Pray for the Children
This morning I was struck by the revelation that I only have three more of those little pink Malaria pills remaining to take. My twenty eight day post trip daily dose is nearly complete. The reality is that I have been home from Africa for nearly a month. For a month I have been churning through my thoughts and emotions about what I witnessed in Africa. I’ve been desperately searching to reconcile in my mind what to do with the experience. Seeking to describe and report about it in this small corner of cyberspace.
The reality is that even expected collisions in life often rock us to the core. And sometimes the head-on collisions we are expecting become but a gentle speed bump in our journey. Africa turned into a wild roller coaster with all the twist, turns and gut wrenching descents. However, it all played out in total blackness which kept me guessing when the next terrifying drop would occur. I am challenged on reporting such a wild ride to an unknown faceless audience. My attempt then will be to give you reports of some of the more heart stopping twists and turns. Buckle up!
The rebels attack in the night. Just kids themselves. They attack and steal the minimal life sustaining food in the village. They attack and kill parents and babies. They come for the older children 5 -10 years of age. They torture and abuse these kids. Ultimately brainwashing the kids and turning them into soldiers who will continue the sick cycle. Kids killing kids. To add a dose of warped irony to this twisted story, the killing is being done in the name of the Lord. Such is the world of Northern Uganda. Let me start here.
Drawing by young rescued child portraying the rebel attack of their village.
We traveled north from Kampala into the war ravaged region of Northern Uganda. We were waved through the Army barricade signaling our entry into the war zone (a place our government advises us from going). We crossed over the angry waters of the Nile River and sped toward the town of Lira. Passing by burned out bush and thatch roofed homes, we reached Lira and checked into the safety of our hotel. Our Hotel was called the White House; however the only similarity to our Nation’s Capitol was the presence of heavily armed guards.
That afternoon at the refugee camps we witnessed the depravity of war. As Americans most of us can’t comprehend the extreme poverty which causes starvation. I am not talking about the missing a meal “I’m starving” kind of starvation. I am talking about the kind of starvation that kills a person. Most of us will never feel the personal impact of losing a parent to AIDS. Now imagine losing both parents – and you’re eight years old. Then it gets worse. The soldiers appear out of the bush and steal whatever food you might have before they burn down your home as you helplessly watch from the bush. Adults and kids – mostly kids – lots of kids - find their way to the refugee camps where they find some food, some medicine and first aid care, and relative safety (although we hear of savage killing in a refugee camp north of Lira the night before).
Young Ugandan orphan praying in Lira refugee camp
Upon arriving at the camp the kids swarmed us. Within seconds small hands are clinging to your fingers and their smiles melt your heart. We are sitting before a well mannered group of children. They sing for us - we pray for them - they pray for us. Then I am partnered with a young boy and he takes me to his home where he now sleeps - alone. His parents are dead and if he had brothers and sisters they are gone. I have a photo of the two of us in front of his shelter. Looking at the photo now, I am ashamed that I am smiling and he is not. I will not include that photo in the report. We prayed together and I moved on to another child who wanted to show me his “home”.
Children in a refugee camp seated before us
Returning to the van, Christopher (who I will introduce in another posting) brought me over to an old woman propped up in the shade. I am obviously not a doctor, but death was near. Skin and bones is the only description which fits. She wanted me to pray for her. She wanted me to pray that she would get better and be able to eat again. I am glad to learn that she is a Christian. I pray for that thankfulness and her comfort. I also pray for her to regain her strength. I hold her tired hand in mine for a long moment. It seemed impossible to me that she would live through the night. We move on.
Bloated stomach of a starving child
The refugee camps are a sad place to spend a few hours. Part of you wants to stay longer and another side of you would like to run. However, the camps are a blessing for those who find there way to them. Food arrives via donations from literally around the world. Aid workers and missionaries are there providing medical care and guidance for the children. God’s presence can be felt in the singing and worship. In the young faces you can see hope. You can see forgiveness. In the missionaries you can find courage and determination to help just one more make it through the night. They are light for Christ’s love for all.
In Mark, Jesus said “Whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.” In the rising dust of the departing van the children wave. I think about the words from the Steven Curtis Chapman song, What Now? “I saw the face of Jesus – in a little orphan girl – standing in the corner – on the other side of the world.” Here I am today sitting in the comfort of my home – and I am still asking What Now? Send food, send aid, go. They are all good options. However I urge you who read this to pray for the children. Pray for life to get better for them. Pray for the war to end. Pray that they remain strong in their faith. Pray that they would be able to grow up and fulfill their dreams. Pray for healing – both physically and emotionally. Please believe with all your heart.
Children joining you in prayer