One Heart at a Time

by Delilah

  Our teacher brought in her ironing board and taught all of us how to iron, starting with pillowcases and towels, and graduating to dresses and slacks. We gladly gave up our lunch hours and recesses; even the boys took a turn at the ironing board and tried to one-up each other with the creases in their discarded slacks. Our camaraderie and purpose were palatable. The enthusiasm spread to other classes, and soon the entire fourth grade was working together to collect pens and pencils, books and paper, blankets and shoes and plenty of socks.

  I came home from school excited to raid our closets. Our home was well organized, and clothes were always mended and handed down; there was only one set of sheets per twin bed, and I think we used the same four or five bath towels for ten years until they were threadbare. But we were far better off than the almond-eyed children staring blankly in the Polaroid photos Bill Lyons had mailed us from the orphanage in Vietnam.

  Dad came home one day to find me raiding the junk drawer in the kitchen that held pencils, pens, rubber bands, and bread-bag twists. I had bundled up a handful of pencils, wound a rubber band around them to donate, and Dad questioned why I was taking them. I eagerly told him about our project, how we were even collecting pop cans to redeem for the five-cent return fee that was part of Oregon’s recycling project so we could pay the shipping fees. I fully expected him to embrace the project and hand over his coveted red engineering pencils. Like so many other times I thought he would be proud of something I had embarked upon or an idea I embraced, his mood turned dark and angry; he demanded to know whose idea it was. I stammered and told him about Mrs. Lyons’s son, Bill, who had stayed behind in Vietnam to help the orphans, and how they had nothing and no one to care for them. The more I talked, the angrier he became.

  “You will not participate in this asinine project,” he barked and then launched into one of his lectures about how they would have killed our soldiers if they had a chance, and on and on and on. Dejected and heartbroken, I went to my room and considered my options—disobey and get my butt beat if I got caught, or do what I wanted to do and help kids who had no one to care for them. The choice was pretty simple. I stuffed the items I’d pilfered from the house in my book bag or layered them under my own clothes and shed them in the girl’s bathroom. Lunch hours and recesses were spent washing, ironing, folding, hemming, and stepping on collected pop cans to take to the recycling center. Each student involved wrote a letter to the children, and Bill Lyons promised to have them translated for us.

  As the project grew and the boxes were packed, the local newspaper decided to visit our class and write a story. My show-off gene took over, completely silencing the be-wise-and-don’t-get-caught thought that quickly fluttered out of my mind. Being the tallest girl in the class, my smiling face beamed out from the middle of the photo at least five inches above the other girls who were crowded in. As I recall we stood behind the ironing board, holding donated items.

  Dad was mad, but for some reason I didn’t get the expected punishment. The enthusiasm and passion that project fueled has only grown over the years. I heard a speaker at a retreat share that in the process of doing anything, the final outcome is not what is important—the relationships formed during the event are what really matters. Looking back, that project forged relationships and memories that last to this day, over four decades later. But it was also a definitive project that showed us we could make a difference in our world, we could impact the world for good, we could change the life of a child who was cold, barefoot, and alone. We could reach out in love and change the world, one heart at a time.

  I started Point Hope and found local people to work with me and help those who are most vulnerable. And just like Mrs. Lyons, today I have my kids and teachers in our small community collecting used clothes, shoes, sheets, and school tools that we ship to West Africa to help kids who have no one else to advocate for them. With the exception of ironing the slacks and pressing a crease, we set up a staging area in my living room for a month prior to my trips twice a year, and the kids pack suitcases and boxes just like we did at Highland Elementary School in Mrs. Lyons’s class.

  If I had the power to do so, I would replicate Mrs. Lyons’s project and make it part of the standard curriculum in every fourth-grade class across America. I know a lot of classes already do this sort of thing, and conversely, I know other classes could use this sort of blessing. I would love to see kids helping other kids, whether it’s gathering resources for other underprivileged schools, foster children, or orphans abroad.

  Can you imagine the change we could effect in our country if young minds were tuned in and turned on to helping others who aren’t just like them? Who don’t look like them or live like them? I think we tend to want to shelter our kids from these worldly problems, and this was more than likely why my dad forbade me to participate, but I really believe if we could gently break their hearts to the things that break God’s, we would be setting them up for a lifetime of compassion and action. Rather than talking or protesting about inequality on social media, our children would get up in the morning and be the ones to make something happen that betters their communities.

  Let’s get back to what you can do right now—kids or no kids. If your eyes are on this book, and you’ve gotten this far, your heart is in the right place. You want to spread more love in this world. Deep down you know too many kids go hungry, too many kids are abused, too many kids wish for a safe person they can call Mommy or Daddy and a stable home where they can lay their heads at night. There are hundreds of thousands of children who will go to sleep tonight not knowing if they will have a forever home. Let it sink in.

  When you open your cupboards or your pantry to graze over the ingredients for the makings of a filling lunch or dinner, think of the child who has no choice but to go hungry. Think how crazy it makes you to be hungry when you’re trying to get work done, and now consider the child who has to go to school hungry. Think of all the belongings you own that you’ve collected over the years, and now think of the child whose whole world can fit into a garbage sack. Think of the kisses you give your loved ones at night or the embrace you give before sending them off in the morning… and think of the little child whose only touch is the harsh hand of an abusive guardian. Let it break your heart.

  I understand not everyone can be a foster parent, but I believe with my whole heart everyone can help a child in need. Make a personal sacrifice to help a child. Give up your daily latte and use those funds to help a child in need. Much to the disappointment of my kids, I don’t usually go in for the flash of new cars, or grown-up toys many think I could afford because of my radio career success. It’s because my joy is found in relationships, the land, and critters. It’s because I love, love, love feeding kids who are hungry. I love, love, love providing skills training for impoverished women. I love, love, love knowing I can make a difference in people’s lives.

  Generations ago people were dependent upon the help of their neighbor, and willing to assist others, so that they would have someone to turn to when they needed it. Whether it was lending a hand or a machine during harvesttime, a barn raising, getting a wounded person to a doctor, or sharing fruits and vegetables with those who did not have any gardens, neighbors helped neighbors. Sadly, our culture has gone the opposite direction. Not only do we not reach out to those in need, but in an attempt to protect them, we teach our children to mind their own business and to look away when they see something that’s displeasing or heartbreaking.

  Evidence of this mentality is everywhere. Many years ago, my sister worked for a shoe store that was part of a large national chain. If anybody returned a pair of shoes because they did not fit, those shoes could not be resold. Instead of donating them to homeless people or children who lived in poverty, the store employees were trained to take a box cutter and destroy the shoes, then throw them in the trash. The manager explained the chain did not want their unsold or damaged shoes ending up at garage sales or thrift stores so that they could be returned to the sto
re for cash. I wonder, how often would that have happened? Would the chain really lose so many profits?

  Last year I walked into a bakery and asked what they did with their day-old bread. I wanted to collect it to give to our local food bank. The manager of the bakery explained they put the day-old bread in a locked dumpster each night. They did not want to donate it for those who might be hungry because they did not want to be liable for any health issues. Instead they locked it up in the trash so no one, not even a farmer’s pigs, could benefit from it.

  Policies and rules have become far more important than stepping in to help when there is a real need. I’ve heard of people who were afraid to perform CPR out of fear they would be held accountable if a person did not survive. So they stood by and watched, hoping someone else would provide aid, rather than perform a lifesaving service. How confined in our little safe zones we have become, while the devil laughs louder.

  We need more communities helping each other; we need more teachable moments. If you have a child in your care or a young person you can influence, I encourage you to get them involved in service projects, and talk to them about why you do it. After a holiday or a birthday, for each new toy a child receives, you could ask them to pick out an old toy to donate to a child in need. Every time a child grows out of their school clothes, you can show them some choices for where their old clothes could benefit other children. You could make sandwiches for a tent city or a homeless shelter, and let the younger generation be a part of this compassion project. My policies and rules for helping the needy come from the Bible—I think we should all consult this operations guide more often.

  CHAPTER 9:

  A HEART REDEEMED

  I didn’t have a clue why I experienced the painful things I did growing up, why I was born with slightly deformed legs that led to clumsy casts and bulky leg braces. All I knew was that I was insecure about my own body and subject to bullying for it. Now when I see a child with a disability or impairment, my compassion for them and my desire to bless them is heightened. Would I feel that way had I not tried to run as a child, stumbling and falling with the steel braces strapped to my legs? I’ll never know.

  When I first started going to West Africa, I met a few children who had lost limbs in the Liberian and Sierra Leonean civil wars, but there was an absence of kids with special needs at the refugee camp to which they had fled. I noticed kids who were starving and dying from malaria, and the small clinic was overflowing with children who had cholera, dysentery, and tropical diseases. But they were otherwise typical children. I rarely saw any with physical deformities, Down syndrome, mental retardation, cerebral palsy… where were the children who were blind or hearing impaired? Or ones who needed braces as I did on my legs?

  It wasn’t until my second year of work in Ghana that I began to understand the answers to these questions. It was not me, but a French volunteer who had come to work as the hospital administrator, Sebastian Nerault, and his lovely wife, Ellise, who made the discovery. Ellise’s educational background was in special needs education and physical therapy. She too noticed an absence of children with typical special needs in the eighty-thousand-plus population of immigrants from war-torn countries. She began to inquire and found her way to a woman named Elisabeth, who had started a small program for special-needs children within the camp. She shared with us which families had mentally or physically disabled kids. Their superstitions dictated these children were cursed or possessed, and as a result, they kept their children hidden from view, locked away in minuscule mud huts, where they could not be judged or abused.

  Ellise went door to door, knocking and asking if a child was there who needed help. She spent two years earning the trust of the refugees and assuring them she could help their children, not bring them harm.

  She worked with Elisabeth to establish Harmony Center, an educational program for children and young adults with special needs and disabilities. They met in a small classroom and used their meager resources to try to educate and work with children who not only had profound special needs, but who had never been socialized, never had exercise, and never met others outside their small compound or neighborhood.

  Sebastian and Ellise finished their volunteer term and returned to France. Elisabeth contacted me and asked if Point Hope would sponsor this project. I went to their small room and sat and watched kids come to life. Children who had never been off the woven mats on the floor of their huts were learning to sit in wooden chairs; some were learning to crawl or walk. I stifled tears as they showed the songs they had learned to sing, as they waved atrophied limbs in the air and clapped to “If You’re Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands.” When one young girl with cerebral palsy, who had never walked or even crawled, scooted across the cement floor to climb in my lap, the tears would not stay hidden behind my glasses. They ran down my face, and then I found myself sobbing as I rocked her. I could clearly see why God had allowed the braces on my crooked legs, why I endured the taunts of “clod-hoppers” from classmates. I could relate in a teeny-tiny way to the pain each child had faced, being locked away out of shame, fear, or spiritual superstitions. I had experienced feeling awkward and clumsy, but these children had experienced feeling unwanted, unloved, and even being persecuted for a perceived evil that had befallen their family and cursed their body.

  For over a decade, Harmony Center was the only known program established by refugees for the education and betterment of disabled and special-needs children. Elisabeth and other volunteers have saved countless lives and given hundreds of children with disabilities dignity and hope.

  Point Hope has partnered with the Harmony Center from the moment I sat in their small, dark, cramped classroom. First, we provided a much bigger and nicer classroom for the students and volunteers, then an entire section of a school building, adjacent to the school and feeding program we ran. But to illustrate how ingrained the prejudice and ignorance was about these children in the culture, previously, we had built a playground within the same complex. A retired Ghanaian physician oversaw the Point Hope nutrition program and early-intervention day care, which shared the same space with Harmony. I discovered the physician and his nurses were not allowing the Harmony students to play on the playground equipment we had provided, nor were the students allowed to use the indoor toilets at the school complex. It was an irrational fear of touching or being near the Harmony kids, a belief that they were somehow unclean—a conviction the doctor, the nurses, the teachers, and the parents were clinging to.

  Point Hope’s director, Jan, gently tried to change the environment—she knew when I showed up and found out what was going on, it wouldn’t be good. She was right. I threw a nutty and by the time the dust settled, everyone understood if Point Hope was going to fund the school, pay the teachers’ salaries, and buy the food for the nutrition program, they would work hard to make the Harmony kids feel welcomed and loved. Together, Jan and Elisabeth began integrating the special-needs students into the regular routine of the school whenever possible, until the Harmony kids and our other students saw nothing unusual about sharing the space, including the playground and restrooms.

  Jan Haynes had embraced the Harmony program from her first trip to Ghana and searched for new and better ways to provide for the needs of the students. When in America, both Jan and I continually searched thrift stores and garage sales for wheelchairs, crutches, scooters, exercise balls, and other items to be used for very basic physical therapy, as well as used eyeglasses and books about sign language and Braille to schlep back to Africa.

  Once again, God intervened. Joe Worthington, a licensed practical nurse from Wyoming, had traveled to Ghana planning to volunteer at the clinic in the camp. He had received some training in physical therapy during his schooling and agreed to work with Elisabeth and the Harmony program. He discovered a passion for special-needs kids. Joe was a miracle worker. Kids with cerebral palsy who could not walk or crawl, after working with Joe and the few tools he collected, learned not only to c
rawl, but actually to walk. He taught mothers how to use rubber tubing to exercise their children’s legs and arms, how to use simple plastic toys to motivate kids to try to pick things up, developing fine motor skills. He extended his volunteer assignment for another two years and asked Point Hope to provide a massage table so he could work with each child, teaching their parents to massage their atrophied limbs. Joe also built a rudimentary wooden apparatus with low parallel bars just the right size for toddlers to hold on to. He inspired crippled kids to hold on to the bars and take one small step. Then two. Three… down and back! Again, I fought back tears as I watched Joe pour his heart into these kids and into their moms and dads—parents, who in turn showed other parents with special-needs kids they could bring their children out into the light and into the care of this kind man.

  Now, with the help of many volunteers, and working to change the culture of the Buduburam community through education, the Harmony children have been integrated into the Ghana public education system in a primary school we donated.

  Point Hope has also partnered with PETS International, a volunteer organization in the US that builds wooden personal energy transportation (PET) carts, which are pedaled by hand, so people who don’t have use of their legs can still be mobile and even run a micro business using their carts. To date, we have shipped and helped to distribute about four hundred carts across Ghana. To see these people who otherwise would be hopeless hand-pedaling their carts and selling food and provisions from the ample trunk built in the design is a thrill beyond measure.

  As for the Harmony Center kids like Princess, Magda, Elsa, Kofi, Stephen, and everyone there working with them, they are thriving! Each trip back I try to take hand weights or an exercise mat, an inflatable yoga ball or jump ropes. Simple tools, but priceless in the physical and mental development of dozens of kids who were labeled possessed and demonized. Now they run, laugh, sing, read, talk in sign language to classmates who can hear, and use their wheelchairs or crutches to maneuver the streets and pathways. Point Hope worked with Elisabeth as she taught crafting skills, creating goods the older teens and young adults could produce and sell. She taught them sound business practices and how to market their beautiful creations. They are learning to be world citizens.