Across the sea she came to live alone
To find her soul and learn to love and live
And when she came she saw the broken shone
And it was not enough to simply give
But those whom she thought well would soon taste death
Locked inside a pit of flies and fumes
She crumbles to the ground and gasps for breath
For such injustice why has been made room?
As salty swamps do form beneath her feet
Now crouched within the stench of purest heat
Lost wonder creeps into her restless mind
This wretched world in time has become blind
* * * * * * * * *
I was feeling a bit poetic today, so I thought I would share with you all a little--or I suppose very large--piece of my heart. The other day Stacie and I had a short but informative meeting with our dear friend Jackie, whom helps oversee Abba Home orphanage. She is mostly in charge of the finances and looks after the general well-being of all the kids placed there. As Jackie was sharing with us various needs concerning the financial situation of the Home, such as the fact that the aunties whom look after the 31 children 30 days a month are payed only the equivalent of $60 USD, the subject of health made its way into our conversation. Stacie asked Jackie if any of our Abba children were HIV+.
But those whom she thought well would soon taste death
Locked inside a pit of flies and fumes
She crumbles to the ground and gasps for breath
For such injustice why has been made room?
As salty swamps do form beneath her feet
Now crouched within the stench of purest heat
Lost wonder creeps into her restless mind
This wretched world in time has become blind
* * * * * * * * *
I was feeling a bit poetic today, so I thought I would share with you all a little--or I suppose very large--piece of my heart. The other day Stacie and I had a short but informative meeting with our dear friend Jackie, whom helps oversee Abba Home orphanage. She is mostly in charge of the finances and looks after the general well-being of all the kids placed there. As Jackie was sharing with us various needs concerning the financial situation of the Home, such as the fact that the aunties whom look after the 31 children 30 days a month are payed only the equivalent of $60 USD, the subject of health made its way into our conversation. Stacie asked Jackie if any of our Abba children were HIV+.
We were not at all prepared for the answer we received.
Jackie informed us that Enoch is HIV+. Now I know that 'parents' are not supposed to have favorites, but I think I can safely say for the both of us, that Enoch holds that status. A sweet-spirited, thoughtful, friendly young boy of about 11 or 12yr., Enoch captured our attention as well as our hearts from the beginning. Of all the Abba children, Enoch just so happens to be the photographer of the crew. He is the most likely to coerce Stacie and I into handing over our cameras as he pleads with his most innocent brown eyes, "You please let me take photos?"
And I must say, he is quite gifted. One of my favorites of Enoch's photos was taken back when Stacie and I still lived at JjaJja Alma's. It was the day Ivan had come over to shave the kids' heads, and Stacie decided the best way to keep the kids entertained was to bring out a handful of balloons. And oh, how right she was! The kids went crazy. I don't know firsthand, because sadly I was in the shower during this event, but I can only imagine from all the crazy pictures Enoch took of the chaos. My personal favorite was a photo he took of Irene. She is an Abba girl probably about 13yr. old. It is a profile photo of her holding a incredibly inflated, bright orange balloon, and she is standing against a red brick wall. The photo is simple. It is nothing out of the ordinary. African child. Red brick wall. Orange balloon. But for some reason, that photo captured my attention.
Enoch is not the only HIV+ Abba Home child. Irene is as well. Technically she has never been tested, but both of her parents were HIV+, and every time she is taken to be tested, she refuses. Obvious denial of the situation. I don't blame her. If I were dying at 13yr. I too would rather pretend that I am not. I knew about Irene. I knew when I noticed her arms were the same size or smaller as that of the youngest children in the orphanage. And I wondered when we commented on her size why she did not crack a smile. Perhaps I too was in denial, of recognizing some of our very own Abba children were not well.
I think I know now why that picture captured me the way it did. Enoch took the photo; and he took it of Irene. The dying was drawn to the broken. He wanted to capture her beauty. He wanted us to see her as she really is. Beautiful. Whole. Innocent. But all the same, broken. He wanted us to recognize the beauty through the pain. He wanted to capture the moment and make us see it forever. So that when we come back to our comfortable homes in the States in a matter of weeks, we will remember that oceans and miles away-- there is a young girl who once held as tightly to a tangerine orange balloon as she held on to life. And as she stood against that red brick wall and stared off into the distance, completely unaware that she was being watched, and photographed--all the while Enoch knew. He knew that one day we would gaze upon Irene and her balloon, and remember that while we embrace our parents whom are still alive, and our boyfriends whom we hope to marry, and our friends whom we long to see . . .
His friend Irene is dying; He dying. And desperately hoping we will remember the days we spent beside them, holding them, loving them--that we may continue even at a distance the great work our Father has begun.
