As I wrote earlier, each of the 90+ orphans we spent most of our time with in Haiti has a story and none of them are happy tales. There simply are not happy stories that lead to a child living in an orphanage. We know that by virtue of them being where they are that something bad had happened but we didn’t really know what that story was.
I think it made it a little easier on us that we couldn’t speak with the children. Our inability to communicate beyond hugs and smiles sheltered us from their stories and to be sure they had some heartbreaking stories to share. For me at least, they were orphans but in an anonymous sort of way.
There were a few exceptions. Some of the older children and some of the children with a background where they received an education spoke some English. One of those children latched on to me from the first night. His name is Beoda and he is the young man sitting next to me in the picture above. Each day when we went to visit the orphans, Beoda would seek me out. We didn’t ever do much, he was seemingly content to stand by or sit next to me. We did play some soccer and toss around a football now and then but mostly we just spent time sitting or standing with each other.
Near the end of our time in Haiti, Beoda pointed out one of the house momma’s who care for the orphans and said “My mother”. It turned out that Beoda’s mom lived in the orphanage with him and helped care for the orphans. I asked what her name was and he replied “Selene”. I remember that as we talked about her, she turned and looked over at us and her face just lit up with joy at her son, the look only a mother can get on her face. Then I asked the question that was obvious. I simply said “Your father?” As matter-of-factly as you can imagine Beoda said “Father dead”. Afraid to ask but needing to know, I asked if he had brothers or sisters. The response? “Dead”. I asked “earthquake?” and he somberly nodded. In those few halting exchanges I learned a little bit about how Beoda came to live with his mom in an orphanage.
Sure Beoda is not technically an orphan. His mom was still alive and he lived with her. But you can’t mistake the fact that for Beoda his whole life had been shattered. At 4:52 PM on January 12, 2010 he had a mom and a dad, brothers and sisters. He had a life, even one that likely would have seemed poor in our pampered American eyes but a life nevertheless. In the blink of an eye, in a matter of seconds, that all changed. I don’t know the details but I know that it can be summarized in a few short words “Father dead”. Like the other house momma’s, Beoda’s mom Selene works very, very hard to care for 90 children six days a week, making sure they are fed, keeping them safe, washing a ton of clothes by hand with rocks and lye soap. Beoda shares his mom with 90 other children.
Beoda is 11. I have a son who is 10 and another who turns 12 in a week. My children have a warm home where they are loved, a mom who is home with them all day to care for them and educate them as best we can. They have a father who in spite of my flaws comes home every night. I can’t imagine how they would respond to losing their comfortable existence and finding themselves living on rickety bunk beds with 90 other children, no Xbox, no DVDs, no toys, not even clothes of their own. As a Christian parent I don’t think I have done a very good job of preparing my kids to live without while I proclaim to them a Christ who calls on us to give up everything. I have to wonder if the Christians among these orphans are not far better prepared to be witnesses to the world than my own children. Have I, in my eminently American quest to provide for my children by fulfilling their every whim, actually made sacrificial discipleship more difficult for those I am tasked with raising?
I found very few answers and even fewer solutions in Haiti. Quite the contrary, I am finding that the time I spent among the least of these has raised many troubling questions for me. One thing I know for certain. I promised Beoda that I would come visit him again and unless God calls one of us home before I can fulfill that promise, I will see him again.
I asked Beoda and another young boy, Stevenson, to write their names in the small Bible I brought with me on the page facing the first chapter of James to remind me that James is not speaking of theological concepts to be debated in the ivy covered halls of academia.
He was speaking of real people, real orphans who had their lives turned upside down. Real widows who lost their husband and often had children to care for in a very different, very difficult world. James was writing about Beoda and Selene, about Stevenson, about Kimberly. I don’t know the story of most of the orphans I met last week but I do know what God has called us to do, each and every one of us. Visit and care for the widow and the orphan in their affliction. If we aren’t willing to do that most simple of callings, what is all of our religion and piety and learning good for?
I think it made it a little easier on us that we couldn’t speak with the children. Our inability to communicate beyond hugs and smiles sheltered us from their stories and to be sure they had some heartbreaking stories to share. For me at least, they were orphans but in an anonymous sort of way.
There were a few exceptions. Some of the older children and some of the children with a background where they received an education spoke some English. One of those children latched on to me from the first night. His name is Beoda and he is the young man sitting next to me in the picture above. Each day when we went to visit the orphans, Beoda would seek me out. We didn’t ever do much, he was seemingly content to stand by or sit next to me. We did play some soccer and toss around a football now and then but mostly we just spent time sitting or standing with each other.
Near the end of our time in Haiti, Beoda pointed out one of the house momma’s who care for the orphans and said “My mother”. It turned out that Beoda’s mom lived in the orphanage with him and helped care for the orphans. I asked what her name was and he replied “Selene”. I remember that as we talked about her, she turned and looked over at us and her face just lit up with joy at her son, the look only a mother can get on her face. Then I asked the question that was obvious. I simply said “Your father?” As matter-of-factly as you can imagine Beoda said “Father dead”. Afraid to ask but needing to know, I asked if he had brothers or sisters. The response? “Dead”. I asked “earthquake?” and he somberly nodded. In those few halting exchanges I learned a little bit about how Beoda came to live with his mom in an orphanage.
Sure Beoda is not technically an orphan. His mom was still alive and he lived with her. But you can’t mistake the fact that for Beoda his whole life had been shattered. At 4:52 PM on January 12, 2010 he had a mom and a dad, brothers and sisters. He had a life, even one that likely would have seemed poor in our pampered American eyes but a life nevertheless. In the blink of an eye, in a matter of seconds, that all changed. I don’t know the details but I know that it can be summarized in a few short words “Father dead”. Like the other house momma’s, Beoda’s mom Selene works very, very hard to care for 90 children six days a week, making sure they are fed, keeping them safe, washing a ton of clothes by hand with rocks and lye soap. Beoda shares his mom with 90 other children.
Beoda is 11. I have a son who is 10 and another who turns 12 in a week. My children have a warm home where they are loved, a mom who is home with them all day to care for them and educate them as best we can. They have a father who in spite of my flaws comes home every night. I can’t imagine how they would respond to losing their comfortable existence and finding themselves living on rickety bunk beds with 90 other children, no Xbox, no DVDs, no toys, not even clothes of their own. As a Christian parent I don’t think I have done a very good job of preparing my kids to live without while I proclaim to them a Christ who calls on us to give up everything. I have to wonder if the Christians among these orphans are not far better prepared to be witnesses to the world than my own children. Have I, in my eminently American quest to provide for my children by fulfilling their every whim, actually made sacrificial discipleship more difficult for those I am tasked with raising?
I found very few answers and even fewer solutions in Haiti. Quite the contrary, I am finding that the time I spent among the least of these has raised many troubling questions for me. One thing I know for certain. I promised Beoda that I would come visit him again and unless God calls one of us home before I can fulfill that promise, I will see him again.
I asked Beoda and another young boy, Stevenson, to write their names in the small Bible I brought with me on the page facing the first chapter of James to remind me that James is not speaking of theological concepts to be debated in the ivy covered halls of academia.
He was speaking of real people, real orphans who had their lives turned upside down. Real widows who lost their husband and often had children to care for in a very different, very difficult world. James was writing about Beoda and Selene, about Stevenson, about Kimberly. I don’t know the story of most of the orphans I met last week but I do know what God has called us to do, each and every one of us. Visit and care for the widow and the orphan in their affliction. If we aren’t willing to do that most simple of callings, what is all of our religion and piety and learning good for?
2 comments:
Arthur,
Thank you for posting this! Your last paragraph is priceless. I've known so many people (especially in the seminary environment) who agreed with caring for widows, orphans, and others as a theological concept. But, I never saw any kind of example of truly caring for them in their lives. That kind of theological concept is worthless (or dead, to use James' language).
-Alan
Alan said it! Thanks to both of you.
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