missionaries of charity.

We arrived in Nairobi, Kenya twelve hours later than planned. Despite the setback, we all made an effort to drag ourselves out of our mid-morning naps to visit the charity home in Huruma (the second largest slum in Nairobi) established by the Missionaries of Charity ministry Mother Teresa started. (Picture is above. Notice the contrast between the slum outside and the charity home.)

We pulled in with the expectation that the sisters would let us come in and volunteer for a few hours, only to learn that most of the kids were being put to sleep, and we could only go on a tour. Figuring a tour was better than nothing, we commenced our walk through the home's three wards: the orphans' ward, the disabled orphans' ward, and the disabled women's ward. 

Not only was I unprepared for what we saw, but I was not aware of the toll this short visit would take on my emotions. 

Choking back tears, I marveled at the beauty of the home. Here we were, in the middle of a slum, watching women, who have given up their whole lives to compassion, care for unwanted children. 

In the midst of a place that should be ridden with despair and sadness, I felt such an overwhelming sense of peace and joy. The sisters were happy to be there, caring for these women and children. It was inexplicable. Only the presence of God could make such a place so hopeful.

As we walked back to the entrance, I was talking to the sister who took us on our tour. I asked her how often new orphans come, and if they ever turn people away because their facilities are "too full." She ever so gently told me that infants are left at their doorstep just about every other day, and they never turn any away. 

It seems so obvious that they wouldn't turn children away, but it really struck me. I found it reassuring to know that somewhere, in this world, people are being loved. 

Somewhere on our globe, people aren't being turned away because it's too hard to care for them. 

Somewhere, in the middle of a slum, the least, the last, and the truly unwanted are welcomed.

In a matter of minutes we were on our way out. But I found myself wishing we could go back. I wanted to turn the car around. I wanted to work there. I wanted to interact with the sisters. To see what they're all about. To understand what keeps them there. I wanted to hold the children. To show them love.

And by the grace of God alone, we were able to return some twenty days later, in the last two days of our trip.

We spent nearly a whole day holding infants. 

I will never forget walking into that nursery, lined by rows and rows of cribs. Many of the babies were still sleeping, but one little girl caught my eye. Lindsey (as I later learned she was named) was wide wake, wrestling around on her little mattress. I walked up to her, patted her back, and looked into her big brown eyes. Through tears, I tried to comprehend how someone could leave her, could give her up. How could someone discard her: a precious, perfect infant? 

My heart broke. Within minutes of meeting her (if you even consider an infant able to formally meet someone), I already found myself wanting things for her: To grow up with joy. To find love in Christ. To have peace. To remain innocent. To avoid deceit, cruelty, and pain.

(I love the picture above. It's as if the Lord's Spirit is truly being poured out on this place.)

I left that day feeling two things:

1. The sisters, they were saints. Literally. From the deepest part in me, I admire (and am somewhat envious) of their work. What greater thing can one do than give up their life in service to our Lord, to care for people the rest of the world has rejected? That is love. I want to be like that. (And thus begins my quasi-obsession with all things Mother Teresa.)

2. The orphans, they need love. The Bible always mentions God's heart for the widowed and the orphaned, and I see why. These children have no one. They are alone in a cold, corrupt world. If ever I thought I was convinced that I'd adopt, I'm even more so now. I cannot and will not forget them. As Brooke Fraser sings, "Now that I have seen, I am responsible." It is my duty as a follower of Christ to love the fatherless. 

Because "faith without deeds is dead."