They Came Running

There is so much to say.  So much has been witnessed.  A lifetime of newscasts and clippings on world problems could not do it justice.  Those come in neat plastic rolls thrown onto my driveway for me to pick up and ingest in spurts.  I can shake my head and cluck my tongue and may even share with my husband when the news is particularly disturbing, then close the pages, smooth the lines, and walk away.  I can't do that here in Honduras.  I've seen too much. . .

 

Yesterday, we turned a corner on a back street in San Pedro Sula and I was introduced to true squalor.  Los Bordos.  A community of the shunned and forgotten.  This dirt road, lined on either side with ramshackle housing made of old wood, scrap metal, rocks, and cardboard, winds back under tall green mountains.  We don't know how far it goes.  We don't know how many people live there.  The mission teams will only go so far. 

 

Our belongings bounce and jostle over crater-like holes in the road.  There are a few curious faces peeking over tin walls.  And then they came running.  Children.  Dozens and dozens of them.  They hang on the moving vehicle and shout.  We pray quickly.  Lord, let us be your hands and feet.  And then the van door slides open and the team steps out and there are hugs.  Oh, are there hugs!

 

We go look at an improved dwelling of a woman the mission team knows well.  Her home was broken into after the death of her husband, while she and her children slept inside.  She was raped.  The missions team built a new structure for her.  She has a lock now.  Her babies feel relatively safe.  She beams with pride as she shows us around.  There is an oil painting on a wall.  Her sister and her children are visiting for a while.  They are happy to be together, but there are new mouths to feed.  The returning team members remark that the children haven't grown in the last few years.

 

This is the case for many.  A twelve year-old girl cares for her seven brothers and sisters.  She is only a little taller than my seven year-old.  She holds a sleeping baby.  A new sibling.  She has seen much.  Responsibility weighs heavily.  Her childhood is gone. 

 

Meg leads a children's discipleship class in a bright blue building.  The children listen intently and respond with energy to a story of David and Jonathan.  I paint nails for little girls.  Green with sparkles.  Their faces light up and I realize they are not so very different from my girls after all.  I paint the nails of a five year-old named Carol.  She is precious.  We begin to talk and hold hands.  I pick her up, her once floral pants faded long ago by the sun.  We stay close the rest of the afternoon.  I promise I will look for her tomorrow. 

 

Back at the mission house last night, we read Ephesians 1:5: "God decided in advance to adopt us into his own family by bringing us to himself through Jesus Christ.  This is what he wanted to do, and it gave him great pleasure."  God took great pleasure in our adoption.  We have full rights as sons and daughters.  Our inheritance is assured.  Yet, we still live at times as spiritual orphans.  Digging for scraps from yesterday's trash.  Choosing isolation because some pain is too heavy to share.  Continuing to remain in squalor because we perceive we aren't good enough for the spoils. 

 

As we encounter the true orphans this week- the teenage girls at Las Casitas (many of them with babies of their own, removed from their care), the elderly with no known family at the Asilo, the children at Los Bordos bringing up their sisters and brothers- our desire is to tell them in simple terms of this great adoption.  We want them to receive their full rights.  And we tell them that it brings their Father great pleasure to do so.