Song in my Soul

Yesterday I had the opportunity to visit the orphanage that our kids have known as their home and their family. As we all know, there are certain experiences and exchanges that are impossible to display in words, they are as a song meant as much to be understood in vocal lyrics as in the thrumming of the soul. This orphanage dances literally and figuratively to a song of love, joy, and gentleness. But the dance slows upon the recognition of sorrow, loss, and fraying hopes. Unfortunately, this blog will mostly be description that cuts the heart out of the song.

All compounds of any sort, hotels, and nicer houses are all walled (a remnant of war becoming a staple of expected culture), so I arrived to a bland wall and a locked gate printed in the simple title of Americans for African Adoptions. The car honked and cheers went up inside the gate...the director was arriving! The presence of a white lady as well as the understood mother of some of their own, caused quiet apprehension among the young kids and the special needs kids who weren't at school. And then, little Sarah, probably 1.5 years, opened up her arms to be picked up.  As she happily took claim to my lap and defended her territory, the rest gathered around to touch my hair, get their picture taken, and to touch my soft arms. Emmanuel wheeled his chair over to me and started the chorus of "take my picture" that resonated throughout the rest of the day from one tenor of voice to another.

Oretha (the lovely director and my case worker in a sense) took me and little Sarah who wouldn't budge from my hip, on a tour of the relatively small compound that holds 35 kids.

The Kitchen is used for storage of cooking items. Actual cooking is done outside over coal. The sink there has no running water in it. There is a freezer that you cannot see that is run by the solar panels installed by Psalm82:3 Mission team last year.

Their playground is quite nice, actually. The ground is sand and the equipment is in nice condition. Clearly loved and used by all.

The blue is the gate to come into the compound and there is really enough room here to park one car between the gate and the building. It looks bigger in the picture than it is. The black tank is their water system and the pump is their only water source. The kids and adults use buckets to collect the water to pour over their hands and feet.  

I included this picture because this sink does not have running water in it and is misleading. The large bucket there is filled with water that someone pours over your hands into the bathtub while you wash. 

This is the boys dormitory. The kids all sleep in bunk beds just like this one. A thin mattress with a fitted sheet. No pillows, no sheets. Note that their only personal belongings are in that small pile at the head of the bed. Then the mosquito net obviously comes down. There is no a/c and it gets hot and stuffy. I didn't get a picture of the girls 

A pretty self explanatory picture. I'm not sure how they get the laundry dry when it keeps raining outside. But, the children wore three pairs of clothes the day I was there and most of them were clean and in excellent condition.  They wore their school uniform, changed into play clothes, played even while it rained until they were wet and filthy, and then into a dry set for the evening.

Not pictured is a common room for the kids to be in that holds meager books and bathrooms with usable toilets but not running water.  I didn't try it out but I assumed the put a bucket of water down the toilet to "flush" it. I would say that the inside of the compound is about the size of an American house. The outside space is nice and there are two large porch-like areas for eating and laundry.

Seven of the children get physical therapy three times a week. All seven kids, and three adults piled into a Toyota van that seats only seven and travelled down dirt roads headed to the office. Most of the kids could not sit on their own and were propped up against one another. One beautiful girl needed to be held by an adult.

Being somewhat familiar with physical therapy, I was pleased to see so much being done for the kids: occupational therapy, speech therapy, physical therapy. They allowed me in to take pictures of the kids despite the posting saying that for privacy no pictures or visitors are allowed. I was careful only to take pictures of the kids from the orphanage. Those kids were strong in their weakness and brave in the face of their obvious pain. The rooms had no air-conditioning and with the many bodies quickly heated up and then the crying began. Oretha and I left to the outside to spare ourselves the pain of their cries as the therapists did what was necessary to keep those precious little bodies flexible and functional. Oretha explained to me that the doctor told her on the first day not to stay inside that it would be too hard to hear the cries. She also explained that the government brought these special needs kids to the orphanage and then provided nothing for them. All the physical therapy is done because Oretha knows it is necessary and carves it out of her meager budget.

After two hours of therapy we returned to drop off the physical therapy patients and then to go get the kids from Effort Baptist Church School.  17 kids and two adults piled into the van. Yes, 17, and it actually moved. Luckily it was only a few blocks away...in fact, the kids collectively counted to 117 and that is how long it took to get back to the orphanage.

I didn't get to go into the school building but here it is attached to the main church. Effort Baptist. School in Liberia is not free but is cheap by American Standards. If I remember right it was $350 a student for the year. But that is a high sum for most working class Liberians. There are no sports and activities here.

They quietly piled out, went automatically to their rooms, changed out of their uniform, washed their hands, said a prayer, and sat down to potato greens and rice without a word. They ate quietly stealing looks at me maybe to see my soft white arms or maybe to see if I would eat all my food. They quietly put their food away then returned to move the chairs from the table. At this point, I was worried that this was a strict orphanage that allowed no personality or freedom.

The kids eagerly went to the playground and I went with them. They quietly took up familiar posts and played meekly with each other. A young girl named Francis decided that I was hers and she let me hold her quietly. Then...a chicken got lose and their pet dog Rex chased it frantically around the playground. The children erupted into laughter broking the tension and the real music of the orphanage began.

Hold me. Play with me. Push me on the swing. Lift me up to the bars. Take a picture of me. Can I touch your hair. Handclap with me..."double, double, this this." And punctuated through it all...Mom, watch me.

A blur of faces and hands moving here and there. With steady Francis refusing to be deposed. My own kids old enough to want to play with their friends but still want my attention. They made faces and posed and called for me to watch.

We had been told that our girl Gifty loves to dance and she does, oh, does she move! But, they all love to dance and dance. In both an effort to show off and in obviously practiced repetition they began a collective dance routine where they chanted in a circle and called out each kid to dance in the middle. Oh! Their joy! My joy!

They all wanted their picture taken and faced in my direction so that I could capture them as they feel inside. (I'm hoping to put pictures here but because these are not my children I cannot do so without permission I have not yet been granted. So check back later to see if I got permission because it is beautiful and brings meaning to what I've been saying.)

They played like this for on an hour when Oretha called me to sit and rest. The kids disbanded to play alone some more while Francis continued to regale me with her dance and song while Mardea sat on one of my legs and played "double, double" hand clapping and Ophelia on the other leg just wanting to be near but now and then hand clapping too. Finally, as my time to leave was approaching, the tune turned to sadness and Oretha explained that the children felt the pain of seeing their friends finding a family and them not having their own. Their hope fraying.

Francis had started to call me mommy and wanted to leave in the van with me. She insisted that I hold both her and Ophelia and just repeatedly said she would come home with me. How do you tell a four year old no I'm not your mommy? How do you tell a four year old she doesn't have a family yet? How do you tell a four year old you have to leave her? How do you tell a four year old that you don't know what will happen to her? How DO you leave?

And when I do leave, Francis hid in the back room and Ophelia cried. And my children, my three, have the hope of today and they repeatedly verified that they would see me for the weekend.

And when I do leave, my determination is renewed that I will not give up and I will not be discouraged and I will wait as long as it takes. They deserve it.

And when I do leave, I hold my tears until I am alone and then I cry for the children.

And when I leave this whole country, I will always have that song in my soul for this orphanage and this country who is singing a song of lament and a song of joy.