Only God knows.
The boy in the black shirt is called Dogo. His name is the only name I remember. God knows the rest. He knows their ages, their dreams, their favorite food. He knows where their parents are. He knows why they’re living on the street. He knows how many times they’ve cried.
I think of how much God knows and how little I know, and I tell Him that I would like to know more.
I met these five boys and about fifty more at a street boys football (That’s African for soccer.) game in Lira. It was all very unscheduled. No one knew I was coming. Saturday morning, I conquered a mountain, and at noon I was sitting down on a wooden bench to watch a football game between boys I’d never met before.
I talked to the coach for a few minutes. He’s been coaching the boys for several years, they’re very good, and they’ve nicknamed him after some famous football player whose name I’ve forgotten. (It wasn’t David Beckham.)
Then about three minutes into the conversation, the coach said, “Okay, I’m going to call the boys in now, and you can have a word with them.”
He blew his whistle.
And I’m sitting there thinking, “You mean now? Hold up a sec. You just met me. How do you know I have anything good to say?”
Meanwhile, all the boys were sitting down in a semi-circle in front of me, peering curiously at this strange white woman who showed up by herself and doesn’t know how to keep her Chacos on. So, I started talking. “Uh, hi. My name is Rebecca.”
Miraculously, they listened. I told them why I was there. I said I’d lived in Africa with my whole family when I was little. I said I’d read a lot of stories. I didn’t say it, but I was thinking, “I can’t believe I’m really sitting here, looking all those stories straight in the eye.”
I’d heard three stories of abandonment, abuse, and neglect from Solomon, Daniel, and Ronald. And suddenly here I was, staring into the face of fifty more.
I asked if they had questions, and they were a little shy, but then they decided they might have a few. And then, before I knew quite what had happened, they started telling me all the things they need.
“We need a school we can go to.”
“We need clothes without holes.”
“We need food.”
“We’d really like football uniforms for our team.”
“It would be nice to live in a house.”
On and on. List after list. It was all good, not really what you’d call superfluous, and completely overwhelming. I have a hard enough time taking care of myself, never mind fifty homeless street boys.
I finally raised a hand. Whoah. Hold up for a minute. And then I said . . . Sorry, I can’t help you. I realize you’ve got a lot of need, but there’s not a thing I can do about it. No school fees. No clothes. No food. No football uniforms. I got nothing. Sorry.
And even if I actually had the resources to help all of you, what about the other kids in Lira? What about the other kids in northern Uganda? The kids in Central Africa? The kids in all the world? What about them?
And then, “But I’ve got something better,” I said.
I reached into my backpack, and they all got excited, cause they thought maybe I’d brought candy.
Ouch.
I pulled out my Bible. They suppressed their groans. I don’t actually remember what verse I read to them or what exactly I said. I hardly even remember vaguely what I said. But I know what I believe. I believe that Jesus is more important than education. Jesus is more important than a safe environment. Jesus is more important than family. Jesus is more important than medicine. Jesus is more important than food. And if I really believe that, then I believe that I can share Jesus with street boys on a football field when the only thing I have in my backpack is a Bible.
I also know that at the end of our conversation, they weren’t asking me for things anymore. They were sitting up straighter and asking, “How can we know when you come back to Uganda so we can all sit down with you and talk again?”
See, I’d love to be able to give every one of those street boys a home. I’d love to see them wearing school uniforms and shoes and shirts without holes in them. I’d love to know they were eating three decent meals every day. I’d love to get them matching football jerseys. But the thing I most want is to see them follow Jesus. And if I want to see it in them, I have to model it first. So, if I want to see them trust and obey and hope and pray, then . . . I have to start with me.
