A few weeks ago, I was out to eat with the nannies, enjoying a night out. On our way back to the mission, we stopped at MegaMart for frappes. I stood in line with Kayla; I counted out my money; I took the receipt. A little hand popped out of nowhere. Looking down, I saw a filthy boy in a ratty muscle shirt and shorts. I dropped my coins into his hand, then waited for my drink. Kayla began to question him: his name was Ronaldo, he was 11 years old, his mom died, he stays at the craft market... The other nannies joined us and we introduced them to the little boy. We gave him money; Martha bought him a meal. Ronaldo told us specifically where he lived. King Street. On the corner. By the church. We told him we'll look for him again. We told him to be careful.
A week later, on our way to a revival meeting in the ghetto, we passed his "home". We eagerly looked for him...all I saw was a pile of garbage.
I could have cried that night in MegaMart. Why did this dear 11-year-old, younger than my little sister, have to live on the streets? Why does he have to beg for money and steal in order to survive? I now live in Jamaica. But even now, in my comfy little bedroom, with plenty to eat, it's easy to forget the Ronaldos who fight to survive. Oh God, watch out for him.
Barefoot Missionary
Abby, i hear your pain. it's hard not to take all of it on ourselves. truth? only Jesus can carry that pain for us & all the Ronaldo's of J.
ReplyDelete*hugs!* i have your pic by my computer desk & breath prayers for you all!
Tonight I kept talking to God, asking Him for the courage and boldness I lack. Then I started reading your blog.. the further I read the God spoke to me. "Be patient child. I made you. Walk in my way. When you need to be strong look to me. " thank you for letting God speak through your words.
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