Memories

The mind is a funny thing. The way that a scent, a sight, a taste, a sound can trigger a flood of memories, taking you back to another world, another place, another life.

 Today I saw one of those yellow "Wet Floor" signs and on it is also printed "Piso mojado." In case you don't speak Spanish that means wet floor :) For whatever reason, that phrase triggered my brain back to my first trip to Eagle's Nest Children's Home in Guatemala. I was 14, and terrified of using my limited Spanish vocabulary. I was overwhelmed by the number of children in the home- 70 babies in a large room, 3 to a crib, prop-fed by bottles on blankets. Working in the infant room felt a bit like walking on thin ice. The mommas had worked there for years and had a system- their ears were used to the constant crying and noise. They had their feeding and bathing schedule down to a science. I desperately wanted to help but often felt like I was butting in- after all, this is their job and these are their babies.

So I never felt like I could just go up to the changing counter and change a diaper. I also didn't know how to say diaper. So instead, I would take a baby up to one of the mommas, hold him up, scrunch up my nose and say, "El bebe tiene pantalones sucios." Translated literally as "the baby has dirty pants." They would laugh, and some of them would fake a smile and nod their head. How silly it all seems now.

First of all, knowing how elementary my Spanish sounded. I'm sure some of them enjoyed my broken grammar and mis-used vocabulary. But I have a feeling they did not appreciate me, the North American, bringing them baby after baby with diapers to be changed. They surely knew that babies had dirty diapers. They surely knew that babies were lying in cribs screaming. They surely knew.

This brings me to think of two things. Firstly, we owe so much to the natives who work in international orphanages, tirelessly caring for the least of these. We owe so much to the foster families who open their homes to children both here in the US and abroad. In doing this, they open their hearts to love and to heartbreak. They love children who are not their own- either biologically or adopted. And as I've heard from other mothers, this job of parenthood is not an easy one. If you are traveling to an orphanage, consider taking gifts not only for the children but also for the caregivers. When you enter the orphanage, greet not only the children with a hug and smile, but also the caregivers. Were it not for willing hearts and hands, these children would not be cared for.

Secondly, it brings to mind my main take-away from my most last trip down: that orphanages are not God's plan for children. Families are. I can remember looking at my dad on our flight home and saying, "We don't need more volunteers willing to travel to a foreign country and play with children for a week. We need more adoptive families." I realize that no family is perfect. But an imperfect family cloaked in the grace and love of Christ will be enough for a child, and a far better option than none at all.

It's romantic- this idea of flying far away to serve in an old building filled with children. It makes you feel good, it makes you look good when all your Facebook friends see you holding these beautiful children. The work is done in the name of Christ, myself included. In and of itself, these service trips are not bad. Please hear me on this. The Lord is glorified through them, but what we really need are people willing to open their homes and hearts to adopt. People who are willing to get dirty, willing to work in the trenches for the sake of little broken hearts, wounded from abandonment and lack of security. It is not easy, it is not cheap, it may very well be the hardest thing you will ever do. But it is desperately, desperately needed, and that will not change until we empty these orphanages into our homes- one child at a time.

My mind floats back to that room in the orphanage. It is dark out. I mindlessly rock back and forth in the wooden rocking chair, a sweet baby in each arm, breathing softly. A momma comes over to whisk away two more to change their "pantalones sucios" and I give her a smile. The older children are crowded around a small TV watching a movie, the one time of the day that they are quiet and still. I look down at the darling faces of the sleeping babies- admiring their perfect crinkled noses, tightened fists, and smooth skin. I whisper in their ears, "Jesus te ama." Jesus loves you. They may never know the stability of a family, imperfect as even the best. Their foster families and mommas may not always be there. But there is One who is. And I pray that in those moments when the waves of fear, insecurity, and worry come, that they might fall onto the Rock of Ages, the Father they never had.