worth it.

    So for God to point out my worth to Him while I am in an obvious state of utter uselessness (never mind my reasoning on that), is a bit.........breathtaking.

   My idea of "breathtaking" is clearly defined in this shot I took last night while sitting (buns freezing), on a point in Maine, wrapped up in a blanket with my ipod chugging worship music into my soul.

   And equally breathtaking were these words by Kari Jobe that filtered into my heart, and somehow at that moment, believing they were written about  me and for me by my God of grace.

You're my beloved, you're my bride
To sing over you is my delight
Come away with me my love

Under my mercy come and wait
Till we are standing face to face
I see no stain on you my child

You're beautiful to me
So beautiful to me

I sing over you my song of peace
Cast all your cares down at my feet
Come and find your rest in me

I'll breathe my life inside of you
I'll bear you up on eagle's wings
And hide you in the shadow of my strength

I'll take you to my quiet waters
I'll restore your soul
Come rest in me and be made whole

You're my beloved, you're my bride
To sing over you is my delight
Come away with me my love

What's Mine is Yours

  You gotta love this precious, African orphan, Anna as she insistently tries to share a tiny scrap of food with her friend and mattress mate, Marvin.  The little guy put out a valiant effort to accept her gift. I don't think he ever did get any of it into his hand, much less into his mouth.
    But it is a sweet exchange that reminds me of how God expects and applauds the same from us. To open our hand to the poor and needy, to those that have less than us, even if we might not have an abundance of wealth to fall back on for ourselves. 
   Compassion International and Love Mercy Uganda are two opportunities for you to live like Anna and share. 

You might want to click on full screen (bottom right corner) in order to see their little hands up close.

Dear Our Grand Mum and Father

I wanted to share this letter with my readers. It was written by two of the teen girls at the Good Samaritan Children's Home in Uganda where I lived for eleven days just a few, short weeks ago.

Edith and Rosette were chosen to stay with me in my very big, very clean, very empty room. I was prepared to sleep in a crowded, dirty, noisy room full of children. So when I was shown to my sleeping quarters, I asked,
 "No kids?"

 "All alone?"

 "Me?"

I was already speaking in short sentences to aid in communication. I learned quickly on that one.

They recognized my despair in the emptiness of the room, so they hustled out to the main living room and quickly tagged Edith and Rosette to be my roommates. I wasn't sure if they were pleased with this responsibility or wishing they would have picked someone else. They smiled politely, did a little bow and hustled over to my room with their mattress and one blanket between them.

The rest of the evening was filled with that incredible worship service I was swept away in and we fell into bed late, exhausted and with few words. '

I was awakened in the early morning by a low murmur of sound coming from somewhere in the room. I'm surprised I knew where I was. You know that feeling when you open your eyes and have no clue what planet you are on. Should have happened to me, being sleep deprived, in a different time zone with a bit of culture shock thrown in.

But I knew where I was and it slowly became apparent where the low rumble of sound was coming from. Edith and Rosette were dim silhouettes, kneeling on their mattress, talking to God in quiet yet earnest pleas. It was another jolt to my spirit. Last night's prayer service had left me humbled to the point of being invisible. Now I was witnessing two teenage girls welcoming the dawn with communication and fellowship with their God that was obviously a far cry from a boring ritual.

These girls were passionate in their prayers.
Another lump lodged in my throat.
Why did I wait so long to get over here?

But the letter.....let me share their letter. They wrote it while I was there. We had become fast friends in a matter of hours on my first full day there. I was showing them photos of my family and my dog and my parents. They seemed surprised that my parents were still living...ahem....and I told them how much they were loved by my mom and dad.....who love anyone who is loved by me. Edith and Rosette immediately set out to write my parents a letter, asking if they could have a piece of my notebook paper.

 And I just wanted to share the letter with you.

"Dear our Grand mum and father,

How are you and how is your country America's situation? Back to us we are okay because we are very happy to be with our mum Julie who has been putting us in good situation in our country. (I truly play a small role in their "good situation"...just so you know)

So before we thank God who has brought us our mum to us and rid her very well from America to Uganda, we are by names of Edith and Rosette from Uganda. We like America so much because it has mercy people who help the needy. We are orphans but mummy Julie has become our mum.

We are born again by religion and we pray hard so that even us we grow and become important people in our future. We love God so much because the Bible says that things which are impossible to the people are possible to God.

We love learning. We are in senior two class. We pray for you so much. We have our sisters and brothers they are greeting you.

So let us pray to God so that he may guard you well and keep your climate good. May the mighty God bless you very much.

From your beloved ones Edith and Rosette from Uganda."











 

A Boy and His Dream Come True

Before I begin to tell my stories from the ten days I spent with the children of the orphanage in Uganda, let me jump ahead to my visit with my Compassion sponsored boy, twelve year old Alex, who I had the privilege of meeting face to face on day eight of my trip.

The morning of the day I was to spend with him, I was incredibly nervous, excited, impatient......and sick. It hit me just before we left the orphanage compound to make our way over to the Compassion office in Kampala. I was surprised I hadn't gotten sick sooner in the week, with the number of children at the home who had fevers, runny noses and stomach pain, all of them touching me and coughing on me from morning till night.

But this had to be the worst possible day for me to get sick. I simply could not miss my scheduled day with Alex, knowing that he had traveled 9 hours the day before to reach Kampala from his tiny village in southern Uganda. I felt weak, nauseated and my head was spinning in directions I didn't know existed.

I had to lay down in the car on our way to the Compassion office and my orphanage hosts kept glancing back at me with worried looks. They were solely responsible for my well being during my stay there and at one point they were ready to take a detour for the city hospital.

After drinking some water and nibbling on yet another granola bar (my main source of food for ten days) I started to feel a bit better. What I now know is that in my nervousness and excitement to meet Alex, I had taken my morning malaria pill without enough water and this caused the meltdown of my insides that had me feeling too far away from home.

Arriving at the Compassion office, I wondered if Alex was already there. Many staff members came to welcome me and whisked me off to tour the facility and meet more friends. This was the mural on the wall that greeted me upon my arrival.

We shared hot tea and slices of bread with jam while they asked question after question about my family, Alex and my involvement with Compassion. Gratitude was the feeling expressed over and over again by the staff...for sponsoring one of their children, for making a lasting difference for one child, for advocating for more sponsors to join the effort to release children from poverty. They were sincere. And I expressed how I felt about it all. That it is a complete honor and privilege to have any part at all in the work being done through Compassion International.

This is too funny, and slightly embarrassing, but at one point during our tea-taking, a young man came straight up to me and said, "I'm Alex!" I immediately grabbed him in a bear hug, let him go, and then engulfed him in another one. He seemed surprised at my display of affection, but hugged me back, if not a little cautiously. I kept looking at him. It kinda looked like Alex, but a more mature and older version than what I had expected. Moments later I realized this was just a staff member named Alex being friendly and introducing himself. I'm such a nerd. I had to explain to him why I almost swept him off his feet and he was polite but kept his distance after that. Poor guy. Crazy American women....

A cell phone buzzed and I was told that Alex....the REAL Alex....had arrived, and they took my hand and practically ran me out to the parking lot. I do believe they were as excited as I was. Twelve year old Alex stepped out of the van and into my arms. I was well practiced by now and I went back and forth between hugging him and holding him at arm's length to get a good look at him. His smile took up half of his face and we immediately got back in the van to begin our day together.

Our first stop was the zoo in Entebbe, a forty minute drive from the Compassion office. We spent that time talking, looking at photos, and listening to my ipod. He turned out to be quite a shy young man, but obviously bright and supremely happy to be with me.

I gave my first of many gifts to him, a muti-tool/knife in a case which he seemed to love. After inspecting every inch of it, he slipped it into his pocket.

The zoo was a fantastic way to enjoy new sights and sounds while still being able to walk and talk together. Alex was fascinated with the animals, most of which he had only read about in school. He asked lots of questions and listened intently as the zookeepers educated us on the animals.

This was taken in front of a very small portion of Lake Victoria. The photo does not capture the beauty of it.

We had a great time laughing at the antics of the animals and learning at each new area more about the habits and personalities and diet of each one. We also learned that all of the animals in this zoo were rescued from different situations that threatened their well being.

Our next stop was the Entebbe airport, exactly where I had flown into a week before. Alex wanted to see the airplanes and his escorts and driver were excited about eating at the buffet the airport offered. I was too! After eating nothing but granola bars for the past week, I was more that ready for tons of choices to fill my plate with. Turns out, a buffet in Africa is not equal to a buffet in America. There were about FIVE choices.....rice, greens, beans, chunks of mystery meat and a flat bread. The guys all acted like we had hit the jackpot and they piled their plates to overflowing. I enjoyed watching Alex eat. It was probably more food he had ever had in one sitting.

On the ride back to meet my driver in Kampala, I pulled out the backpack I had brought full of gifts for him and another full bag of gifts for his parents and four siblings. I do believe the soccer ball received the biggest smiles!

Alex was also very interested in the album of photos I gave him which included pictures of my Compassion friends who helped make this visit possible. I explained how each one had donated money to enable me to bring him from his village all the way to Kampala and that he was loved not just by me but by all of the friends he saw in his book.

Saying goodbye was not easy. Alex was so much fun to be with and it felt like leaving my own son behind. I encouraged him to study hard, write more often and send me a photo of his entire family. (Might as well put in the requests while I can). His Compassion social worker and escort assured me that this would be accomplished. I loved how they treated Alex like the young man that he was and filled his mind with reams of information at the zoo and as we passed important landmarks in the city of his dreams. Thanks to all of you who helped give Alex the trip of a lifetime and so many memories and new experiences to share with his village and family.