Break My Heart, Lord

I prayed that God would break my heart for what breaks His.  I wanted this mission trip to open my eyes to the things unseen.  I wanted Him to show me how to love like He loves me.  My God was powerful in His promises.

This plane is flying high over Ecuador and I wonder, if he hears a plane fly overhead tonight, will he think of his Gringa Maestra fondly.  Is he crying like I am, knowing I had to leave him behind?  Is he writing in his journal like I told him to?  The prayers and thoughts I have for him are drowning me slowly at 34,003 feet above the Pacific Ocean.  I have been crying since 8pm when I knew I was seeing him for the last time for 365 days.  I wish this plane would turn around and that my husband and sons could fly to me in Ecuador.  How much time is enough?

I brought nail polish.  Bottles and bottles and bottles of nail polish.  My target populous was teenage girls.  I was going to paint nails and share the gospel one manicure at a time.

But, I met him.  His smile is genuine and behind it lies a decade of events I can’t explain or even understand fully.  He has lived more life  in a span of seventeen years than most people do in ninety.

He was patient with my broken Spanish and worked hard to understand my English dispersed amongst the poorly conjugated verbs.  We used hand gestures.  We played tic-tac-toe.  I taught him checkers on a magnetic board with very few words spoken.  I hugged him even when his body was stiff and rigid with his defenses drawn high.

I can’t explain why we connected.  I don’t know how I fell in love with a kid I have spoken to with a handful of words and in a matter of seven days.  God knew.  He brought our two lives together for a purpose.  I was there to tell him that he is worthy of love.  I spoke truth into him for seven glorious days.  He showed me joy, grace, and dedication.

His laugh is somewhat funny.  It is a closed mouth smile with a giggle.  It was a gift of grace for my poor Spanish, weird hand gestures, and awkward dance moves.  He gave me his most prized possession, joy.

Grace came in armfuls.  Armfuls of journals.  Armfuls of stickers.  Armfuls of him.  It was the polite teacher side hug.  Not too much contact, but enough to let you know I was sincere.  Junior’s grace was in concentrated eyes watching my mouth as I clearly and meticulously pronounced English words for him and him slowly speaking Spanish so I could listen carefully for any hint of the language I stopped learning a decade ago.

Dedication was in grand supply.  He went to school during the day, helped with his orphanage family, and mowed every blade of grass in the emerald city that is the foundation.  Not a complaint once fell from his thoughts.  He was grateful and meticulous in his work.  He cared for the younger kids who looked up to him.

School is not easy for him.  He went years never attending classes, taking care of his little brother instead.  For four days, he gave me all the effort he had.  We made progress and he opened up to the infinite possibilities that lie within writing.

I believe in the therapy that is found within writing.  I believe in the bleeding out of your soul through a pen onto a paper.  But tonight, at two in the morning, it doesn’t seem to be helping.  The tears keep coming and the wound of leaving him is deep and fresh.

I am grateful that God put me in the right place at the right time for a kid who needed someone to grab him, hold him tight, and weep sorrowfully on his shoulder at the thought of leaving him behind.  When was the last time he felt that loved?  It has been a long time since I have felt this heartbroken.

I have many stories and things to share about Ecuador but my story will always begin and end with him.  He was my why.  

Thank you, Junior, for taking a chance on a gringa maestra.