I’m at Panera Bread, writing next to the window, and
outside it’s 87 and sunny, but I’m sitting right where the A/C pumps out, and
so my nose is drippy. I’m cold. I have bumps all up my arms.
It’s 87 and sunny but inside, I am needing a sweater.
At the RUHU orphanage, the boys sometimes flip their
clothes inside-out, so that they can wear an outfit for another day.
I fit right in.
One morning, little Pauline sits down next to me in the
courtyard. She pinches at the cuffs of my pants, which are stained red from
walking the roads.
“You are very dirty,” she says.
The next morning, I put on completely clean pants.
The children put me to shame with their clothes-washing.
They are diligent, rubbing and scrubbing with soap and pouring water from the
jerry cans to rinse. Then the clothes are hung on a line that stretches taut
through the middle of the courtyard. It is a beautiful sight. I snap a photo of
the line. Something in the colors captures me.
In the afternoon, we are playing Four Square in the
courtyard. I do not know who taught the kids my childhood-favorite game, but I
am glad to play with them. The best is that I don’t have to hold back. They’re
good, so I play hard..
During a rowdy point, Julio swings his arm to hit the
ball and whacks the clothesline. Underwear and shirts drop on his head and on
the ground. Everyone laughs. They pick up the clothes and hang them back on the
line. They continue on with the game.
This one is hard. It’s 87 degrees out and sunny, and I am
too cold, inside a protected, insulated, nearly dust dirt mud-free Panera
Bread.
And this has become an almost indispensable daily
experience for me. It is a controlled environment. It is a portion of my daily
bread.
I am afraid for that, for myself, for others. My daily
bread is twisting. My daily bread is changing.
I am afraid, because deep down, I am a
dirt-around-my-pant-cuffs kind of man.
I’m a flip-it-inside-out-for-Wednesday kind of man.
I’m a pick-my-underwear-out-of-the-dirt-and-hang-it-back-on-the-line
kind of man.
The power is out for the night at the orphanage, and so
the children are gathered in one room, eating spaghetti in the dark, except for
a headlamp hanging from the wall.
In the next room over, the staff sit under a dim solar
light that doesn’t even illuminate faces. I’m on a laptop with an Internet
stick, trying to check my email. The Internet is crawling. Across from me,
Patrick’s face is extra dark. He asks if I am okay.
“I am,” I say.
There is singing from the next room. It is the children.
They have begun singing in the darkness. The drums are thumping. Darling
Jesus, they are singing.
I close the laptop. I walk to the room with all the
singing. It is what I need. We all pile in. It is hot and dark. We sing and
dance in the small room.
Later, Caleb stands in the middle of the room, holding
the headlamp. Caleb tells the story of Jonah. We are all in the belly of a
whale.
So, this one is hard: my daily bread, my portion. I am
twisting it. I am twisting it, and I am knowing this, and so I look to the
children of RUHU. Their daily bread.
They have daily chores. They wash their clothes. They
wash the little ones. They do schoolwork. They eat in the light. Sometimes,
they eat in the dark. They flip their clothes inside-out. They wear two
sandals. They wear one sandal. They run barefoot. They dance. They drum. They
sing that they have Jesus. They have Jesus.
The children are the haves and the have-nots. They own
and they are also missing; full and also lacking. But I tell you: they know
daily bread. They know their portion.
When I am with them, I learn. I am humbled. I am a bit
ashamed.
When I am with them, I learn.
“What is one thing you wish you could do every day?” I
ask a few of them in the courtyard.
“Collect firewood,” one says.
“No no,” I say. “Like anything. A fun thing. A really fun
thing. Something you love to do.”
“Pray. And sing.”
Every day. They cannot go without it.
If you get the chance, to stand surrounded by the kids of
RUHU, while they pray and sing and dance, you will see. You’ll get it.
Pray. And sing.