Love.

“Dear Teacher Amy, I want to tell you about my family.  My 4 sisters have died and my real daddy has died, so I just live with my mother and I am very sad…I am an orphan.”

At the end of the school day, one of my students handed me this note on behalf of her friend.  I read it over and over again, letting the words sink in.  I knew these facts already.  Many of my students have similar stories.  But hearing it in their own words is something entirely different.  Hearing her call herself an orphan was heartbreaking.

That night I tried to find the perfect words to write back.  I thought of Bible verses and other encouragements, but I felt like it somehow felt trite.  The only words I could offer her were the truths that I’ve repeated over and over in my head these past 15 months.  I hate that you and your friends have passed through so much pain.  I don’t understand it.  I wish I could fix it all.  But no matter what, you are never alone.  We are your family now. 

Friday was a holiday here in Zambia and I went into town to run some errands.  While I walked up the road towards home that afternoon, I saw 6 girls in familiar uniforms.  They were my girls.  They had walked 90 minutes to get there and then waited almost an hour for me to come home.  My beautiful note-writer was among them.  Maybe my words had sunk in.  Maybe today she wouldn’t be so sad.

I scoured my pantries for food, and realized I didn’t have much to share.  But that didn’t matter to the girls.  They hadn’t come for food.  They had come for family.  They had come for love.  One by one they jumped in my shower and washed themselves with real soap.  They giggled as they used my hairbrush to comb through their own.  They used sunscreen as lotion for their brown skin when my other bottle ran out.  They happily washed their uniforms outside with detergent rather than simply rinsing them in water.  They lined up and asked me to “chisa” (iron) their clothes after they had dried in the hot sun.  They spilled sauce and rice all over my table as they took turns serving themselves.  They jumped in my bed and declared they were sleeping at my house that night.  They helped me clean up all the pots and plates and swept my carpet better than I ever could.  They filled my house with joy.  They felt it and I felt it.  But then it was time to go. 

This is usually the hardest part of the day, but it’s the part where I know we’re making a difference in these students’ lives.  Our students never want to leave.  Every day we line up in the schoolyard, say a prayer and dismiss the students, and every day they somehow make their way back into the school.  They sit next to me as I grade papers or write lesson plans and they refuse to leave until we all leave together.  Teacher Esnart and I always joke with the students saying, “We are leaving!  Are you going to sleep here tonight?”  to which they usually reply, “Yes!!” It’s sweet, but also heartbreaking.  It makes us face the reality that for most of our students, home is a place they don’t want to be.  There may be different reasons for each, but the core of it is that they don’t feel loved.  Many of them are seen as burdens; just another mouth to feed...or not feed.  But at least now they are starting to learn the difference.  They are getting glimpses of this thing called love.  This thing that they sing about in worship songs and have heard about, but never truly experienced for themselves.  Once you get a taste of the real thing, it’s hard to go back to the counterfeit. 

And so I understand why they show up to school early and go home late.  I know why they are willing to walk hours in the hot sun in shoes with no soles.  Why they show up at my doorstep on Saturday afternoons. 

They do it for love. 

And I am the lucky girl who gets to give it to them.