Beyond a Hard-Knock Life

And that’s just the adults.

The rest of our team quickly surged in, scooping up a few of the 60+ children that live out each day in the dust on sheets and a spartan playground. Just a few weeks ago, I’m told there was a heap of more than 50 tiny bodies stacked in the same space after the earthquake broke their world.

Several of our men climbed atop the old iron merry go round, swirling a couple of tykes into broad smiles and laughter.

Beverly went right to work, holding babies and checking their tiny bodies for fever and dysfunction. At least one, she said, has pneumonia.

My husband tossed a donated football with a couple of the boys. Our team’s pastor sat on a tarp on the ground, his lap overrun by a couple of children. Dana had two more. Brad two. Mark same. Debbie. JP. John.

Even with every member of our team cradling several kids at a time, there was no way to grow enough arms and laps to touch them all.

The boys clamored for the matchbox cars in the bottom of my bag and one sad-eyed son scored an unopened bag of tiny green soldiers. His eyes widened in amazement at his good fortune, but I saw one of the older boys pursue him around the corner. The younger of the two was back in line, his eyes swollen with tears, minutes later.

Two sleeves of hair ties were in my bag and, to satisfy so many, I doled them out, one by one, to extended hands. Sometimes there were so many tiny fingers reaching toward my face that I couldn’t see what I was holding.

Red. White. Black. Blue. Pink. Navy. Green.

When the women saw there were elastic ties being given away, they discarded all pretense and stepped forward with hands outstretched.

The older kids were quick learners. When one child who was already clutching a toy gestured that he’d like to deliver a treasure to someone across the yard and I relented, savvy copycats queued up, pointing to phantom recipients. When I busted them with a knowing laugh and scolding, their eyes would sparkle and lips quiver into mischievous grins.

In the space where our team had planned to build a shelter, a French team had already come and gone, leaving behind a sturdy building to house the kids. In the area vacant just this morning when our advance team had visited, there was now a beautiful Shelterbox tent.

There is work that still needs to be done and food is scarce, but the greatest need seemed to be one of companionship. Many of these children likely have no way to comprehend why it has not been their mother’s arms or father’s shoulders that have held them these past few weeks. Their loss is still raw and new.

Too soon, it was time to leave. The sky was darkening and much of our team would be crammed into the rear bed of a pickup truck to ride for 30 minutes through the traffic- and people-choked streets back to our camp. To minimize risk, we needed to hurry.

As the driver was backing the truck from the orphanage, one lone child came staggering toward us with outstretched arms, sobbing to see us leave.

His tears matched our own, but especially those of John, my tall, quiet-natured teammate who had to return him to his plight.