Today was my final full day in Rwanda . . . for now, at least. I pray, God, that You give me the opportunity to come back here. I could hardly stand to live all my life and not see Karim again - and Afisa and Minani. And the breathtaking mountains. Rwanda’s heart has become deeply lodged in my own, and it pains me to leave these people. My strength is in You, and that is what is carrying me through. That is all.
Before taking one last trek up to the dear orphans lodged on the side of a Rwandan hill, I went for an unexpectedly humorous diversion into downtown. Amy, Chelsea, and I were standing out in the white polished hallway of a rather ritzy mall when a random stranger approached us. He looked to be in or nearing his early twenties and began by introducing himself and asking who we were, where we from, etc. Now in Africa, this is not strange. What was strange was what he said next. Somehow he turned the conversation towards money, and then he said this: “You in America have a lot of money. In Africa we think in our minds that you are rich. You have more money; we kill you and take your money. I think you are very rich; I kill you.” This might have been rather alarming, the implied threat and all, except that our young friend managed to say all these words with a friendly smile on his face and in a very pleasant voice. Amy and I were trying so hard not to laugh . . .
Well, after that rather interesting conversation, we went out for lunch at our favorite buffet-style restaurant (also the only buffet-style restaurant we know in Rwanda). Then, as the sun’s rays lengthened in the west, I walked up to the orphanage alone. The children were there, as well as some others from my team, and we played games and made faces at each other - took pictures, smiled lots, didn’t really say much at all. After awhile, I took Karim aside, sat him down, and went through a list of Bible verses with him. All the things I wanted to say - things like, “I commit you to God (Acts 20:32),” and, “I will not forget you (John 14:18).” I’m not sure if he understood exactly, for we didn’t have a translator with us, though we were using a Kinyarwanda Bible. But he has the list, and if he does not understand now, I pray that You open his heart and mind so he will understand some day.
As the sun set over the hill, we sat there on the low wall - Karim and I, Abraham, two funny little girls who were imitating his every move, and some others who came and went. The stars entered, twinkling, one by one, and the sky went from blue to dusk to black. It was getting time to go, and none of us wanted to. Karim, who had been silent for some time now, stared off into the distance, and then he put his head in his hands. He had already asked me several times, “Tomorrow, Auntie - you go from (he meant “to”) Uganda?” And I kept saying, “Yes. Yes.” And he would groan and shake his head. But now he asked again, and when I answered, he sniffed, wiped his eyes, then put his head on my shoulder, crying, “No, Auntie. No, no.”
Dear God in Heaven, if my heart is breaking at the thought of leaving this one child, how does Your heart break for all the forgotten children of the world? How does Your heart cry when You see them hungry and abandoned and homeless and without hope? How did Your heart bleed to turn Your back on Your very own Son? I told Karim that I would not forget him - that You loved him very much - that he was never alone. I sang, “Ibuka . . . urukundo niruhemuka,” again and again. I do not know if it was enough, Lord, but I gave what I had.
Then I heard someone crying behind us, and I turned, and Afisa was standing there all alone, just looking at me and sobbing. So I stood up and brought her over, and she sat on one side, and Karim sat on the other side, and I put my arms around them both, and they cried and cried. I said to Afisa much the same as I’d told Karim, and I sang to her also. She put her head in my lap, and Karim wrapped my arm around his shoulders. We stayed that way for an uncounted time as the stars sang overhead in spite of darkness. Tonight at least, dear Lord, these dear children did not have to cry alone. They no longer have to face life without knowing what comfort means. Oh, but Father, Your children . . . Your precious, precious children. Your children need You, oh Father. Do not forsake them. Do not leave them as orphans. Come and rescue them - comfort them - provide for them. Be their Father, dear Lord. With all my heart, I ask this of You. Amen.
