What Now?

So . . . What do we do now?

Isn’t that the question?  I’ve told you the stories of three boys I met in Lira.  But there are hundreds of boys in Lira.  And there are hundreds of towns like Lira in Uganda.  And there are hundreds of countries like Uganda in the world.

It can be a little overwhelming, can’t it?  I’ve just been talking about street kids.  But did you hear about Hurricane Isaac ripping apart all sorts of make-shift homes and tents in Haiti before hitting New Orleans (again)?  Did you hear about the churches being bombed in South Sudan, while the congregation hides in caves in the mountains just to survive?  Did you hear about the refugee camps in Kenya and Rwanda and Tanzania and the Congo where the homeless are dying of very preventable diseases every day?  Did you hear about the child prostitutes in India?  Or the child soldiers in Columbia?

And that’s only a drop in the bucket compared to the rest of the list that I’m not telling you.

There’s so much need.  What do we do now?

I’d like to share with you part of a conversation I had with God the other day about that subject.  I don’t know if you feel personally connected with the street kids in Lira in any way, but I know I certainly do.  So, I asked God, “What do You think about these street kids?”

I was outside on a gravel road surrounded by cornfields somewhere around midnight when I asked this question.  The stars were brilliant.  And as I looked up, my eye would catch one particular star, and it was like all the other stars in the sky - no matter how bright or near they were - would fade out into the corners.  And for as long as I looked at that one star, just that one star, it became the most important star in the sky.

And God said, “They are the apple of My eye.”

The apple of His eye.  The most important star.  Held in the palm of His hand.  His sheep.  His kids.  His beloved.

How do we treat the beloved of the Lord?

I’m reminded of a verse in I John.  A very simple verse that says in a plain, simple way: “If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him?”

And my train of thought goes like this:

Q: Do I have material possessions?
A: Yes.
Q: Have I seen my brother (and sister) in need?
A: Yes.
Q: Do I have pity on them?

And if the answer to that last one is no - if my actions as well as my words do not show my “yes” - then “how can the love of God be in me?”

It’s so easy to get so overwhelmed by so much need.  It’s so easy to stand there, frozen, like the deer in the headlights my dad and my sister hit every once in awhile driving down our gravel roads.  It’s so easy to say, “Well, I can’t do what Billy Graham did.  And I can’t be like Mother Teresa.  And I can’t sell my house and move to Africa.  And I can’t . . . And I can’t . . .”

But I John doesn’t tell us to move to Africa.  First John doesn’t say we need to measure up to Billy Graham or Mother Teresa.  First John just says to look at that one - just one - and do something.

“And if anyone gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones who is My disciple, truly I tell you, that person will certainly not lose their reward.” (Matt. 10:42)

Or, if you read it from The Message:

“This is a large work I’ve called you into, but don’t be overwhelmed by it.  It’s best to start small.  Give a cool cup of water to someone who is thirsty, for instance.  The smallest act of giving or receiving makes you a true apprentice.  You won’t lose out on a thing.”

What does your cup of water look like?  Or is it time for you to switch from a cup to a bucket?

I don’t know what it looks like for you.  For me, it seems to change almost every day.  But I'd like to share with you one small way I have found, a small way for me to share a cold cup of water.  If you'll look up on the blue header at the top of this blog, click on the words "Lion Paw."  You'll find it there.

Their Stories: Daniel

Daniel was not one of the five boys hospitalized after the mob beating in Lira.  At least, not this time around.  But he admitted along with Solomon and Ronald that he’s been in jail before, and it sounds like beatings often accompany arrests when it comes to street kids.

Daniel went to live on the streets of Lira when he was 13 years old.  He was the most reserved of the three when he told me his story, and I didn’t get a lot of details.  But there is one very obvious fact.  If Ronald’s story is a story of violence, then Daniel’s is one of rejection.

Daniel’s parents divorced each other and remarried when he was a young boy.  He lived with his father after the divorce, but his new step-mom abused him.  Daniel finally got tired of it and left.  He went to find his mom.

But she had remarried as well, and the new step-dad didn’t want him either.  So, Daniel left again.

He went back to his dad.

Where he was rejected again.

He bounced back and forth a couple more times, hoping beyond hope for a place where he belonged.  A safe spot.  A home.

It never worked.

Daniel is now 15 years old.  He’s lived on the streets of Lira away from his parents for two years.  Apparently, his family agrees with him and thinks it’s better this way.  If he was in America, he would be in highschool, doing his homework and maybe playing on the football team.  But Daniel doesn’t go to school.  He doesn’t even know how to read.

He wasn’t wearing any shoes when I talked with him.  I wonder if he has a pair of shoes at all.  And his belt was synched up tight, like his pants might fall off without it because he’s so thin.

Daniel would like to learn how to be a mechanic.

(a view of the streets of Lira)

Their Stories: Ronald

This is Ronald.  I talked with him and Solomon and Daniel for an hour under the shade of a tree in the CRO compound in Lira.  They sat in small wooden chairs with metal legs.  They looked like the sort of chairs we would buy for our kindergartners, and they didn’t look very comfortable.  I asked the boys to tell me how they had gotten on the streets.  They had family still.  What had happened to make street life better than living at home?

The boys didn’t look me in the eye when they answered my question.  They stared at the ground and spoke in monotone.  This is Ronald’s story.

Ronald is one of the 791 boys in Lira who are abused each year.  Assistant inspector of police, Joseph, had a list of their names hanging on the wall in his office.  If I had a list of those names hanging on the wall in my office, I might not be able to sleep at night.

In Ronald’s case, the abuse he survived took a rather unusual and horrifying turn.

Ronald, like Solomon, was born to parents who were not married.  For unknown reasons, his dad chased his mom away soon after he was born.  If you listen to the few facts I know of Ronald’s life and try to imagine the details, I’m pretty sure it’s safe to say that Ronald’s dad was a violent man.  I wonder if his father ever beat his mother?  I wonder if Ronald ever saw him do it?  I wonder if Ronald’s father ever beat him?

What I do know is that for several years, living with his father, Ronald got to attend school.  Until P5 (American fourth grade), that is.  Somewhere in the midst of that year, Ronald’s life erupted, and the chaos began.  It started with his mother’s death.  Then his father killed his grandfather.  Ronald didn’t telling me why.

After the murder, his dad abandoned the family.  Ronald and his younger brothers went to live with his oldest brother, who had married.  But this new wife must not have been happy to have so many mouths to feed.  So, she poisoned one of Ronald’s little brothers.  The boy died.

Ronald left.  He went to live on the street because at least there he didn’t have to worry about someone putting poison in his food.

Today, Ronald is in his third year of living on the street.

He dreams of being a mechanic.  At night when he goes to sleep, he finds a plastic sack to cover up with.  He can’t sleep in the same spot too often for fear that the police will find him and arrest him.  Again.  Or perhaps he fears being woken up by an angry gang wielding fists and sticks.

He’s also recovering from the last time an angry gang woke him up wielding fists and sticks.

What will happen to Ronald?  How will he eat?  Where will he spend his time?  What friends will he make?  What will he do with his life?  What sort of impact will he make in his world?

Does Jesus love Ronald? . . . Does Ronald know how much?

Their Stories: Solomon

I want to share with you a little more about Ronald and Solomon and the street boys in Lira.  Perhaps if you begin to see it through my eyes, we’ll all get a little closer to seeing it through their eyes . . . And the goal of that, of course, is that we would move even deeper into seeing it through His eyes.

The best way I know to do this is to tell you their stories.  A little more from the life stories they shared with me.  Some of the details are kind of vague.  Solomon didn’t even know how old he was.  Eighteen or nineteen, he said when I asked.  But these are their lives.  We’ll start with Solomon.

Solomon was born to an unmarried woman.  Because the child was out of wedlock, the new mother left her baby with her mother, Solomon’s grandma.  This is the woman who raised Solomon.  Or tried to.  Somehow, she managed to send Solomon to school up to P3 (American second grade).  Solomon told me he knows how to read and write.  He has two sisters and a brother.

But at the age of 13, Solomon lost the most important influence on his life.  His grandmother died.  Suddenly, he had no one to take care of him.  This would also be around the end of the worst of the LRA abductions of children.  Meaning: The northern half of the country was in shambles.  Schools were struggling to restart.  Many people still lived in IDP camps.  Structure, stability, and opportunities for a young unwanted teenage boy were nonexistent.

So, Solomon did the only thing he could think of.  He went to the streets.  While living homeless in Lira, he got connected with CRO (Child Restoration Outreach), the ministry Beatrice is a part of.  CRO works hard to reconnect street children with their biological parents.  So, they took Solomon to see his father.

But Solomon’s father had remarried.  In Ugandan culture, the family is very important.  But there is often also a lot of jealousy and animosity towards step-children when a parent remarries.  Solomon’s step-mother had no use for this teenage boy who wasn’t hers.  He wasn’t wanted.  She rejected him.  Solomon used the word “abused.”  This can mean anything from forcing a child to do all the work in the house to yelling matches to withholding necessities to physical beatings.  Whatever it was, Solomon decided it wasn’t worth it and left.

He’s lived on the streets now for six years.

He’s been arrested twice by police who come in on random nights and round up all the street kids they can find.  The children are left in prison for 2-4 weeks and then released.  No one in the community cares when they go in, and no one cares when they come back out.

All three of the boys I talked to had spent time in jail.

Where is Solomon today?  Today he is recovering from a beating he received from the Lira community.  I asked for an update from Beatrice, and she said this:

“Thank you so much for your humble prayers you always [pray] for to God for CRO (Child Restoration Outreach) children and for me and my family dear, I greatly appreciate you. Well the boys have been dis- charged from the hospital though still very week and they don't have proper homes/ place to stay in as they fully recover and no one take responsibility of taking care of them dear. That's a very great challenge . . . maybe there should be a home for them that can keep them for time being as their home [biological families] are being traced.

However, those boys are still in pain although dis- charged from the hospital, no food, medical care, clothing among others while on the streets . . .”

So far, this is all that has happened in Solomon’s story.

Can that change?

The Crossroads

There are two different paths of thought going on in my head.  One is scampering around here in Central City, making phone calls, looking at calendars, stalking facebook friends, typing up lists, going through the frantic is-the-engine-going-to-turn-over spluttering that’s the only way to turn the vision of a play into an actual theater production.

The other path is wondering why I’m not already in Africa.

I used to think I was just random.  First, I’m making jewelry, then I’m walking my dog, then I’m riding a plane to Africa, then I’m waitressing at the Saddle Club, then I’m learning how to make hollandaise sauce, then I’m talking to a kid who lives in a tent city in Haiti.

Hi.  What’s my name again?

I used to think the randomness was just . . . well, random.

But if I believe in a God who is a God of order not chaos, design not chance, purpose not nonsense, then He has an order and a design and a purpose even in my randomness.

(Hollandaise sauce included.)

Which means somewhere there is a place where the creative side of me and the Africa side of me meet.  A crossroads.

I haven’t quite got up to it yet.  But I’ve seen a glimpse.

It went like this: In the midst of all these talks about casting, rehearsals, costumes, backdrops (etc. etc. etc.), I got an email from my friend Beatrice in Lira.  A month ago, she told me about some street boys in Lira getting beat up by community members who accused them of stealing car parts.  Five of the boys were beaten so badly, they had to be taken to the hospital.

I asked Beatrice to tell me their names.

I mean, not that it could be anyone I know.

Out of the hundreds of street kids, I only met a few dozen.  And out of those dozens, I only remember a handful of actual faces and names.

Still, I wanted to know.  And Beatrice sent me the list. (In Uganda, they put the African name first, followed by their “Christian” first name.)

Ogwal Issa.

Owiny Steven.

Adea Bonny.

Otuk Solomon.

Ecel Ronald.

Solomon and Ronald?  Not the same Solomon and Ronald I sat under the tree with in the CRO compound?  Not the same Solomon and Ronald who talked with me about life on the street and what happened with their families to put them there?  Not the same Solomon who told me street life wasn’t so bad cause you got used to it after six years?  Not the same Ronald who wouldn’t even look at me while he told me how his dad killed his grandpa and his step-sister poisoned his brother?

There are lots of street boys in Lira.  Surely, two of the boys in a hospital in northern Uganda are not two of the boys I met.

So, I asked.  Just to make sure.  Maybe Solomon and Ronald are really popular names in Uganda.

And Beatrice wrote back.

“Solomon and Ronald are the same boys you talked too.”

(Ronald - far left; Solomon - far right)

The sentence that could change everything.

Cause I’m not okay with that.  Could you be?  After you sat down and talked with these boys?  After you looked them in the eye and shook their hands?  After you heard about their families?  After you had your picture taken with them?  After they smiled at you?

And now they’re lying in a hospital bed in Lira because their community thinks they’re worthless, and no one’s doing anything to change that.

And that’s where the creative side of me kicks in.  I see a problem here.  A problem that I just can’t live with, can’t ignore, can’t turn a blind eye to, can’t walk on past on the other side of the road.

And I believe God’s going to take me up to the crossroads where I get to do something about it.

The Invitation

I’d like to invite you to something.

It’s not a graduation, a dinner, a wedding, a funeral, or a concert.

It most definitely is a performance.

It’s been a couple years, but we’re doing another play.  Because I have armloads of costumes hanging upstairs in my closet, and it would be a shame for them to go to waste.  Because we finally have a real performing arts center with a gorgeous stage, amazing lighting, and plush blue audience chairs right here in Central City.

Because we can.

Because my little sister Kristi has worked four years (or something like that) to become a nurse so she could move to Africa, and now God’s given her the opportunity to go.  One of those wide open doors with the angels singing.

And Africa is always a good excuse to do a play.

So, I am inviting you.  To be a part of something epic.

Trust me.

It’s going to be epic.

Unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.  Really.  You’ve never seen this.  No one has.  It just got written this past summer.  It’s a musical drama called The Thorn Princess, and it’s coming proudly to our theater sometime this Fall. (This is where all of you out-of-staters check your calendars and road maps and figure out a way to come join us for the performances.) Actually, you might have to give us a few weeks for the exact dates.  We’re shooting for late October - early November, but we haven’t ironed out the details yet.

What did you expect, putting a lost Bohemian in charge of this thing?

At present, we’re searching for talent.  Artists, actors, set builders, advertising pros, musicians, hairdressers, costume makers, sound system runners.

Etc.

Etc.

Etc.

If you’re interested, contact me.  If you’re not interested but know someone who might be, contact them and then contact me.

This is the beginning of something amazing.