I
wonder if I’m interrupting something at the orphanage. The kids are dressed in
their patterned batik clothes, the girls’ faces surrounded by coverings, the
boys’ heads topped with small round, traditional hats. They are beautiful, and clearly, in the middle
of something important.
The man
and woman who run the orphanage hold microphone, giving instructions to the
crowd of kids, music blaring. I hesitate outside the door.
During
our English lesson that week, a couple of the boys had begged me to come for a
visit on their school holiday that day. I asked the head lady for a good time
to come. Now I wonder if they were busy with something else. I feel like an
intruder.
I have
invited along the 10-member vision trip team from Canada and the States that
was visiting our MAF program that week. This mixture of pilots, mechanics and a
doctor, wait with me outside the door.
The
kids see us and stand—jump, really—motioning us in with their whole bodies. And
then the gifts begin. They sing their lilting songs. They dance their
enchanting traditional group dances. They pray song-like blessings on our
team—speaking in a mixture of Arabic and Indonesian.
And the head woman
apologizes again and again for not having a full meal for us. If only she’d
known—and she chastises me for not telling her I had guests. And begs us to
return so she can make us a proper meal.
She’d
only known that I was coming. And they were prepared to sing and dance for just
me.
I see
the talent of the vision team—young people with gifts and training and desire
to make a difference. I see myself with sweaty efforts and tired life and
half-hoped dreams. And then I see the kids. And I understand for the millionth
time how much they—the orphans—make a difference in me. How much I, their
teacher, learn from them.
I sit,
all sweaty, watching these kids as if I’m their proud mama. So talented. So
loving. So giving of themselves. Yes, with sad stories. Yes, with faults. I
don’t understand some things—like why the boys pick on one of the girls because
she’s from the wrong ethnic group. As if sharing the loss of parents isn’t
enough to erase stupid racism.
But who
would have thought that a vision trip team from the States with so much to give
would be the receivers, not the givers? That this perpetually sweaty
pseudo-English teacher would be the one wrapped in orphan arms? That their
losses from their past would create such beauty in this world. Such aching in
my heart.
I don’t
have that much to give that they don’t already have. I see this again and
again here. There is One who has been working in this culture, giving it gems of
hospitality, and visions for caring for orphans, and beauty of music and art
and dancing.
They need a lot, yes, but they have so, so much to give.
But He
wants to give them more. And for some reason, He uses shells like me and others
to carry this More into their lives. And in the process, More into my own life.
photo credit, Tony George
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