Today I am rejoicing in my few days with Happy. I am rejoicing that one day I will see her again and be able to tell her how she changed my heart and taught me about love. In the past few days, I have received countless e-mails and phone calls from doctors, nurses, friends, and strangers offering help and encouragement. What a beautiful example of the body of Christ.
I received several e-mails last night and this morning from different doctors in the States who had been helping me, all telling me a bit about how Happy had changed their hearts and given them a stronger desire to provide better medical care in Uganda.
Sweet Happy, you are paving the way for greatness. In four months you have brought about change, you have taught people, you have broken people’s hearts. We love you, sweet baby girl.
The Bible says that God sets the solitary in families (see Psalm 68:6 NKJV). This is what He did for Happy when He brought her into our lives. This is what He’s done for many others, some who have stayed with us for weeks or a few months, some who have been our guests for only a few days, and those like Happy, who capture our hearts as we care for them in the hospital or in their own homes. The number of days or weeks we are together isn’t important; what really matters is the way God knits our hearts together during the time He chooses for us to be in one another’s lives.
This is also what God did for me while I was in the States attending college. He connected me with two families from my hometown of Brentwood, Tennessee, Gwen and Scott Oatsvall and Suzanne and Mike Mayernick. These two couples, and their children, opened their hearts and their homes to me, and we bonded almost instantly. To my delight, I discovered that they felt as passionately about orphaned children as I do and believe, as I do, that God’s people are the solution to the world’s problem of fatherless, motherless boys and girls. I fell in love with the Oatsvall and Mayernick children and spent hours playing with them. In addition, in Gwen and Scott and in Suzanne and Mike I found wonderful Amazima supporters. I don’t think the ministry would have really gotten off the ground without them! Both these families have been to Uganda multiple times and have adopted children from my new home country.
The Mayernicks brought their children, their nephew, and a couple of their friends all the way to Uganda in early 2009 for the first of several visits. Every time they come, they bring such joy to my girls and such love and encouragement to me. Their children play happily with my children; Suzanne makes my coffee in the mornings; and Mike reads Bible stories and dances around the living room with my girls. All of us adore one another, and even though our homes are half a world apart, we are family.
Not only are the Mayernicks family to my girls and to me, they also became family to a little girl I met when I first arrived in Uganda in 2007 to volunteer at the babies’ home. The minute I walked into that place, my mom and I fell in love with the sickest baby girl I had ever seen (I had no idea what lay ahead of me!).
Her name is Josephine, and at one year old she could not hold up her head or roll over. She had no teeth and was about the size of a baby two months old. My mother and I took turns holding her and carrying her all over Jinja. When she was sick, we took her to the hospital and spent evenings holding her while nurses poked and prodded. I sang her to sleep. I cried when she cried. I begged the Lord, “Please don’t let her die!” I went home to America with Josephine still in my heart and spent countless hours thinking and praying about her.
While in the United States, I watched Josephine grow through photographs posted on the Facebook pages of various people who volunteered at the babies’ home, and when I returned to Uganda to teach kindergarten, the first thing I did was scoop sweet Josephine into my arms. When I wasn’t teaching, I spent many hours holding Josephine, bathing her, and giving her bananas. And I prayed that her forever family would come soon to take her home.
In December 2008, I sat in Mike and Suzanne Mayernick’s home and listened as Suzanne said that if she ever had another baby girl, she would name her Josie Love.
My heart leaped. Josephine!
I went straight to Suzanne’s computer and showed her every picture I could find of Josephine, talking about how wonderful it would be if Suzanne and Mike could adopt her. Suzanne looked at me as though I was certifiably crazy and laughed.
Three months later, when the Mayernicks and their friends came to visit for the first time, I quickly took them to meet Josephine. By this time they had been praying about making her part of their family, but were unsure what her special needs would entail.
But little Josephine did it again; she stole their hearts immediately, just as she had stolen mine. Not long after they returned to the States, I received the phone call I’d been waiting for: They were going to adopt her.
I continued to visit Josie at the babies’ home whenever I could. I was so excited to visit her and whisper to her, “They are coming. Your mommy and daddy are coming to get you.”
Several months later, Mike and Suzanne arrived in Jinja to take Josie home with them. The routine medical tests performed on children who are going to the United States revealed that Josie had tuberculosis and was HIV-positive (she had tested negative previously, but sometimes the disease takes awhile to show up). The Mayernicks then had to return to the States to complete some paperwork, so I offered to keep her until they could get back to Uganda. She ended up living with us for a few months. The girls and I were delighted to have this adorable child in our home; she has an infectious personality and is like family to us.
In the wake of Josie’s diagnosis, my devastated friends demonstrated wholehearted trust in God. I was truly challenged and encouraged as I watched them process Josie’s health information and decide to take her home regardless of her condition.
I marvel at God’s goodness, His plans that are greater than anything I could have ever imagined. The sweet baby girl I fell in love with years ago went home to live with two of my favorite people in the world. Because Mike and Suzanne are neighbors of my parents, Josie is growing up down the street from my mom, who loves her to pieces. In addition, this little girl with special medical needs now lives near one of the best children’s hospitals in the world. Her tuberculosis has been cured and the HIV viral loads in her blood are so low that they are virtually undetectable. She can run now, though she could hardly walk when Mike and Suzanne took her home. She goes to preschool, fights with her brothers, laughs hysterically, and inspires everyone she meets.
I can’t even convey how beautiful and how amazing it is, that God would knit our hearts together as He has and that He would weave our stories together in such a powerful way.
He really does set the solitary in families.
ONE DAY . . .
November 20, 2009
We have had one of those really great days when I can’t stop praising Jesus for this life. The girls are on holiday from school (thank goodness, because almost all of them have had the chicken pox!). Today I managed to clip all of their 140 fingernails and 140 toenails, file them, and paint them. On a quick trip to the pharmacy I found surgical gloves almost small enough to fit my child-sized hands. During naptime I got to sneak in a long, quiet run. Chocolate chip cookies are in the oven. I feel so full and so very blessed.
But as I sit down, content, something weighs heavy on my heart. Something that I have been mulling over for some time, unwilling to write about it because my words seem too inadequate to describe the ache I feel. However, I know that this is urgent. And as inadequate as my words may be, maybe I should at least try.
It started a few months ago when my great friends Mike and Suzanne were here to adopt their daughter. When they found out she has HIV, they were obviously broken. Mike made a statement that stirred something within me: “I guess you know that children are out there suffering. You know that children are sick, this sick. But it is different when it is your child. It’s just different.”
And it is. I spend countless nights awake with dying, or at least critically sick, children. I love them and I cuddle them. I gi
ve them sponge baths and medicine and wipe up their vomit. I hold them and pray over them and tell them how special they are and how Jesus loves them.
My heart really does hurt for them. But it doesn’t hurt the way it hurts when I think one of my own children is close to death. It doesn’t hurt the way it does when Sumini’s fever just won’t go down or when Patricia is up all night coughing with her third case of pneumonia in three months. It doesn’t hurt the way it does when Margaret’s teeth run into Agnes’s eyebrow and I can see her bone, and then watch in terror as the doctor stitches it up without anesthetic.
Somehow, when it is one of my children, there is a bit more urgency, a bit more panic. There is a bit more frustration at the lack of medical care we can receive here and a bit more Internet searching to find out what to do. I am not proud of this. I have held several children as they died of inadequate medical care. It was horrible and I grieved, but I promise you that I wasn’t as devastated as I would have been had it been one of my daughters. It’s ugly, but it’s true.
It’s just different when it’s your child who’s suffering. But should it be? This is what I have been struggling with. I believe that this is a normal human reaction. I also believe it is wrong. I believe that every human being on this planet is God’s child, perfectly made and beloved and cherished by Him. I believe that His heart hurts, even more than mine does when my baby is hurting, for each and every one of the hurting, dying, starving, crying children in our world. So I have to believe that if my heart was truly seeking to be aligned with the heart of God, that I would hurt for each of these children as well. But sometimes, I forget. Sometimes I’m busy. Sometimes hurting for my very own children just feels like enough. I believe the world says this is okay. I believe it is wrong. And this keeps me up at night.
Angelina is seven years old and barely weighs fifteen pounds. Her mother has not had any food to give her in more than four months. When Angelina musters enough energy to let out a cry of hunger (she is far too weak to walk or even hold her head up), her mother gives her some locally brewed alcohol to keep her quiet. For four months, keeping Angelina slightly drunk has actually probably been what is keeping her alive. The dirt floor where she has been lying for her whole life, accumulating bedsores, is covered in waste, animal and human. Jiggers burrow deep into her little feet, causing them to crack and bleed. She is naked, filthy, and cold. It is worse than appalling.
Nelima is thirty years old and has watched AIDS claim all five of her children. She has no one to talk to, no one to laugh with, no one whose shoulder she can cry on, so she turns to alcohol to ease her pain. She feels alone in this world; hopelessness engulfs her. She too is sick, and can’t weigh more than ninety pounds. At night, her bones ache against the hard dirt floor of her small home, her body shivers with fever, and her stomach rumbles in hunger.
As I snuggle both these sweet girls, as I kiss their cheeks, as I spoon Pediasure into Angelina’s little mouth or watch Nelima rejoice over the gift of a scraggly old blanket, I allow the tears to fall—tears that hurt for these people as if they were my family. Because they are my family, and it should hurt. It shouldn’t be different. I desire for it to never again be different.
Heavenly Father,
Thank you for Angelina. Thank you for Nelima. Thank you for creating them perfectly in your image, your precious, beloved children. Thank you for your beautiful plan for their lives and for bringing them into mine. Help me to hurt, not just a little, but the way you hurt when your children are overlooked and perishing. Help me to never be too busy or too comfortable to remember the people who suffer. Help me to never stop desiring to do something about it. Lord, help us to remember that as the body of Christ, this is our responsibility. Thank you for loving us, even when we forget. I never, never want to forget again.
18
COUNTING THE COST
For eight months, Grace loved to take a bath. Then she turned three. Whoever named the “terrible twos” obviously had not experienced three yet.
I don’t exactly remember when it started. One day, she simply would not get into the bathtub. So I didn’t make her. I let her get in bed dirty that night. The fight just wasn’t worth interrupting everyone else’s bedtime. But on the second night, I couldn’t ignore her again. She really needed that bath. So we began the struggle, and it continues to this day.
Night after night, we go through the same motions. The scene unfolds like this: I ask Grace to get into the bathtub, to which she quietly replies, “I don’t want.”
I, in my kindest, sweetest Mommy voice, explain to her that she is three years old, that she does not always know what is best for her, and that she does not always get what she wants. I tell her that this is about her health and well-being; everyone has to take a bath! She simply looks at me, not understanding at all what I am trying to say.
Not to be deterred, I try a different approach, saying excitedly, “Come on, Gracie! Let’s go play in the bathtub!”
At this point she blinks her eyes very fast, and big crocodile tears begin to run down her cheeks, another plea for sympathy. When she sees that her tears are not getting her anywhere, she begins to shriek “No bath, no bath, no bath!” as if the water would melt her.
I say it more sternly the next time. “Grace. Bath time.”
I then lift her to her feet and practically drag her down the hall to the bathroom. Her sorrow turns to anger. She makes her best “I don’t like you, Mom” face, folds her arms, and plops to her bottom. “I don’t want!” she shouts.
So I pick her up. She kicks and screams, and eventually I get her into the bathtub. She flails around in there for a bit, letting me know with her wails that I am ruining her life and she may never be happy again.
And then, a funny thing happens. As she splashes water on herself, she remembers: She likes the bath! The bath is fun. Not to mention a really great way to get clean.
By the end of the scenario, Grace usually enjoys her bath so much she doesn’t want to get out of the tub.
The bath time struggle never is about the bath at all. It is about obedience. Grace is three years old and she simply does not want to obey. She thinks she should be the one to decide whether she gets in the tub or not. She is three years old, and she is trying to figure out just how much control she has in her little life. At this point, not much.
Maybe I am a bad mother for not disciplining Grace more severely for her disobedience, but the reality is, little disobedient Grace reminds me so much of myself.
I shudder to think what I could have missed in life because of my disobedience. I am so thankful that God in His grace does not allow me to win. Because usually, the fight is not really about what He is asking me to do. It is not about the bathtub. It is about me, trying to figure out just how much control I have over my little life. At this point, not much.
I would like to be able to say that I always do exactly what the Lord asks of me. I would like to say that I always seek Him first when a difficult situation presents itself. While I am getting better at it, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I still think what I do with my life should be my decision. God asks, and reasons, and encourages. He gently explains that I do not know what is best for me and that I do not always get what I want. And I just look at Him, not understanding at all what He’s trying to say. Sometimes, I even whine and sob and shriek, just like a tired, angry three-year-old.
So God picks me up, exhausted from struggling, and plops me in the center of His will for my life. And then a funny thing happens. As I kick and scream and struggle, I remember: I like being in the center of God’s will for my life. God’s plan is usually pretty great. It is a whole lot better than mine anyway. I am so glad that He does not allow me to win.
The more I strive to live in the center of God’s will, the more He asks me to give up, the more uncomfortable I become. He teaches me, over and over again, that He does know best. The “bathtub,” the uncomfortable places, they get only more difficult. But I am learning to remember, befo
re I even get there, that eventually this will be what is best for me, and more important, what is best for His glory.
I remember the first time it hit me really hard, the magnitude of what He wanted me to give up, how much He desired me to be completely His and His alone. I’d done “difficult” since I first arrived in Uganda. But nothing was more difficult, more grueling, more heartbreaking than the moment He asked me to give up one of the most important things in my life. I thought I had given it all for Him. I thought I had made sacrifices. He wanted more.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
She was eighteen years old and she had never been in love with anyone she could touch before. I mean, she had been in love with Jesus since she was little, but this was different, touchable love.
In her eyes, he was perfect. He loved the Lord, not to mention he was pretty darn cute. He went to church with her and joined her on silly errands and at family dinners. He made her giggle by saying things that only she found funny. He made her heart flutter when he swept that one always-stray piece of hair out of her eyes.
They were the “perfect couple.” They were desperately in love; one lit up as the other entered the room. They could see their beautiful future together. After high school, they would go together to college, get married, work a bit, settle down, and have children with his eyes and her big smile. They would grow old together, laughing at secrets and kissing each other good night.
Then God asked her to move to Uganda. At first it was going to be for only one year. They could do a year. She would come back and they could still go to college together and all their dreams would still come true.
When the Lord asked her to adopt her first children, it became a bit more complicated. She rationalized, at that time, that her youngest was five, so in thirteen years she could move back home and be with him. But her children kept getting younger and His call kept getting stronger. She would go back in fifteen years, in seventeen years, in twenty years. Finally she came to terms with the fact that God was just asking her to stay. And that when He said He wanted all of her, He meant all.
Kisses from Katie Page 19
