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| Gifts for my sons at 21 de Octubre |
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| A sample of what is in the gift |
It's the night before Christmas Eve--which is when the grandest celebrations are in Central America--and I can't sleep. It's not because of that childlike wonder that used to flutter like a butterfly through my mind as I was snug in my bed in my parents' house awaiting whatever crazy treasure hunt my father was inventing in the early morning hours in the next room. It's not because I'm awaiting some massive gift. It's because my heart is worn, my vision blurred, and my world much smaller than it needs to be. I miss my family. I miss the security of knowing that my life is going in some pointed direction--even if that direction is actually an illusion. I drag myself out of bed in the morning with swollen eyes, longing desperately to conjure up the excitement that I want to feel because today I get to see my sons. Today is Christmas Eve. Today, I get to see the look on their faces when I show up (which they don't believe I'll do) and when I give them gifts they aren't expecting to receive. But, I feel like a threadbare dish towel that's been wrung out one too many times. I call my mom just needing to release the exhaustion in hot tears and strings of words, and at the end of our conversation, she prays for me. The part of her prayer that sticks out for me the most is, "God, You know Sarah's heart. Please let today be special for her. Please send people and surprises to make this day special for her and to bless her heart." I don't know that I still have the faith that God cares enough to make today special, but I cling to that last little bit of hope. Oh, Jesus, how I need You to come and intervene in my life and my heart.
And ransom captive Israel...That mourns in lonely exile here...Until the Son of God appear...
I swallow the hurt, put on my glasses to ease my tired eyes, and take a deep breath as I carry bags of gifts and nacatamales. I breathe a sigh of relief when I hear that there are 40 boys in total--I have exactly 40 gifts (even with buying extras). God always knows my needs. I wish I could see the look on Raúl's face who is standing behind me as the swarm of my sons approaches with hugs and eager smiles. This is his first time in 21 de Octubre, and after hearing so many of the stories of my sons, this is his first time meeting them. "What did you bring us?" "I didn't think you'd come, but you're here!" "It's my Mami! Feliz Navidad, Mami!" Even with how shabby it has felt, my heart swells to internal combustion point because nothing brings me greater joy than loving on my sons. I finally get them to settle down enough to sit down, greet them all, introduce Raúl, and ask for lines to hand out their gifts. It's certainly nothing too exciting--just a new shirt, a pair of socks, some fruit drink mix (one of their odd favorites), a sticker, and a note saying, "Merry Christmas, Son! I hope you feel Jesus' love. I love you very much." They all scurry to put on their new shirts and socks (some of them didn't have any before), and the special needs children beam when I tell them how handsome they look. Some of the boys make some thank you speeches, and I am surprised when one of the workers decides to say something as well. The administration and workers aren't always known for wanting to cooperate with Orphan Helpers or us volunteers, but my heart just radiates with joy when I hear in various words what this man has noticed most in the ten months I've been coming to 21--love, just a consistent, extravagant love. And, internally, I thank Jesus that He has been able to use this very broken vessel to communicate the essence of His being to not only my sons but their caretakers as well. I take a moment to share with them why I am who I am, that it is only because Jesus came to reside in my heart, and I receive more hugs--even from the new boys who don't yet know me--than I ever expected.
Next, the visitors start to arrive. Henry runs into the room and grabs me in a hug as he says, "My mom is here! She came to visit me!" I was so blessed to see their embrace when she entered. Raúl and I head to the laundry room, an incredibly bare and small room with a wet floor and four pilas in the corner and a drainage hole in the middle of the floor (where the boys urinate when the caretakers refuse to unlock the bathroom for them), to spend some time with the 11 special needs boys who won't be receiving any visitors today. Soon, though, the other boys who won't be receiving visitors begin to trickle in--Joshua who helps me put together a small soccer goal to play with them; Jorge, a true orphan who has spent his whole life before 21 in an orphanage; and Jesús, who is 16 and doesn't know how to write his own name and who couldn't walk when he first came to 21 because he'd been shot ten times and had several stab wounds. They all, to my surprise, want to color. I discreetly try to communicate to Raúl that we have to keep constant track of how many colored pencils there are and need to hold onto the pencil sharpener because if we don't, the boys will snatch them up to use as weapons or for self-mutilation later. And the boys color. Some of these children are 15 or 16-years-old and have never colored before, so their pencil swipes of red, green, pink, and brown stray outside of the lines. I try to make a point to go around and tell each one of them he's doing a good job--even the boys who aren't special needs children (more just keep trickling in and wanting to color). They are so proud when they finish coloring the entire sheet--some of them have never been to school. Some of them have had very few instances in their lives of feeling a sense of accomplishment. I am so proud of them. The special needs children shower Raúl with hugs, and we are tranquil until all of the boys who don't have visitors--the majority, really, with around 30 or so boys--get locked in with us in that small, wet room. Someone in the office didn't want the visitors to be interrupted.
From there, it is mass chaos. Raúl just watches--wide-eyed but calm--and I can't help but wonder what he's thinking about my little world of broken sons. Thirty plus angry boys who are hurt because their families haven't come. Thirty plus boys who usually turn to drugs not to feel this pain, craving marijuana or glue or paint thinner. Thirty plus boys pushing each other around, yelling, and wearing their hurt on their sleeves in such a way that my heart breaks. Jonathan*, the boy who recently became a Christian, was so happy when I first came, but as visitors trickle in, and his brother doesn't appear, he gets angrier and angrier. He smacks the younger boys on the head, steals pencils from the deaf boy and special needs children, and yells about his need for weed. I just come close to him, laying a hand on his arm or his shoulder and say his name gently. He is still angry but he calms enough for me to calm the special needs children. He storms out of the room, and soon, all of the boys leave for some speech to be given by some IHNFA (Child Services) professionals. I only hear part of the speech, but it's something to the extent of, "Even if no one in your family is visiting you today, you should be thankful. You're not like the special needs kids. You have all of your limbs. You can see. You can hear." Later, he returns, and his anger has just turned to pain. He huddles in a corner of the room and hides his head. I walk over and ask if I can sit with him. He says yes, so I sit and wrap him up in a big hug, just holding my hurting son. I talk to him a little bit about my own difficulty in missing my family and assure him that God hasn't forgotten him and that I know his brother hasn't forgotten him either. He begins to cry. I hug him tighter and ask if I can pray for him, and he nods his head. I begin to pray for us both--that God would help us to feel His love, to believe in His kindness, and to know in the depths of our hearts and hurts that He is real and has a purpose for our lives. I hug him for a bit longer and then let him have his space. When I see him later in the day, he is much calmer and seems to have some peace.
Carlos "Mexicano" is also like Jonathan*. He wasn't expecting any visitors, but in many ways, that fact alone hurts worse. He's angry and sitting by himself, so I wrap him up in a hug and say, "What's going on, son?" He just shakes his head and stiffens up, so I give him his space. I try again a bit later, but he runs away from me. Eventually, though, he peeps into the room and wants to color and smiles when I tell him what a good job he's doing. So, I find a chance a bit later to wrap him up in a hug and say, "Hey, I love you, son. Do you know that I love you?" He smiles that perfect smile that stole my heart and nods. "Are you sure?" He laughs and nods. "Because I do." I squeeze him tighter and say, "I am so happy to be here with you today." He gets shy when I love on him, but I love that child so much sometimes that I feel as if I'll explode inside.
"Are those two brothers?" Raúl asks me as he looks at Jorge (the true orphan) and Ramón, my special needs son. "No, why do you ask?" I answer. "Just because Jorge is taking such good care of him." He is right. Jorge, though only 12 or so, readily takes responsibility for Ramón. He changes his diapers, helps to dress him, and leads him around sometimes. When I first met Jorge, he was hitting Ramón on the head and trying to make him frustrated. For whatever reason, it amuses the boys when Ramón gets angry and bites his own arm or hits himself in the head. I embraced Jorge, talking closely in his ear, and explained that just as I would never want anyone to hurt him because he is my son, and I love him, I don't want him to hurt Ramón either because Ramón is also my son, and I love him. Jorge still isn't perfect or anything. He still occasionally makes fun of Ramón's habits, but since that conversation and since observing how much I love Ramón, his heart has softened little by little. And now, I can depend on Jorge to be the one to take care of Ramón when I'm not there.
The other day, Hermano Charlie had asked me if I thought Ramón knew who I was. "Yes, I think so." And, today is no exception because as soon as he sees me, he grabs my hand, lets me hug him, gets close to me like he wants to give me kisses on the cheek, and plops himself right into my lap. I am especially blessed when I grab his hand, and he lifts his leg up, indicating that he wants me to carry him like a baby. This is my son, and I believe some part of him, even though he can't talk, knows that he's my son.
Alexis, who has just landed back at 21for his fourth time, catches me up in a big hug and gives me a sly smile. He looks like a street kid as his hair is long and unruly and his clothes are dirty. I met him in February when I first started coming. This is his third time since I've been there. He's addicted to drugs which is why he keeps ending up back on the streets. Today, he looks at me with questioning eyes and says, "Sarah, please take me home with you. Please adopt me." "Oh honey, you know I don't have anywhere to take you right now. You know that if I could, I would. But right now, I don't have anywhere, and I can't." This isn't the first time we've had this conversation, but saying no hurts just as much the second time as the first.
Raúl and I stay long enough to pass out the boys' Christmas lunch of rice, chicken, and nacatamales--a typical Christmas food here. We go through a whole bottle of chile (hot sauce), as that's a luxury for these boys, who like many Hondurans, would put chile on everything if they could. And we say our goodbyes. The question out of the mouth of every boy who catches me as I go is, "When are you coming back, Sarah?" They know that the Orphan Helpers are on vacation for the next two weeks, and they know I usually don't come when the Orphan Helpers don't come (because in the past, the office wouldn't let me enter). So, I say, "I don't know," and my mind flashes to the calendar. Two weeks away from my sons seems like too long, and I'll be at a camp for the week after, so really, it's three weeks. And the mother in me knows that's going to be too long.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel...
I return home and spend the rest of the day with various forms of adopted family--I go to Tatumbla with Raúl and enjoy watching the dynamic of his mom and his brother and sister, who have so become like home for me. I return to the house where Papi Alvin and Mami Nelly, my spiritual parents, are having a dinner. And I listen to Papi Alvin giving a message reminding us of the power of the story of Mary. Her words when the angel told her how God intended to work through her were, "I am here, a servant of the Lord. Let it be according to His will." She agreed to the possibility of being falsely accused and surrounded by shame. She agreed at the risk of knowing that she could lose the man she loved, Joseph. She agreed because His will was more important to her than her own. I always want this to be my heart's cry, but I won't lie-- at times, I get swamped with doubt sometimes because of the opinions of others, sometimes because I see no results, or sometimes because of my own internal battles with my own desires. Sometimes, I worry that God is going to leave me in a puddle of shame and am terrified that even in the midst of seeking Him, I have somehow failed Him. But, being reminded of the story and honor of Mary and of God's faithfulness to work things out--with Joseph, with her pregnancy, and with her son, Jesus--renewed my peace that I am exactly where I am supposed to be, that He is pleased with me, and that I haven't failed Him. Her obedience and yieldedness to the Holy Spirit gave her one of the greatest roles in the most divine, beautiful story of the crossing of the paths of humanity and righteousness that could have ever been invented. I spend the night listening to fireworks, basking in the glow of Christmas lights on the porch, and talking to my big brother, Hermano Nati. And after midnight, I get an unexpected phone call from an unknown number that is perhaps the most special detail that God could have provided in my entire day.
Psalm 126
When the Lord brought back the captives to Zion, we were like men who dreamed. Our mouths were filled with laughter, our tongues with songs of joy. Then it was said among the nations, "The Lord has done great things for them." The Lord has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy. Restore our fortunes, O Lord, like streams in the Negev. Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy. He who goes out weeping, carrying seed to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with him.
This is the verse echoing over the speakers at Teen Challenge during the church service, and something from this verse seeps into my soul and settles. It is Sunday, and I am at this rehabilitation center with Benjamin to visit my son--John--who I met in February at 21 de Octubre. I had told him that if he stayed for the mandatory month when visitors are prohibited that I would find a way to visit him afterward. Thankfully, Benjamin agreed to drive and accompany me on the hour long motor bike drive out of the city. We, being foreigners who aren't on Honduran time, get there early. One of the older leaders of the center offers to get John for us, and he grins as he sees us. As usual, he's looking sharp, and I am overjoyed to see my bald-headed son. (All of the guys at Teen Challenge are required to keep shaved heads.) He wraps me up in a big hug, saying in English, "Sarah Beth! My mother!" We talk a bit, and he gives me a sly look of amazement. "I wasn't expecting you to visit today." "Why? I told you I would." "Yeah, but I thought if you were going to visit, it'd be after the holidays." We talk a little bit about various boys from 21, and when I mention Jonathan* who has known John for a long time, he says, "I knew he'd come to Jesus. I've been praying for him. Me too. I've surrendered my life to Jesus. I want him to do whatever He wants with my life." I pocket the emotions that I know are coming from that revelation until a time when I can process them fully. We talk a bit more about how initially, he wanted to escape but didn't because he's made a promise to God to stay there for a year. And he's afraid to disobey Him. Words cannot express how proud I am of my son that he has stayed.
He calls over another boy who had been at 21 that I don't remember well (perhaps, I never actually met him), Marvin. Marvin has been there for four months. After a small talk, we all head to the outdoor church structure. The boys sit on one side, and we sit on the other. They start the service with that verse, and I just feel God's warmth all over me. The Lord has done great things for me. Since I met John in February and heard his story of hurt from an alcoholic, abusive mother and a drug trafficking father who has all the money in the world to give him but little time and attention, I have prayed fervently for him. I can't count how many tears have been spent on that now-common, desperate prayer of, "God, please rescue my son." John has sold drugs before, has been involved in gang activity, has done marijuana and cocaine often, has shared with me some of his stories of violence and prejudice, and has earned the nickname "The Devil" on the streets. And, I see my son who was so full of anger and hatred and resistance to God, lifting his hands and closing his eyes in sincere worship and prayer. I see him dance before God in worship, and I know that the tears I've sown in prayer for his life have not been in vain. I know that there is always the chance that he won't stay at the center, that, like Orlin, he'll run away and start doing drugs again. But, I also know that there's also a chance that he'll stay, his entire life will turn around, and he will be the man God's always called him to be. And I have to believe that regardless of disappointments of the past that God's grace is sufficient, His love is powerful, and His sacrifice was not in vain.
Throughout the service, John keeps looking back, hoping to see his family. He's had visitation rights for a week now, this being his second. But, they haven't come. And this week, he's expecting to see his family. My heart breaks every time I see him look back and return his gaze forward because the look on his face says it all--they're not here. At the end of the service, it's normal for the pastor to have a time of ministry for the boys and for their families. Having been to Teen Challenge twice before, I know how difficult and devastating it can be for boys whose families don't come because they stand in the front alone while their friends are surrounded by mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, wives, and children. So, I can't help but go stand behind my son while he's being ministered to--just so he can feel my hands firmly on his shoulders and know that he's not standing alone. I may not be his real mother, but I am standing behind him--in this moment physically and all the time spiritually, protecting my son with my prayers. And, I'm surprised to find the tears streaming down my own face. The Lord has done great things for me. He is rescuing my son. He is bringing fruit from my seeds of tears, and I am so grateful.
After the service, we find Marvin, whose family never visits him and find a table to eat lunch. I had bought a whole roasted chicken, some tortillas, and some Sprite. When the lady at the chicken place asked me if I wanted the chicken cut in pieces, I agreed, not really knowing how many pieces that would mean. We didn't know we'd be feeding Marvin too, but when we open the bag, the chicken is already cut in four fairly equal pieces. God always knows what I need. We spend the whole afternoon talking to the boys, talking about how things are at 21, and listening to them share what God is teaching them. Marvin is quite the little preacher. They tell us about what their Christmas is going to be like, and I have peace seeing how peaceful they are about where they are, how their lives are improving, and what God is going to do with their futures. I don't want to stop praying for them because I know it's always going to be a process of temptation with drugs, but for this moment, I am blessed and encouraged beyond belief. I've been obedient to love, and He hasn't called me to love and hurt and suffer for my boys in vain.
When it is time for us to go, I give John a tight hug, and he hugs me tightly back. "I love you so so so much, son." "Me too, Mom. I love you too. Thank you so much for coming." Marvin tries to give me a handshake, and I say, "I don't think so, mister. I want a hug from my son." He smiles and gives me a hug. "I wasn't expecting to get a visit today. Thank you both so much for coming." I give them both my phone number and tell them to call me for whatever they need--even if they're just feeling alone and need a visit. I can't make promises, but I'll always do whatever is within my power and whatever God allows me to do to be there for them. On the ride home, I can't help but feel like God has been winning me back, romancing me again. He's given me lots of drinks of suffering. He's humbled me. He has developed, through great pain, much patience and endurance until I've reached the point where I have felt like I have absolutely nothing left. And in this place of rock bottom, He's lifting me up again, reminding me of His goodness, and silencing the voices that would tell me that He's displeased with me.
"Hello?" "Hey! How are you?" "Good, how are you? Sorry, but who is this?" "What? you don't know your own son's voice?" "John! Merry Christmas, son! How are you? I am SO HAPPY to hear from you!"
That phone call around midnight last night was from my boys at Teen Challenge. I thought I'd burst with joy. I got to talk to both John and Marvin, and they didn't need anything. John's family had come to spend Christmas with him. But even with them there, he and Marvin remembered me, their adopted mom, and asked for a phone call just to check on me and tell me "Merry Christmas." They called to show me love. They called to tell me about how they were spending Christmas and to reassure me they were okay. And when Marvin got off of the phone and told me, "Merry Christmas, Mom! We'll call you again some time," my heart melted. I have known Marvin for such a short time. Really, the only real conversation we have had was on that Sunday, but he called me, "Mom" with such sincerity.
In the two years that I've written on this blog, I know that I've mentioned various times that God has promised me many children. And, over the time that I've lived here, it's been very difficult to feel that my children were so far away--even though I'd never met them. Some months, I've felt like my life was in no way headed in a direction that would lead to the multitude of children God had promised me. I can recall, not so many months ago, having conversations with Hermano Nati or writing in letters to Raúl that my heart aches for adoption. Sometimes, my empty arms ached to hold my children, and my life felt so empty without them. But in just the past month, God has turned my world upside down and flooded me with a love like I've never known--and all it took was asking me to open my heart wider and to not hold back. In these days of buying 40 shirts and 40 pairs of socks and getting request upon request from barefoot boys for a pair of shoes, I feel like God whispers in my ear with a smile, "You ain't seen nothing yet." Sometimes, I feel Him elbowing me in the ribs and reminding me, "Hey, do you remember that one time when you were so overwhelmed that you hid from the four little neighbor boys?" (http://confessionsofaragamuffin.blogspot.com/2012/02/levantate.html) And I just have to laugh because more and more I'm beginning to believe what it says in Isaiah 54:
"Sing, O barren woman, you who never bore a child; burst into song, shout for joy, you who were never in labor; because more are the children of the desolate woman than of her who has a husband," says the Lord. "Enlarge the place of your tent, stretch your tent curtains wide, do not hold back; lengthen your cords, strengthen your stakes. For you will spread out to the right and to the left; your descendants will dispossess nations and settle in their desolate cities. "Do not be afraid; you will not suffer shame. Do not fear disgrace; you will not be humiliated. You will forget the shame of your youth and remember not the reproach of your widowhood. For your Maker is your husband...
And in Isaiah 49:
The children born during your bereavement will yet say in your hearing, 'This place is too small for us; give us more space to live in.' Then you will say in your heart, 'Who bore me these? I was bereaved and barren; I was exiled and rejected. Who brought these up? I was left all alone, but these--where have they come from?'
I have spent most of today alone but content, pondering independence and refinding my security in Him. I was so happy to Skype with all of my family this morning and so blessed to talk to them about my sons and feel their support and approval. (My parents just don't even know how many grandkids they're going to end up having someday!) And once again, a year later, I find that a spirit of adoption has brought me to laugh-cry with so much joy. My life is so beautiful and so full of love. I feel like God has spiritually and emotionally brought me to the edge of a cliff where I have thought, "This is it. It's all over. I'm going over the edge. I can't handle any more. I'm so empty I have nothing left. I'm just going to fall right over this cliff and die of exhaustion. There is no end in sight to the waiting on God to move." And I am finding that even though there are still situations that hurt, still hopes for others that haven't been fulfilled, that He is taking my hand and saying, "Now that you know that you can't do it, watch what I can do and am already doing." And we've not only stepped off of the side of the cliff together, but now, we're walking in clouds.
I am so ready for a new year. This has been one of the most difficult and painful years of my life, but I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world because it's all been a preparation. Today, I watched Cloud Atlas, which has its share of violence and nudity and elements that children shouldn't be watching, but with that said, some of its themes are so beautiful because they remind me of the intricacies of the Father. Two lines from characters in the movie stuck with me--
Our lives are not our own. We are bound to others. Past and present. And by each crime and every kindness, we birth our future.
What is an ocean but a multitude of drops?
I may be one, insignificant young woman in a half-forgotten boys' center in a country buried in the heart of Central America, but today, now more than ever, I believe and feel in my very core that this Christian life is the greatest adventure ever possible to live. It hurts. It's difficult. Being bound to others means feeling their pain and carrying their burdens. But, this life of radical obedience to God is the ONLY way to live. It's the only life that is worth it because I am being amazed every day at what God can do with one life, one little drop of the ocean. And with each new son I adopt, He gives birth to my future.
When I was sick, one of the verses God gave me was this:
Daniel 10:12
Then he continued, "Do not be afraid, Daniel. Since the first day that you set your mind to gain understanding and to humble yourself before your God, your words were heard, and I have come in response to them.
Emmanuel has indeed come, and He is making Himself more real to me everyday.
Merry Christmas!
All of my love,
Sarah
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