Splash. I look up to see the source of the wetness on my
hand. Big crocodile tears falling from his eyes, yet not a sound is made. The
pain goes deeper than the wound under the bandage I am removing. His clothes
torn, with no one to mend them, his underwear dirty with no one to help him
boil water to clean them. He opens his mouth, tells his story, and one more
crack is made in my heart.
Faces he doesn’t remember, or ones so fresh he’d rather not.
His parents dead, he’s left to a granny to look after him. Food is limited, and
school is the place he eats once a day. His shoes, what’s left of them protect
part of his feet. His big toe pops out of the front from wearing and still
growing, while his heel is sore from the rocks since his sole is worn into a big
hole at the heel.
Not just one, but many, march one by one their faces, lining
my memory, telling their story of desperation, yearning for love, pleading for
hope.
Jesus said “let the children come unto me” Mt 19:14
I can only hope that He is using me to be a bridge of hope
and love, leading their broken lives to the real Healer.
*Not one boy’s story but a compilation of many recurring
individual stories that touched my heart
