Then children were brought to him that he might lay his hands on them and pray. The disciples rebuked the people, but Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven.” And he laid his hands on them and went away. ~Matthew 19:13-15
During the evenings, we have been walking over to the Sisters of Charity Hospital for sick and malnourished children. There are no cameras allowed at Sisters, but I did manage to get an image of this painting that greets each visitor as you walk into the compound. With this image as a starting place, I'll try to paint a picture of what Sisters is for your imagination...
You walk through the gates into a very clean and well-kept facility. You can hear little cries on all sides as you make your way through the waiting area where families huddle together around sick little ones. The melody of baby cries grows as you walk toward the nurseries. Then you walk through a door of a nursery and you are greeted by rows of white metal cribs holding sweet, precious, beloved, frail, and shockingly small babies.
As a visitor at Sisters, you can help the nurses and nannies and sisters by snuggling with a baby or strolling around the hospital with a toddler. We have been visiting at meal times so that we can help with feeding. What a painful joy it is to feed a little one who has clearly known hunger and starvation.
This summer I walked into nursery room three and spotted a bright-eyed little girl in a purple floral dress. At about age 2, she was sitting up and smiling widely as soon as we made eye contact. As I came closer and tickled her little tummy, she burst out in a contagious little laugh that brought a burst of lightness to my deeply dark state of heart. I looked around at the closest cribs and spotted a whole group of little girls who appeared to be about the same age and shared this same outgoing temperament. As I watched, the nannies and other visitors lifted the girls out of their cribs one by one and took them outside to toddle and play. The cribs of nursery room three slowly emptied until there was one little girl left in an over-sized purple smock laying on her back staring stubbornly upward and away from any peering eyes. I walked over and noted first how markedly small and frail this little one was in comparison with her neighbors. Maybe she had not been under the care of the sisters as long as the others, or maybe something within her prevented her from truly thriving in this caring environment. Whatever the reason, this precious one was laying there small and helpless and also determined not to connect with others.
I picked her up and got some milk for her to drink. She took the milk thankfully and used her thin little arms to hold the cup to her own mouth. Her name tag wrapped around her ankle identified her as a 23 month old girl whose first name is Samantha. On that first visit, I just wandered around and tried to comfort this sweet little one. Little by little her body softened and she laid her head against me. Then her hands gripped tightly onto my shirt and eventually she fell into a deep sleep in my arms. Her eyes avoided contact with mine until the very end of that first visit.
The worst moment of each visit is when I have to say goodbye and lay Samantha back down in her crib. Her bright eyes look straight into mine and that little cry pours out of her. Pain and loneliness and fear are all welled up inside, things that Samantha is all too familiar with. I try to hush her, to assure her that everything is going to be alright, but these are hollow words whispered through my own tears which are full of uncertainty and heartache. I walk away because I have to, but each time I visit I find it more and more difficult to make my feet move. With all that is in me, I long to stay by her crib and pick her up and comfort her. I want to let her know that she isn't alone in this world. I want her to have arms that will hold her head up when she is too weak, hands that will support her frail little legs when she tries to stand, and a heart that will simply love her. I know this isn't a role I can play forever, and I know there are nurses and nannies and sisters and visitors who will be there to meet those needs in days to come. For now though, I'm cherishing each visit and each moment when I see Samantha grow more comfortable and I get to see glimpses of light in her. Last time it was a bright-eyed smile over blowing bubbles and a shy, barely audible little giggle as she watched on while others played peek-a-boo. Her eyes aren't hiding now, but seek my face to share her feelings, even when she is too weak to hold her head up and she lays limply in my arms.
I am so thankful for places like Sisters of Charity where precious and vulnerable children like Samantha can find care for their needs today and the safety and provision for a future where they can grow and thrive. Above even this urgent care for physical needs, I'm thankful for the Heavenly Father who sees orphans like Samantha. He doesn't despise or ignore them. He looks on their plight with compassion and rebukes anyone who tries to hinder them from coming to Him. I'm praying that Samantha will become stronger and grow up and come to know the love of this Father who gave all of His life for us. I'm praying for the faith to trust that God holds Samantha and the countless other orphans in His loving hands and He will indeed bid them come to Him.
Much love in Christ, Jessie
