Lost and Alone

"Times get tough and life gets hard. And its hard to find the truth in all the lies. If you're tired of wondering why your heart isn't healing, and nothing feels like home cause your lost and alone just screaming at the sky. When you don't know what to say, just say Jesus. There's power in the name, the name of Jesus. If the words wont come cause you are too afraid to pray, just say Jesus."

The first time we drove into Olievenhoutbosch, South Africa, my heart was shattered by the sheer poverty and filth of the "squatter camp" township. I remember sitting in the minibus, so aptly named Balaam, as we drove through the littered streets, feeling my heart sink lower and lower with every passing tin shack or tiny shop.We stopped at a few places and looked around, at a school, disability center, community center and old age home. With every stop, I felt a deep brokenness and hurt begin to churn in the depths of my soul.

For the first two weeks, I worked at the disability center, with small children who were, obviously, disabled. Some of them had a manageable disability, such as down syndrome. But some were confined to laying on a mat because they couldn't move. I remember walking in and taking in the scene. A few children playing on the half carpeted floor, and the children laying on the mats in the corner. I was taken aback that these children were so far from the door, window and any worker. As I stood, tears crawled into my eyes and a coldness covered me. I moved across the floor, slowly but surely, towards the children laying on the mats. There were two, one who's head was twice the size of her tiny body and one who obviously was paralyzed by a disease of sorts. Sitting, I reached out and touched the little girl with the large head, she had no response to my touch and refused to look at me.

That night I cried and cursed God for allowing such suffering. Every morning as we drove in, and every afternoon as we drove out, I cursed him. I didn't pray anymore, I yelled at him. I remember one night distinctly when I was home alone at my host home and I was overcome by this hurt and rage that I just threw this thing across the room (I don't remember what it was), fell to my knees and screamed "What am I supposed to do?!" And cried.

Then one day, in my second week at the disability center, I returned to my spot beside the small girl with the large head. Swishing the ever-present flies away, I began my daily routine of rubbing her arms and legs and talking to her. I played with her hand and examined her tiny fingers and was overcome by this need to sing to her. With no idea what to sing, I began singing Amazing Grace. As I sang, her ever-moving eyes locked onto my face for a moment, her grip tightened around my finger and she smiled. Right there, I began to cry. I had been living my past two weeks hating God for allowing so much suffering and pain in these people. But right in front of me, I saw a little girl who hadn't responded to me since I had been there, smile at the name of our God. If that isn't a slap to the face, I don't know what is. I went home crying that night, asking for forgiveness. That next morning, as we drove into Olieven, I began to notice something. Joy. I watched children run screaming, playing a rendition of tag. I saw laughter and fellowship between two men as they braaied up some fresh chicken, I saw the happiness that was below the poverty.

As I continued my work at the school, I fell in love with the children and the people in this township. I realized that God is working here, changing the people, the children, into what he wants them to be. I stood in awe of his work.

Now, as we say our last goodbyes to our much loved community partners, and leave Olievenhoutbosch for the last time on this particular journey, my heart is shattered. But this time, for leaving such a beautiful community and its beautiful people.

You can safely say that Jesus wrecked my life. But in the rubble, grew a small flower. Hope.