school supplies and shoeless feet

 A box of school supplies -pencils, notebooks, crayons, pens- sits open on my bedroom floor. I sit, staring, longing. I close my eyes. I can see the children, their sweet faces. This box will go to children I have seen, children I have hugged, children I have played with, children I love. I finger the jump ropes in the box as I think of hopscotches drawn in the dirt. I remember the crumbling brick building, the way the children danced for us, how we sat under the trees and just hugged these precious little ones. I remember, and the tears fall.

My team went to a lot of schools while in Uganda, and it hurts to say that I cannot remember all the schools or the children. But there is one school that is forever engrained in my mind and on my heart-- Isaac's project, Message of Hope Ministries.

Their school is a crumbling brick building. 30 of the children who attend the school are orphans. They sleep in a separate building next to the school. Some of their blue bunk beds are not the traditional two beds high, but rather three beds. Two kids sleep on a bed, so 4-6 children sleep on one bunk bed. Not all the beds have mattresses. A shelf with cubby holes holds whatever possessions they have- a towel, a blanket, perhaps a change of clothes.

The school is made of crumbling bricks. Light comes only from the windows and doors. These children learn here. These children love school, they love learning. They don't own pencils or notebooks, they sit on benches, yet they can still learn. So unlike America.

When we arrived at the school, the first thing the children did was greet us. We introduced ourselves one-by-one, going around the group and saying our names. They greeted us with the sweetest little handclap I have ever heard. And then they took us outside, gave us lime green chairs to sit on. And they danced.

Let me tell you this: Africans can dance. Those little kids got rhythm and beat, it's in their blood. They put this muzungu to shame, let me tell you. They tried to teach us to dance once, and although we laughed and had a great time, muzungus just can't dance like the Africans. They danced and danced, they clapped, they sang. It was the sweetest gift.

We went to this school twice. We sat under the trees and played games- hand clapping games, dancing, singing songs. We played red-rover. We played capture the flag (note: African kiddos can really run fast) with our water bottles. We told them the story of David and Goliath, and Joshua and the walls of Jericho.

The kids swung from the rope that hung from one of the trees, patiently taking turns. They played on hopscotches drawn in the dirt. They own very little, but they were so content. You ask them if they have prayer requests, and they ask you to pray for them to get shoes. And to rebuild their school.

My closet alone has 10 pairs of shoes. 10 pairs of shoes for one person is far too many. I have the ability to pick a pair of shoes that match my outfit while kids in Africa walk on hot, dirty, rocky ground with bare feet. There is something terribly wrong with this picture.

I sit now at my desk, using my own computer. The rain beats against my windows, and I am thankful that they have screens and glass. But I think about the windows in Africa that don't have screens, or glass. When it rains, the water comes in through the windows of that school. Do the children get wet and cold? Does someone hug them when lightning strikes and thunder rolls? Are their blankets thick enough to keep them warm on a chilly night? Their bare feet walk on muddy grounds, do they have soap to wash them clean?

My mind sits, wondering. I look at the box of school supplies and it makes my heart happy and sad. I imagine the smiles on the faces of those kids when they see jump ropes, when they have pencils to write with and paper to write on. Right now, I cannot be there to wrap my arms around these kids or to spend time with them and tell them that they are dearly loved. Right now, all I can do is send a box, send my love, and pray.