Yesterday we arrived back in Centurion, after having been crammed into a too-small minibus like a clown car for 10 hours with 15 tired, broken-hearted family members.
When we left Centurion for Pomfret a month ago, we knew each other well enough but it wasn't a family. We drove 11 hours and arrived in Pomfret having no clue what to expect. When you first arrive, it breaks your heart. The community is in rags and the people are obviously in rags as well. Houses are falling apart, starving children roam the street and there are loose goats, donkeys, chickens and dogs everywhere. Sometimes the dogs are more well taken care of then the children. People have no hope for change, they have no motivation, no jobs and certainly no money. They live off of pension, they drink way to much most of the time and live in the shattered shell of what this town used to be. You see pain, and suffering at your first glance..
But look again. Always look again.
The beauty is deeply ingrained in the people and the places. If you look in a dark, broken building, you hardly notice, but there is a small flower tree growing in the corner or through the window. If you look at a broken down home, sometimes that broken building is used for a church building on Sundays. And if you sit down and talk to the people, you see just how amazing they truly are. They laugh and smile more genuinely than a lot of people I know. They tell stories, laugh, teach you their language and share what little they have.
I can't count the amount of times I walked hand in hand with filthy, smelly, snotty children but didn't see the filth. All I saw was how much I loved them. Their smiles shine like the stars in a dark sky. They come running, "Auntie Gwen! Auntie Gwen!" And I am so overwhelmed with my love for them that I don't even see how filthy they are, I swoop them into my arms and kiss them and tell them I love them over and over again. Because I don't know when or if they ever hear those words. Because I love them, and God said to love the least of these. Boy do I.
The children do not say "I love you", they say "I love you too much" and it took me a week or two to really understand what it means. When little 3 year old Lesego looks at me with her too-big chocolate eyes and grins her toothy grin and says "I wuve you too mush", my heart bursts. This little girl is the size of a 1-year old, and she is 3. Her family were alcoholics and she and her older sister (also in the home) were starving. Zelda, the leader of ECO in Pomfret, took them in and showered them with love and food. They are blossoming under the wing of Christ.
(Lesego)
When a child looks at you and says "I love you too much" and when I say it back, I mean it. I love them too much. My love for them is overwhelming, over the top, and out of control. I love them as Christ does. I can't describe to you in words my love for these children.
Do not get me wrong, life in Pomfret was full of love and God but it most certainly was extremely challenging. The sun was crippling, the heat was out of this world most of the time, there is no trash removal or sewage drainage. The smell was overwhelming at times. Our diet consisted of bread, pup, meat, rice and more bread. We had no electricity and small amounts of running water for most of our stay. We were forced to adapt to a way of life that we had never experienced. We lugged water, chased stray donkeys out of our trash pile with brooms, took bucket showers, had reoccurring stomach problems, did devos with the children by head lamp, ran from giant ant/spider mutants called Red Romans, found deadly scorpions in our showers, had to pull countless thorns out of our feet and hands, and some days just simply struggled to see God in the brokenness and pain we saw in people.
But it was worth it.
Some days I would drag myself out of bed, filthy, exhausted, homesick and just simply sick. I would slowly pull my shoes on, eat some funky tasting porridge-like substance for breakfast and stumble down the road to begin my daily work. When I got to my destination, I was greeted by big grins, brown faces and joyful voices thanking Jesus that the water came, or that the food came. And it really breaks you. In America I have everything. I never have to sacrifice anything, I never miss a meal because I can't afford it, I never struggle just to get water to drink, I never fall to my knees and beg Christ for money to feed my children. I just get in my car and drive to the store. These people rely on God with the fullness of their hearts. God is so present in Pomfret, you feel him everywhere you go. You feel his love reign on these people as they pray. Our team went and prayed for a woman who wasn't lactating and her newborn was starving to death and there was nothing she could do. Some of our team went and prayed for her for a solid 15 minutes, and right before their eyes, she began to lactate.
Christ is sovereign.
In seeing their brokenness, I learned of my own. I learned how spiritually broken I am. I may have everything I need, I may have much more than I need, but I certainly don't have as much God as I need. Watching their faith proved to me that there is so much more to life than growing up, getting a job, getting married and having children. That's not what it's about. It's about love, and friendship, and happiness and Christ.
I left America not knowing what I want to do with my life. I left Pomfret knowing that I can't just simply go back to how I was living. I can't just simply go back and go to school and pretend I didn't learn anything. I need Christ, I need the gospel and I need to share it with people who need it.
My heart remains behind with those little hands that I held, and the hearts I prayed for and the skun knees and the hurting toes. My heart remains with the tailgate I almost fell off, with the small half naked child I loved on, with the little girl that held my hand as I walked her home from getting what was most likely the last meal she would have for days. My heart remains in that small, desert town in Africa.
So, how was my experience in Pomfret?
You tell me.
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