The third trip to Jamaica almost didn't happen. We had gotten advance word from the trip leader that extensive renovations were being done on the children's home, and that the kids would not be there. Rather, there would be a construction crew from Kingston staying there. People from our church raised the issue of safety. I raised the issue of if there are no kids, surely what is the point of going? Our pastor told us she had our permission to not go, despite the fact we had already paid the bulk of the money to the church we partner with on this mission. I called the leader back and told her our side of it. She was flabbergasted and upset. She tried to assure me that there would surely be some kids there--albeit only half of them, and that we would be safe, because of course the work crew would not be staying on the grounds. I reported all this back to the people on our end, and we decided to go. There were 2 of us traveling that year--a young woman I had traveled with on the previous 2 trips, and of course myself.
All that said, this was also definitely the year I was telling myself, Last trip. This will be my last trip. I hadn't slept for a month prior to leaving, my anxiety was so strong. After the difficulties with the girls the year before, and the physical and mental exhaustion I had felt, I did not think I could do this trip again. I was still depressed but I was at least taking the vitamin/herbal supplements that help me stay on a somewhat even keel.
We were in customs longer than usual, it felt like, and we got to the children's home quite late. It was very dark. We drove up the dirt road that circled the hill upon which the home sits, and arrived on a scene that was desolate and bleak. Looming beside us was the gutted home. Live electrical wires hung down in front of the bus. No one came out to greet us. No one. We got out to silence. The young woman traveling with me turned to me and her face was full of sadness and anger mixed. Finally, some of the work crew guys filtered out from the building they were staying in and began to pull up those dangling wires. I could see stars through the roof beams in the home. It was very quiet. Normally the windows are lit up and the dogs are barking and clamoring around and the kids run out to greet us and help carry our bags. We silently unloaded the bus. I was holding back a huge I TOLD YOU SO for the group leader. That huge 'I told you so' would accompany us for many days, sitting in the room with us like an invisible elephant.
Eventually the cook came out to find us. She told us the children--the ones who were not at camp or staying with relatives for a brief holiday-- had all been moved to a house over a mile away. Only the boys were staying up there, along with the director and the guidance counselor and the cook. There were 4 boys. One of them was Morris. They had not been able to find a local home to place him in. I felt so relieved for him.
After I put my stuff in the room I was staying in--we took the best room, we figured the leader owed us at least that--, I heard the guidance counselor outside. I went out to greet her. The boys were with her. Two of them were very small, and the smallest, Germaine, told me he was cold! So I scooped him in my ams and held him to warm him. He was shivering! There was another boy named Ricardo who was partially deaf, a boy named Dominique who had been there all the years I had visited, and there was Morris, smiling at me. I said hello to him and I could tell by the light in his eyes that he remembered me. But it was time for them to go to bed and for me to go eat. I told the guidance counselor we were very happy to be there and very excited to be with the children. She assured me they were excited to see us too.
Morris and his sister kerry Ann are not the kind of kids you run over to and scoop up in a hug. They are the kind of kids who flinch at physical contact. They are the kind of kids you approach slowly. The look in their eyes that says, "Why are you paying attention to me?" never quite goes away. I would grow very close to both of them this trip. It was not something I had planned. It simply happened. Partly because there were half as many kids there as usual, and so we could pay even closer attention to the 15 or so who were there. Also our contact with them was limited since they were staying over a mile away, and we had to catch rides over there as our group leader did not have the physical stamina to walk over there. So, the time we had with them was quality time. When we are with them all day and into the night, it quite frankly gets exhausting. There are so many of them and they are so lively and needy. We saw them for only a few hours a day this trip. I missed them terribly! It was sad without them around. And so, when I was with them, I made the most of the time.
I was also fortunate to get to see Morris first thing in the morning before he and the other boys were brought down to be with the rest of the kids. We had some special moments together, sharing a piece of sugar cane, or talking about singing. This was after I had found out he really could talk! He could talk and he could sing and he could drum and he could draw really, really well. As I waited for our breakfast to be ready one hot morning, Morris sat beside me and sang me all his favorite reggae songs. Every single one. He sang shyly, looking at his feet, and I sat beside him, head tilted toward him so I could hear his soft voice. I did not look in his eyes as he sang; I did not want to embarrass him.
On another day we had brought the children sidewalk chalk and they had drawn on the concrete all around the house they were staying in. It was then I discovered Morris drew very well. He drew an anime character he liked, and he also drew some pictures to some simple rhymes he had created. The drawing came after we had spent time making pinwheels with the kids. We made them from plastic straws and colored copier paper that they had decorated with crayons and colored pencils and ink stamps. We had stood in front of the house hoping a breeze would come and spin the pinwheels. We had called out to the wind, asking it to blow for us. Sometimes it did. The joy on the children's faces when the wind spun their pinwheels was a glorious thing to see and feel. Their simple delight was something we all felt, and treasured.
On another day, I discovered Morris had a talent for drumming. He later told me he drummed at a concert at the church. I noticed after worship on our last day there that he was busy helping the church musician, Kevin, put away the drum set. Kevin also grew up in the children's home. He is a tall, quiet young man of about 22 who has a kind handsome face, and who remembers the songs he was taught by the group when he was a small boy. He told us those songs were the first music he ever learned. He plays drums and keyboard during worship. After I saw how Morris helped out after worship, I asked Kevin to work with Morris and teach him to drum. He said he would if he had the time.
The van arrived at the church to take the girls back to their house. I went to say good-bye to Kerry Ann. She had already asked me several times during the week whether I would come back next year: "You come back next year, Miss?"
The first time she had asked me, I had hesitated in my response. She saw that. She asked me again. I hesitated again, and then I said, "Yes. Yes, I will come back next year." My decision had been made, even though I was not 100% certain how I felt about it! After that she began to insist, "You stay here, Miss. You stay here." She said it again to me after church. But we both knew I had to leave, just as she knew she had to go back to the house in the van waiting outside. I told her I loved her. I told her I would come see her next year. I told her I would be thinking of her, and that I would miss her and Morris both. I reached out and hugged her. She was like a bundle of branches on my arms. She looked at me with skeptical eyes. I wondered what she thought of those words of mine, I love you.
We walked back to the home. I told Morris we were leaving that day. We had made some more pinwheels and gave them to the boys. Morris likes blue. I had made him a special one, all blue. I found some candy and gave that to him and the boys too. Every time I walked into the residence, his eyes would follow me. He knew I was leaving, but when? I assured him every time I got up that I would be right back. And then, the bus came earlier than we had expected it. As soon as I saw it, tears stung my eyes-- even though my mind was thinking I would not come back next year, my heart apparently had other plans. I turned to Morris to say good-bye, to tell him I loved him and that I would miss him. He started to cry. My heart broke at the sight of his tears. I thought, have I done something wrong to make this sweet, innocent boy cry? If loving someone is wrong, then yes. If paying attention to a shining star previously hidden by clouds is wrong, then yes. I felt helpless in the face of his tears. Another member of our group came over and patted Morris on the back. Kevin also stood nearby, looking on with kind dark eyes. He knew the taste of these sad good-byes. I turned to Morris and said, "You sing and drum, Morris. You sing and drum while I am away, and I will see you next year. Okay?"
Then I looked up at Kevin and asked him again to teach Morris to drum. He said, "Yes." I replied, "Promise?" He nodded and said, "Promise."
I got on the bus. Through the front window I could see Morris standing with the others. It looked like he was looking my way, so I raised my hand in a farewell wave. He raised his hand back. We drove away. I cried for a long time. I cried, and I prayed.
While praying, I came to realize a new level of faith. That as God cares for me, so too will he care for Morris and Kerry Ann. I must have faith in that, that as he shelters me under his great wings, so too does he shelter them. And that as he guided me for the past 3 years, (despite myself sometimes!), to be with the children in Jamaica, and to do his work there by loving his orphan children, so too will he be caring for them, all the year round. And even though Morris may not even be there when I go back this coming July, I will keep faith, I will go back. Kerry Ann will still be there, and I told her, as I told her brother, that I will come back to see them next year. I will keep faith.
They are in my prayers every day.
Until next time, I remain, your friend, Rozenkraai
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