Sometimes the tears come and sometimes this don't

Beware, this is actually two posts in one (written on separate days):

Written on July 30th, 2010:

The other day I sat and watched as tears silently streamed down a five year-old boy’s face, thumb in mouth, for thirty minutes. At the time I wondered why I couldn’t muster any tears for him. I wanted desperately to stop the whimpering, to hold him in my arms and find the words that would make everything he’d experience in this seemingly cruel world he lives seem just a little bit more hopeful. And yet, I couldn’t shed a single tear. None were even close to forming. I sat, mouth closed, reminding myself that sometimes we all just need a good cry, and waited. Eventually the crying did stop. Auntie Rita, the miracle worker, was able to remedy the situation and afterwards we briefly pow-wowed on what had happened. It turned out it had been a mere mix-up with the distribution of new clothes (this particular boy hadn’t been given new shoes) – something fairly trivial in comparison to what these children have already dealt with in their young lives. And yet, while Rita and I talked over the incident, I felt my voice crack just a little. Rita might not have even noticed, but I could feel the tears welling up deep inside. And tonight, hours later, after dinner, a little relaxation, a little more work, watching 30 minutes of Braveheart, and doing some planning with Pat, I sit here on my bunk bed and I can feel the tears welling up slowly. I don’t think I’ll cry, at least not the full-on crying anyone reading this blog knows I’m capable of, but I feel the emotions slowly building up. And so I sit here and think it through and here’s what I’ve come up with…

I’m ashamed to say it, but it’s easy, being here 24 hours a day, 7 days a week (for the most part), to forget that these kids lived in destitute conditions, that some of them are HIV positive, that some have parents who love them mere hours away but aren’t, for some reason or another, able to care for them, that some of these children were literally abandoned in dumpsters, on street corners, sometimes even multiple times. When you battle with them over silly things like who gets to ride the bike first or who swore or hit who first (“it doesn’t matter who hit who first!”), it really becomes second nature to treat them as you were treated, like a child who has been given the world but instead chooses to focus on the little negatives in the world. But the truth of the matter is, these children have been given little to nothing and still manage to take the big negatives in their lives and chose instead to focus on the small things, on battling for a volunteer’s knee to sit on, on begging and pleading to have an extra 35 minutes in the playroom. And so slowly these kids creep into my heart. They’re infiltrating and even when I have a headache from the constant screeches of “can I go the new playroom?!” (I hear this at least 200 times a go) or cringe when a kid shouts “I hope you go back to America tomorrow!” I know that this is where I’m supposed to be and these are the kids that I’m supposed to be with.

It’s not easy, I’ll admit. Talking to (beautiful) Auntie Wendy just minutes ago I commented on how I prior to coming here I had thought I was a patient person. (After meeting Rita, I realize I, in fact, have a long, long ways to go.) Sometimes I find myself clenching my teeth at a child who just won’t listen. Sometimes there are mass time-outs. Sometimes I just escape to the solitude of my room to write or read or nap or just be away from the children. Sometimes I count down the minutes until they go to bed. But ultimately, as I remind myself every night when I write in my journal – there are also times like this morning, when I watched one of our 11 year-olds, a spunky boy with a great big smile and a passion for the dramatic, sing loudly in church and I actually had tears in my eyes. These kids. These kids blowing kisses, dancing with silly little mechanical-looking pelvic thrusts, shouting “Hi Kea-ten!” and helping me make popcorn (snack on Saturday nights), mean the world to me.

And these kids; they’re scared, they’re confused, they’re behind in school, and they’re often misbehaved (“Now was that bad behavior or good behavior?”). They rejoice in small victories (a few math problems, on remembering what day they get to go to playroom), and they mope about the most insignificant things. They threaten “I’m going to kick you!” one second only to hug you around the waist and demand that you never leave the next. Life is so full of emotions here – it’s a daily reminder that life is meant to be felt. These kids. Let me tell you, they know how to feel.

Written on August 2nd, 2010:

I realize I’m posting these in the same day but realize that these posts are actually from separate days. What you’re getting is a snapshot of a few days in a row of thinking through my thoughts feelings, and emotions gradually.

So my apologies for the multiple entries, but I think it’s important that they’re all recorded, and I suppose they needn’t necessarily be shared, but if you, my family and friends, would like to take a glimpse into what it’s like for me to be here, (everyone here is having a different experience) then I’m happy to share.

And while I’m happy to share, I must also admit that I’m finding the words hard to come by at the moment. Tonight marked an important milestone in my time at Open Arms: the first time I’ve truly felt like crying (besides my first day here, but we’ll just chock that up to a big change and jet lag). I won’t go into the circumstances too much since I believe fully and completely in the confidentiality of the child, but basically tonight, I was faced with the heavy reality of what these children have lived with.

Tonight, I sat with a child who was afraid to go back to his house alone. Now, if there’s one thing I understand, it’s the fear of being alone. I not-so-vaguely recall being home alone for two nights while my parents were in Ireland (and Reed was up in Washington visiting friends). I was twenty years old, living in a secure house in a safe neighborhood, and still I left the lights on and hardly slept a wink. Being alone (especially at night) was just downright scary to me. I had visions of murderers and burglars and goodness knows what kind of monstrous people flashing through my head. I could imagine men climbing the stairs and people surveying the house for the best time to break in. And this, all at twenty. In a secure house in a nice neighborhood.

So tonight, looking at this 11 year-old boy’s eyes as we sat outside on the brick-rimmed herb garden, I seriously wanted to break down and cry. I watched the tears well up in his eyes as the tears welled up in mine and I was grateful it was dark and that he wouldn’t look me directly in the eye. In fact, he never allowed the tears to come freely, nor did I, but silently my heart was breaking for him.

I can’t even begin to fathom what he’s been through in his short life. Orphaned, bounced around, and God knows what else, I couldn’t help but picture this boy as terrified as I had been imagining scary things. Only he’s been through these scary things. Granted, I don’t know what he’s been through. We have our guesses, but the truth is we don’t really know. But regardless, as he vehemently backpedals and denies he was ever scared, I know he’s witnessed a terribly cruel reality that I can’t even begin to understand. And so the tears build up. And I am aware that one day they’re all going to come rushing out. But for now, I’ll leave it at this: I have to be someone steady, someone reliable, someone strong, someone understanding in their lives. Because growing up is scary without the justification of fear.

Bless these kids’ hearts.