Living With A Broken Heart

Psalm 51:17 “The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.”

Every day, the dawn breaks and a new day begins. And every day brings a new face – a real person with a beating heart, with eyes that stare into mine, with a hand to hold and a story that shatters my soul. How can we turn away our hands? How can we simply say “We will pray for you,” and not do something?

I have struggled working in the clinic, seeing school children during the week and the rest of the community on the weekend. Each child I ask “Did you eat today?” and the answer is always no if it is before their 10:00am meal of porridge that they get at school. I then ask who they live with at home and very rarely have an answer of mom and/or dad. I love to hug them and get a smile out of them. And then I pray with them. Because what good is physical healing if their soul is in danger? If they don’t know Jesus as Savior?

My heart is constantly broken and being broken again and again. God’s grace alone lets me get up and do another day.

I think of Michael, eight years old and burned badly in a fire. People scoff because he was jumping over the fire, but what they don’t know is that his grandpa died almost one year ago exactly and ever since then he has been acting out. His grandmother let her husband die so she could sell his land. And now here is Michael, in the hospital for weeks, a brave little boy wanting to be loved, with 25% of his skin burned off.

I think of a woman I saw in the clinic, Prossy, mother of a two year old. She has cancer and no way to pay the $500.00 needed for radiation. No way to pay the money so that she won’t have to leave another orphan behind.  She came in, bent over in pain, begging for help.

I think of Collin, a boy in the “foster care” system because his father, a witch doctor, raped a woman and is in prison. His mother abandoned him when he was six months old. He has the sweetest smile you ever saw, with huge dimples and eyes that speak volumes. The first night here, we fed him a bowl of rice and beans. Once it was gone, he looked into his lap and started to cry. This boy had countless sores on his legs, oozing and broken open. He uses his shirt or his hands to wipe after using the bathroom. And yet, he sits on your lap, snuggling and singing “Hallelujah.”

I think of baby Isaac, two months old. He was abandoned by his father, so his mother left him at a bar to get back at him. He has the sweetest brown eyes, and when I hold him, I cannot fathom leaving him.

And then I think of Grace. Sweet Grace.  No one knows her age; by her teeth, they say she is three or four. She wears 9-12 month size clothes. She was abandoned in a bush with a dress and shoes on. She was found covered in scabs and was severely malnourished. On Saturday, we went to the place she was found to try and find any information we could about where she came from. And as I looked at the very bush she was found, I felt sick.  How can you leave your child? How can you not care? Grace is coming alive again. She laughs and plays and cries and wants to be held. Her face is filling out and her belly is not as swollen. But the road to recovery is long.

Finally, I think of a mom, left all alone with triplets, hated by her family and community. In this culture, triplets are considered a curse. They are at risk – the witch doctor wants them so he can do spells and eventually kill them, and the family blames them for all the problems they have. These three boys are nine months old. Nine months. Their mother wants to give them up. She feels defeated, depressed and cannot care for them.

These are real children, real people…. just like you and me. As I hold these children in my arms, I am angry. Angry at mothers who abandon their children. Angry at fathers who are never to be found. Angry at cultures who consider innocent babies as curses. And angry at people who look right past and do nothing, who hear but don’t feel.

But then I am reminded of my sin – my hard heart, my selfishness, my fears and uncertainties. I am reminded that no matter how many good things I do, I am just as sinful. God doesn’t want me to be angry – He wants me to be broken. Broken for my sin. Broken for the sin in the world causing children to be unloved and thrown away, causing mothers to be beaten, causing cultures to be twisted and deceived. And I am thankful that I am living with a broken heart.

How can I make you feel it with me? I cannot. I have no words for my feelings, no words for the horror and the sadness, for the hidden and visible wounds, for the pain. I cannot make you understand. I cannot make you care. But I can pray. And I can be broken. May the Lord transform hearts, as He is in the process of transforming mine. In my brokenness, I am changed. And while sometimes I am falling apart, barely breathing…when I am weak, then He is strong. And Jesus is enough.