I will not regret that we loved

      Nothing hurts the heart more than meeting the most rejected and neglected. Having no way of helping other than to offer love, and watching them reject your love. People tell us all the time that we will burn out here in Kenya. They are right. Every day that our love is abused or rejected is a burnout. We have discovered this. Burnout is suffering for and with Christ. Have I ever suffered or burned-out as much as a street kid in Kenya, or Jesus Christ himself?

      Let me share this story with you. A story that everyday reminds my flesh that I don't want to try anymore and that I'm I am done. A story that everyday reminds me that only by the Spirit I can push forward, in spite of heartache.

      One Sunday morning in December, two boys stopped me on my way to church. The boys, Daniel Maina and Paul Githuka Njoroge, were doing the usual street-boy begging for "5 bob" (roughly 6 American cents), and I pulled out my usual questioning to find out where they lived. With prying and investigating, I found out that Daniel was truly an orphan living on the streets, and Paul had a mother living in Juja, a nearby city.

      I asked Daniel and Paul what they would like to be when they grow up. Daniel said he would be a pilot, flying around the world, and Paul said he would be a teacher. I could tell that the glue, their drug of choice and circumstance that they regularly huffed, had already caused permanent damage. Without a miracle of restoring the brain damage, there was little hope of either of these future dreams being a reality.

      I told the boys to meet me again after church right where we were standing in the garbage pile near the Matatu (Bus) stage. I made it clear to them to meet me there if they wanted real help.

      Church finished and I doubted that these two would show. A few minutes later though, I looked up and walking toward me was Paul. Paul was definitely the sicker of the two. I described him as a boy days from death. It hurt to even look at him. Making eye contact made me feel sick inside.

      As we walked together to talk and get a bite to eat, I noticed the other boy, Daniel, following behind us. I watched as Paul turned and shouted over to Daniel in Swahili, "He told us to meet him at just that time. You said you wouldn't go. You can't come now!" I gestured for Daniel to join us, but I watched as he ran away. While eating in the restaurant, I could see Daniel outside walking back and forth by the window. I commented many times to those eating with us that I wished Daniel would just come in and be accepted.

      It reminded me of how Jesus would tell those who wanted to follow him to leave everything and follow right then and there. At that moment, for the first time, I understood. There can be no hesitations in following, and you must leave everything else behind.

      Paul told me how his mother survived in Juja by prostituting herself, but could not make enough to care for her children. I've learned from the women themselves, here in the slums, that they will sell themselves for as little as 20 Shillings (about 22 American cents). This is truly survival. I could see Paul's face light up when he spoke of his mother. I could see that he loved her, but could not accept me challenging him to go to Juja to see her. Everything I was seeing and hearing in Paul hurt down to my core.

      Paul and I parted ways with an agreement that we would meet a few days later. When that day came, we searched all around Thika but never found him.

      More than a week later we finally found him. He looked even more sickly than before. My wife took his picture that day (photo above), and I could not contain my tears at many times during our time with him. I knew God was challenging Paul to make it his own choice to change. I talked with him about the hard things, about detoxifying and special trade schooling because of his drug use and brain damage. I even felt anger because I knew we could not help, and I fully knew that Jesus was sharing in my emotions in that moment too.

      I think some people cannot grasp the pain that comes with the reality of what we do here. Maybe they turn a blind eye, and pretend that it's not real. It is real. Many days we feel like consistent failures. Not a failure to reach out with love, but a failure to truly connect with and help those who need it most. We try our hardest. We just can't help those who don't want help. No matter how hard we try. When it doesn't work, it is hard. It is heartache.

      As we have gotten to know the children living on the streets around us, we have found that almost all of them have family who live in the slums nearby. These families are often worse off than the children on the streets. The lives in the slums are only deteriorating.

      The problem is not that we don't have enough NGOs, or that there is just not enough money to give. These may be problems by themselves, but the biggest problem is that we have entire cities and churches of selfish people. Not selfish with their money, but selfish with their love. They don't acknowledge and know the names of those who need love most.

      I have seen the mass graves of Kiandutu slums, and I have watched, just as we always do, people mourn when someone dies. But not when a street child dies. No one cries if this one dies. You will never even know. This needs to change. People say they want to help, but they use the excuse of not having money. A street kid doesn't need your money. They need your heart. Will you know their name? Will you hug them?

      We have been singing 'Give Us Your Heart' for a few years now, and the reality of that song digs in and hurts inside. "Change my heart." This pain of helping and hurting should not be something we run from, but something that we face head on and get to know personally. Struggling and suffering right alongside those who won't be here for long.

      I haven't seen Paul in months. I'm not even sure if he is still alive, but I will not forget his name. I will not regret that we loved. -

Published August 3, 2011

For I was hungry
and you fed me