A Conversation and a Broken Heart

She prayed a prayer this morning.

It went something like this…”God, break my heart with the things that break Yours.” She meant it, but she doesn’t always believe that the things she prays for really matter. She knows that God hears, but sometimes He seems far away. It’s been one of those months for her. A dry spell.
She also prayed for new eyes to see. For intentional meetings. For just one conversation with just one child. For her day to have meaning and purpose.

She works in the slum. A slum that she has grown to love. Not the slum itself, but the life it contains. The children who call it home.
She also works in the clinic, in the slum. She’s not a nurse or a doctor, you know. She just has two hands and is willing to use them. She wants to be used. She needs to be used.

There is a certain boy. He is fourteen years old. He always comes to the clinic. This day was no exception. Most times, he is not actually sick. He does not actually have a broken arm, even though he says he does. He does not have a broken leg, even though he says he does. He has no gaping wounds, even though he is convinced that he is in a life and death situation. He is just craving attention. He is craving love. He is craving someone to make sure he is okay, and to care if he is not.

He showed her his arm. Said it was paining. She could not see any evidence of wounds or anything like it. But she sensed that there was something more to his pain. Not pain in his arm, but pain in his heart. So she took time. There were no other kids needing attention. Just this boy.

She asked him a question. “How was your day yesterday?” A simple question. His answer? “Not good.”
“Do you want to tell me about it? Why was it not good?”
“I didn’t eat.” Said matter-of-factly.

She was quiet. Gave him time to gather his thoughts.

"The days that I don’t eat…I don’t like those days.”

She looked in his eyes, encouraging him to continue.

“When I come to school, at least I get lunch those days. I am okay those days. But on holidays, then there are many days when I don’t eat. Even today, when I go home, I will go to bed without eating any supper. But at least I had lunch today.”

This boy lives on his own. He is HIV+. He was kicked out of his home by his father. When he is given some food, he cooks it on his own. He knows that he likes to cook rice because rice will stay for a few days before going bad. He likes rice. He also knows that food is expensive, and that if you don’t have money, you don’t have food. He knows what it is like to not have food.

“I live by myself” he told her, even though she already knew this. “My father kicked me out of the house. My father is a drunkard. He drinks alcohol. Every day.”

“Alcohol changes people, doesn’t it?” she asked him quietly.

“Yes.” he says. He looks down at her hand, still rubbing his wrist.

Their conversation is interrupted by two giggly girls in standard three. She looks at these two girls and smiles. They are so silly.

But her conversation with the boy is over. He says ‘thank you’ to her for fixing his arm. Even though she didn’t really do anything. She’s pretty sure it’s the talk that helped more than anything to do with his arm. But she touches his arm and says ‘you are very welcome’ and tells him to come back if his arms starts to hurt again. Even though they both know that his arm was okay to begin with.

He gets the weigh scale from on top of the storage cupboard. He weighs himself. So do the two giggly girls. They are about nine years old. They each weigh more than him. He is a fourteen year old boy. But you would never know it to look at him.

He says ‘thank you’ again, and goes back to class.

She can’t stop thinking. About her own selfish heart. Her own petty problems. The things that frustrate her or make her have a bad day. But she has never been hungry. She has never gone through anything like what this boy goes through every day. She has no idea what it’s like to truly suffer. She has never suffered.

She wants to make a difference. She wants to help. She wants to be that somebody who will turn it around for him. She wants to. And yet she is wondering if any of it even matters. She feels helpless. Hopeless. Numb. Tired.

But she knows one thing: God answered her prayer today. He broke her heart. He gave her new eyes. He gave her that one conversation with that one kid. She knows that He did it for a reason. And she is ready to do whatever it takes.

This person is me. This broken heart is mine. I am ready to do whatever it takes.

Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this: to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world. ~James 1:27