I got to visit refugees again today. I went to a different apartment complex than last year. We visited a family from Burundi. They speak Kirundi, no English. Not even French, which is their government's language. Three of the kids' names are French: Yvette, Roger and Pacifique. The mom�s name is French, too. The other two kids� names must be Kirundi: Viyora and Medadi. She also has one on the way. No husband. He was a very bad man.

The kids are 2, 3, 4, 5 and 9 years old. Yvette is the youngest. She fell asleep while we were there. We laid her gently down on the couch and she slept hard while the other kids played rambunctiously on the floor with a giant football that Joe had brought. When she woke up, she got a confused look on her face. She rubbed her eyes sleepily and still looked confused. Looking into her chocolate brown eyes, I understood the descriptions poets give babies. How they're seeing the world for the very first time. How they're trying to just comprehend it all. Their absolute, pure innocence. They haven't even learned how to misbehave yet; they're just trying to comprehend things. And what do they learn? That crying gets them what they want. That anger and violence go hand in hand. That some things really hurt us. That our parents cry.

Seeing little Yvette's face now in my mind, I want to somehow magically keep her at age 2, so she doesn't have to understand the badness of the world. So that she can just avoid what she doesn't understand and rest safe in her mama�s arms.

And mama is busy worrying about the next one on the way. About how she is going to handle 6 children with no father.

And we can only visit them about once a month?

previous || next

Miss Something?

Social Anxiety with Guys - February 07, 2024

Education Expo with an ADHD Kid - February 03, 2024

Lovely Church Experience - October 22, 2023

Seek Out Community in Christ - August 29, 2023

Grieving Lost Friendships - May 08, 2023