Spirit of Adoption

At our new home, there are kids around constantly. Sunrise to sunset, little hands line the window sills, hoisting up faces to peer in and see if any of their new friends are awake and selfishly not outside playing. These kids range in age from 3 years to mid-20’s, each with bare feet and their own heartbreaking story. From a ministry standpoint, we could not have any better circumstances. We have a captive audience of 30-40 kids on our back porch at all times, hungering for attention, interaction, and, ultimately, the gospel. They fight over holding our hands, sitting next to us, taking pictures with us, anything to feel comforted and loved. These children bring desperation to a new level. Determined to make the msot of the childrens presence, three of my teammates and I decided to bring Young Life, a dearly loved ministry from home (younglife.org), to the dusty roads of the Swazi Kingdom. 

Monday evening, 4:55pm, plain yellow walls blend with the bare concrete floor, black sheets-turned-curtains flutter in the open windows, the room is well swept and quiet in anticipation of the red aluminum doors fling open at an second. I pace back and forth in prayer and double check the playlist set on the ipod, plugged in to small speakers, resting on the deep freeze that serves as a prop table and a stage. In the kitchen, somone is briefing Maphile, our translator and friend, on the games and order of events for the final time. My teammates are dressed and ready, praying over the night for one last time before everything gets crazy. We move to the door and lift our arms to make an arched tunnel, I unlock the doors.

Monday evening, 5:00pm, the walls are lined with screaming youth, the floors covered in the dust that blew in as they entered. Faces of children too young to attend peep in the windows, begging to be let in. Waka Waka is blasting through the tiny speakers and everyone in the room is singing along at a volume that rivals any sports stadium I’ve ever entered. The room’s energy boasts with the joy of the Lord, and 80 teenagers can’t sit still at the thought of what could happen next. Skits are performed, games are played, announcements are given, praises are sung. The room grows quiet once again. All eyes turn to the front, and I stand before them, leaning against the freezer. I breathe in, and ask to begin with a word of prayer, dying to be heard correctly and to speak words pleasing to the One who put me in the front of the room. One more breath, and it’s go time. 

“Do you remember being born? Do you remember when your brothers or sisters were born? Has anyone ever told you a story about that day?” The volume of the room gets fuzzier as responses stir. “Have you ever seen a new born baby? Aren’t they ugly?” More stirring, a few giggles. “I bet when you were born, you were little and hairy and needy and wrinkley and you screamed all of the time. I know I wasn’t cute, I was pink and loud and whiney, most babies are. But, their parents look at them and smile and love them immediately, count every finger and every toe, hold them and love them.” Blank stares greet me. “I don’t know if you have parents or gogos or aunts or uncles that love you or tell you about the day you were born, but I do know that on the day you entered this world, angels rejoiced and at least one person loved you unconditionally.” More blank stares. I decide to continue. “In fact, He loved you even before you were born. He was your Father then, and He was your Father five years ago, and last week and yesterday and this morning and now and tonight and tomorrow and forever and ever until you go to Heaven to be with Him.” Eyes were locked on me and the Lord poured words of comfort, love, assurance and purpose out of my mouth to blanket this room of attentive, beloved children. 

I spoke about God as our Father, our creator, our everlasting companion. He chose every single child in that room and said, ‘No, this one is mine. I love him. I love her. I want him for my Kingdom, I want her to live after my heart. This one is mine.’ His love is a lofty concept for any of us, but even more so for the children of Swaziland. Fatherlessness plagues this country, a never-ending plight of abandonement, lacking and forgotenness. The dark-complected children that sat with crossed legs and locked eyes on the floor before me needed to know that they would never be over-looked or abandoned by the God who put the stars in the sky and knows every hair on their head. He called this children, instilled them with the spirit of adoption, and has promised them everlasting life. Romans 9:8 says, “This means that is is not the children of the flesh who are the children of God, but the children of the promise are counted as descendants.” Children of the promise! Children who are chosen, loved, treasured, created, remembered, loved. Children who may not have an earthly father or mother, but who have a Father who smiles upon them and weeps over them. What a promise. 

Monday evening, 6:30pm, the room is empty, the walls have an orange-ish tint from dusty bodies leaning against them. The floor is being swept once again, the stove is being lit and vegetables are being chopped for dinner. The children have all gone home, and my team starts to trickle inside as the temperature drops and the wind picks up. Things return to normal, but something feels different. My teammate comes up and gives me a hug, capturing the exact thoughts racing through my brain as I watch the last girls skip home from our open gate. “They aren’t the same, Emma. They aren’t orphans any more.”

How can we help but rejoice? We have so many children hanging on our every word, so many hearts longing to know more about the one called Lord, so many bodies packing the room with anticipatory joy, so many wanting to know when our next Young Life meeting is. How can we help but rejoice? We have a Father who knows us, who created us, who loves us unconditionally, who will never leave us. We aren’t orphans any more.