Hengyang, China. March.
"Then he isn't safe?" said Lucy.
"Safe?" said Mr. Beaver; "don't you hear about what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you."
I've started to re-read the Chronicles of Narnia. I don't care how old you are, those books are the perfect combination of divine humility and sheer brilliance in the midst of a children's book. You simply can't find this type of ingenious harmony in books written today. Every time I crack open that thick, weighty book, I am captured by the thrill, adventure, and mystery that Lewis penned to a manuscript in the 1950's, beer stein in hand.
Yesterday as I was reading along, I scanned across the quote above. There is something so magnificent about this explanation of Aslan. As any innocent and curious child would, one Lucy Pevensie tries to find out about the inexplicable and perplexing Aslan from her new friend, Mr. Beaver. Trying to mask his shock that this little one has never heard the name Aslan, Mr. Beaver tells her the honest truth about his character.
I love how Lewis uses the magnificent character of a lion to represent Jesus Christ (if you've never got around to reading the books and are confused by this reference, I highly recommend you read them. Preferably curled up in the corner of a mysterious room). In so many ways, the quote at the top of the page not only describes our Lord; it describes our life when you choose to follow him. It's not always safe, harmonious, or comfortable; but it is always good, and there will always be good fruit produced.
That's how this past month was for me. We were in a China, where we couldn't pray in public, evangelize, or speak the name of Jesus. We lived in the dark city of Hengyang, where each street corner was covered in grime and soot. The sky was blanketed with a heavy cloud of fog that refused to lift, which brought with it a dismal and gloomy atmosphere.
As we ventured out to our ministry site every morning, we were met with the cold chill of winter, and the solemn faces of every Chinese person we crossed on the road. Motorbikes and impatient taxi drivers hastily drove their way down the busy highways, as we tried to dodge the traffic and make our way across the bustling street. We splashed through mud puddles and hopped over rocky terrain on our way to ministry, where the only color throughout the entire journey was the bright yellow canola fields.
As much as I loved that 45-minute walk to ministry every day, my heart was always somber as I thought and prayed about what I was about to see. It's such a battle telling people about what we did that month, because I want so badly for people to know what I saw, but it brings up so many feelings of sorrow and ache to relive that experience. But it's a story that needs to be told.
We worked with an organization called International China Concern, who took in and cared for special needs children. In a Communist society, every life is valued at how it can contribute; what kind of money, resources, and fame it can generate for the country. Since special needs children generally can't perform as a 'normal,' high-functioning child, they are tossed to the side and forgotten.
That's where we worked--in the housing for what they dubbed as the trash of society. Most of my team worked directly with the ministry, but I worked with two of my other teammates in the governmental owned and operated welfare center for special needs children. If a family has a special needs child and they decide they don't want it, they can give it up to the welfare center, or drop him or her off somewhere until the police find them. The police will then take him to the welfare center.
Let me take you through a typical day at the welfare center. As we entered the gates of the center, we were met with a towering, gray building, sturdy, but unwelcoming. As we walked up to the second floor, the stairway was wide, but it gave a sense that it wanted people to leave instead of come in. As soon as your foot hit the last step, the smell hit you. The smell of urine, feces, and the disregarded smacks you like a bus. It takes about 30 minutes before you are able to stop scrunching your nose at the unbearable smell, and then you have to register what you are seeing.
There were 14 children in the room I was working in, each one of them desperate for attention. This isn't a normal group of children. They aren't running around, or playing, or screaming at the top of their lungs. They are sitting or lying down; moaning or crying, searching and hoping for something more than this welfare center.
The ailments of the room include cerebral palsy, autism, trauma, and Down's syndrome. There is no light in the room, no pictures or sweet melodies to lift their spirits, just a dark and damp excuse for an existence. The caregivers work 24/7, live there with the children, and only get three days off a month. Needless to say, they suffer from compassion fatigue, or to put simply, they are burnt out. The month before we arrived, eight children died from that very room. A baby died while we were there. We named him Jude because it means praise in Hebrew, and we are determined to remember him, even though his family won't even know he died.
The children were starving, literally and emotionally. Twelve of the children shared four bowls of food twice a day, and the other two got bottles. The Welfare Center is vastly over crowded, and they do not have the sufficient funds to provide decent food or comfortable bedding.
I realized that I've spent the better half of my blog telling you about the terrible things I witnessed in the welfare center, but I want to take a minute and tell you about the incredible redemption I saw that month. Every morning I would walk in the sour-smelling room, I would walk straight over to my favorite little girl. We'll call her Harmony, because I love that name and I can't give her real name online. Harmony was about ten years old, and had cerebral palsy throughout her entire body. This disease affects each person differently, and with her, she had very little control of her limbs. She could stand up on her own, but needed assistance while her wobbly legs maneuvered their way throughout the room. Her arms were like tree limbs, stiff and inflexible. Her fingers were shaped like a witch's and bent awkwardly as she pointed to you as you entered the room
Every morning as I walked briskly over to Harmony's corner, she would give me a sweet, slobbery kiss and wrap her awkwardly formed arms around my neck for a hug. I would crouch down to her level and she would whisper in my ear 'baby,' as she pointed to the next room. Now, this is where I get a little teary eyed when I tell this story. You see Harmony lived in the same conditions that I described above. She was cold, hungry and lonely each day, but she decided to live out her days in a different manner than most of the children do.
Before my knees had the chance to hurt from squatting down to her level, she would push herself up and start walking wobbly across the room to the door. Knowing what she wanted, I would take her arms and assist her like a marionette as we walked to the baby room. Once we reached the nursery, she would hurry over to the first crib and peer through the wood bars and look lovingly at the baby. She would stretch out her hand and gently stroke the baby's face, and if it was crying she would softly whisper 'baby' as she held his hand. I've never seen Jesus played out in such a pure and vivid form, and it was through a ten-year-old orphan with cerebral palsy. She was living in this prison of an existence and still choosing to love others before herself.
That little girl changed my life, and changed my heart in spite of the terrible things I witnessed that month. She reminded me that these children are still God's own flesh and blood, and there still is hope. During our month, we found out that space opened up at ICC, and that she would be transferred over to the girl's dorms. She would receive healthcare, schooling, and a house full of girls who could support and love her. She is the individual that we are fighting for, and the reason organizations like ICC exist. She is my reason for continuing to fight against the injustices of today.
***If you would like to financially support Harmony or receive more information about ICC, e-mail me at jessmit86@gmail.com***
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