Today as I sat in church I barely heard a word of the sermon. Instead, an incident that happened earlier this week was replaying itself in my mind.
Last Wednesday was the last day of school. Students and teachers alike were ready to break out of the campus for the holidays; everyone was thankful it was only a half day. We had the loosely organized chaos of a "middle school Christmas party" followed by a short and sweet Christmas chapel. And then: freedom!
After lunch, I was itching to go out and about with some fellow female teachers. We decided to head downtown to go shopping at "Green Shops," a string of thrift-store shops scattered around Kampala. The idea is genius, really. The Green Shops staff go to sweating, bustling markets and scour them for the best used clothing items (mostly from the West). They clean them, put them on hangers, and staple price tags to them, only adding a few shillings to the market cost.
We had fun visiting a few Green Shops and finding great clothes for only a few dollars. Bags in hand, we began to walk back to one of the teachers' vehicles to drive out of the downtown and back to our own neighbourhood.
As we walked, we walked past a child. I can't tell how old he was, or even if he was really a boy or girl. He was malnourished. His head looked swollen and huge, teetering on a tiny neck. His sat on the sidewalk with his back against a concrete wall, his little body loosely covered in filthy rags. His hands rested on his lap, cupped together. He was silently, passively, begging.
We hardly noticed him, because crossing the street in downtown Kampala is quite an undertaking and takes one's full attention. After we had crossed, one of the teachers wanted to quickly stop in a store to buy a bottle of water. I waited on the sidewalk and found myself looking back at the begging child.
"Someone's watching him," one of the teachers said knowingly. She is an American who has lived here for two years and is married to a Kenyan. "Someone makes the kids beg and watches them to make sure they do."
Through the whizzing traffic I could see that the weak, silent child had fallen sideways, crumpled on the ground.
I felt angry, helpless. As we waited for our friend we spoke about how complicated it all was. How giving money to a child beggar actually fuels the exploitation of children; although well-intentioned, it often has the same effect that paying a prostitute has in fueling the sex industry. I was angry for a few minutes, and then I did something that I can add to the list of "never thought I'd do in Africa" things: I walked away.
Today in church the vision of that child, swollen head resting on the sidewalk, filled my mind. Why didn't I take two minutes and buy some food, cross the street again, and watch the kid eat? Surely, that can't be fueling child exploitation, can it? Why haven't I been more diligent about carrying bananas, or crackers, in my purse? What would have happened if I had just scooped that child up in my arms and taken him to a safe place? Would someone have stopped me?
Nothing is settled in my mind, nothing is clear. But images are burning into my brain. Conviction filled my heart to the point of tears. Quotes and Scripture rang in my mind:
"The need is the call."
Who said that, I can't remember. But maybe as I ask God what we're supposed to do with our lives, wringing our hands and waiting for some word from heaven, maybe the answer is staring me in the face. Find a need. Fill it.
And one of my favourite poems, "The Call," that I had framed in our bedroom at home, is breathing again and again in my spirit. Written by Amy Carmichael, a missionary to India who rescued children from temple prostitution. In her demure, Victorian way, she wrestled with some of the ugliest things that can be done to children. As you'll see in the poem, she uses soft metaphors instead of graphic imagery -- boats, lambs, a foaming sea. I love this poem because she is asking God difficult questions. You love children, Lord? You are all-powerful? Where are you? Do you see this innocence being trampled? Rescue them, call them, Lord, gather them up and bring them Home!
And then He responds and turns the question around on her, the very calling of her life:
"The Call"
Light of light, light of light
Lover of children, hear.
Shine, shine through the night
Lighten the cloudy fear.
Little boats drifting over the bar,
Little lambs lost in fields afar,
Where is no moon nor star;
Call Thy little ones, call Thy little ones Home.
Far on fell, far on fell
Wander the lambs that stray.
Far, far from harbour bell
Drift the small boats away.
Open to Thee are the paths of the sea;
All the world's corners are open to Thee.
Follow them where they be;
Call Thy little ones, call Thy little ones Home.
Deep to deep answereth now;
Dimly I see a Cross --
Thirst, wounds, thorn-crowned brow,
Stripping and utmost loss.
Over the bar the fret of the foam,
Rain on the fell where young lambs roam;
Lord, art Thou bidding me
Call Thy little ones, call Thy little ones Home?
