I breathed in the heavy Jamaican air. Though it was only ten in the morning, I could feel the heat drying my damp hair at an impossibly fast rate. It was my second day in this tropical country. I was still getting used to the drastically different culture of the people in Jamaica. When I awoke my first morning there, the first sound that drifted into my ears was the sound of the sistersin the convent singing a Jamaican hymn. I listened to the sound wafting slowly into the room, and then sat up. I had to rub my eyes and remember where I was, as I looked out my window and with my eyes still heavy from sleep made out a brilliant orange tree standing in the foreground of lush green mountains, dotted with cream colored mansions.
In a half hour, we had gotten into our van and pulled out of the driveway. As we drove toward the orphanage, I did not know what to expect. I looked outside the windows, taking in everything that I saw. We drove left out of the safe haven of our hostel. The windows were open, making it hard to hear anyone talking because at the speed we were going, the wind blew through the car like a hurricane. Different conversations swirled about me: some of us talking to the driver, others asking our Jamaican brothers and sisters about their country, and then othesr discussing how hard ti was to wake up to the sweltering heat. For a while I saw normal sights for inner-city Kingston. There were scattered churches of many denominations, homeless vendors looking for money, and people stting by the road. Their world-wearry eyes pierced meas I met their tired gazes. Not more than a minute later, as we kept driving by on the curving road, I saw tiny shacks, and trash thrown in what could barely be called a yard. Tin roofs sheltered the inhabitants from the rain, but soaked up every drop of sunlight and made the house as hot as an oven. Every building had a gate in front of it. The entire atmosphere screamed that it was closed off. Every so often I looked to the side and saw what looked like an alley, not even wide enough for a car to pass through. Sometimes there was so much trash lying in the alley that I could only see the ground in small patches.
I had no idea what I was getting into today. I expected to take a short, business-like tour of the faciities and take notes so that we, the team, could begin to figure out what the Lord might want us to do there. But this was a shallow and naive expectation on my part. What I experienced that day, and now treasure more than any experience I have ever had, was nothing businesslike and formal. My new cherished experience initially felt like a splash of cold water. Rarely does God forewarn those who catch a glimpse of HIm in the most afflicted of his loved ones. This is the day I saw the face of Christ. The experience blindsided me, because it did not happen when I thought it might. It didn't happen while I was every night for strength, staring up at the ceiling with its cracked pale blue paint and wandering bugs. It did not happen when I sat on the edge of the window in my room, looking at the vivid orange tree that I saw when I awakened each morning. My precious moment occurred in a poor orphanage in Kingston, Jamaica, called Mustard Seed. God blessed me with His eyes, with which to see Him when I least expected it.
I walked into the open space inside the orphanage, through the locked door. When it shut behind me, the sound echoed through my mind and reminded me of a prison. The musty smell of unwashed linen penetrated me from everywhere, in addition to the intense heat. The building looked ancient with its cracked paint and dirty cement blocks. The play area in the middle for the children had a few sparse tufts of dead grass, amidst toys scattered everywhere. I looked over to my left and stared for a moment. What my eyes beheld shocked me. My wide eyes rested on a young girl lying on a bed. I kept looking at her legs, astonished because they were no bigger than my wrists. They were nothing but small bones covered with skin. I tried to listen to the woman who was speaking to our group, but I caught only disjointed phrases. My mind and eyes were drawn back to the girl. Finally she allowed us to go to the children. As I approached the entrance to the room, my foot stopped in midair. For a fraction of a second I considered keeping my distance but before I could turn back, my feet began to move again. I walked softly around to the side of the bed and knelt down. She painstakingly turned her head to look at me. Her tired eyes cried her of arduous struggle to blink. Flies bizzed around her and landed on her face. She did not flinch. I reached up my hand slowly, and then rested it on her thin shoulder. I resisted a shudder when I felt her shoulder bone through her thin skin. As I knelt, I asked God to envelop the room with HIs presence. I implored Him to fill her with His amazing love. I asked God to heal her broken spirit with His freeing grace. The simple prayers that came from from my lipswere more pleading and sincere than any other eloquent verses I have ever lifted up to the Lord. I longed to transfer some of my health to her. I slowly stood up again, asking God one more time to give her His blessing. |
