Well, it's been a good 3 months since this experience. I had written it down shortly after, but quickly stored it away in the back of my memory...forgetting to fulfill the promise of reliving it for you all. The truth is that it was hard and part of me didn't want to have to relive it ever again. I can't recall a time when God showed me evil more clearly or tangibly. And I'm still struggling to understand why it has to be this way and what my role is now. God's given me the knowledge, now how does he want me to use it?
This is a process worth spending time discovering and finding piece by piece, no matter how painful or confusing it is. I hope that you will join me on this constant journey of discovery. I hope that you will learn some of the same things that I did that weekend 3 months ago through reading all of this. And I hope you take it and mull it over. Maybe God is challenging you to do something different. To make a change. Listen and follow. It's the only way to live.
[I have entered the three blogs in chronological order so that you can read from the top.]
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Humbled once again...
How often have I walked into situations this year with a big head? Too often. I believed that our presence this weekend would aid the organization more than they could have imagined. I made it about myself and thought “Lucky for them, they get to have a real program with structure this time.” Of course, I’m talking about the mothers and children with special needs club that we came to support. We had prepared games and craft. We were ready to run the show, or so I thought. Saturday morning came and just as Vira, the woman who started the club, told us how it would be the previous night, the volunteers started showing up early. Around nine the first of them showed up and I was just waking up, brushing my teeth, when I bumped into two who introduced themselves and smiled. I know I must have looked confused because they awkwardly pointed out that they knew their names were difficult to pronounce and repeated them. Snapping out of it, I smiled and nodded. “Melanie” was my response. We shook hands and I walked away feeling sheepish. These kids were not only giving up their Saturdays to volunteer at the club, but they came 3 hours early to prepare for it. That is 3 hours earlier than I would like to go anywhere on a Saturday.
More than two came to help. There were at least 10, all young adults. All sacrificing their Saturday to volunteer and work in a club for the disabled. Slowly the group of volunteers gathered and by ten in the morning they were working hard on preparing all things necessary for the club. They cleaned, planned, prepped. Hanging up a schedule on the wall, they reviewed it with us and let us know when our craft and game would fit in with the rest of their well thought-out and back-to-back activities. Asking us to sing with them at several intervals in the schedule, we practiced singing together and they again showed us where we’d be expected to step up. They certainly knew what they were doing and not only that, but they loved doing it. It was clear that they were having fun setting everything up and excited about the prospect of another club after two weeks without (it’s every other Saturday). Their energy was contagious and we all anticipated a great program.
Twelve rolled around and the participants started showing up immediately. Entering into a music charged, loving, and embracing atmosphere, the room filled until there were about 30 kids ranging from 4 years old to late-twenties. The mothers filed in as well, chatting and hugging. We all sat down on the cushions that scattered the floor (there were only two couches in the room, which didn‘t bother anyone a bit) and enjoyed some fellowship together. Once the program started, we were all introduced to the group and everyone clapped and nodded in welcome. The club continued with songs, craft, skits, games, and more. We were privileged to join in some songs, bring a craft, and bring an added game to the time. After a few minutes of the club, the mothers split and go upstairs for Bible study, while their children continue to enjoy the club. So we also brought a craft to the mothers.
It was such a blessing to be included in the club. Immediately we were accepted and welcomed in as though we had always been a part of it and always would be. This is the kind of acceptance that everyone searches for their whole life and here it was in small city in Ukraine. The kids attending obviously had difficult lives, but it was also clear that through unconditional love the club was speaking hope into each one. Genuine happiness and joy was tangible in the room. It was incredible and again, such a blessing to see. I couldn’t decide which was more amazing, the fact that ten teenagers had organized and planned the whole thing, or the fact that it was changing lives and bringing joy to so many people.
Though I wouldn’t trade this experience for the world, it made Sunday’s experiences all the harder to take in and accept. Yet I wouldn’t trade Sunday’s experiences either…
More than two came to help. There were at least 10, all young adults. All sacrificing their Saturday to volunteer and work in a club for the disabled. Slowly the group of volunteers gathered and by ten in the morning they were working hard on preparing all things necessary for the club. They cleaned, planned, prepped. Hanging up a schedule on the wall, they reviewed it with us and let us know when our craft and game would fit in with the rest of their well thought-out and back-to-back activities. Asking us to sing with them at several intervals in the schedule, we practiced singing together and they again showed us where we’d be expected to step up. They certainly knew what they were doing and not only that, but they loved doing it. It was clear that they were having fun setting everything up and excited about the prospect of another club after two weeks without (it’s every other Saturday). Their energy was contagious and we all anticipated a great program.
Twelve rolled around and the participants started showing up immediately. Entering into a music charged, loving, and embracing atmosphere, the room filled until there were about 30 kids ranging from 4 years old to late-twenties. The mothers filed in as well, chatting and hugging. We all sat down on the cushions that scattered the floor (there were only two couches in the room, which didn‘t bother anyone a bit) and enjoyed some fellowship together. Once the program started, we were all introduced to the group and everyone clapped and nodded in welcome. The club continued with songs, craft, skits, games, and more. We were privileged to join in some songs, bring a craft, and bring an added game to the time. After a few minutes of the club, the mothers split and go upstairs for Bible study, while their children continue to enjoy the club. So we also brought a craft to the mothers.
It was such a blessing to be included in the club. Immediately we were accepted and welcomed in as though we had always been a part of it and always would be. This is the kind of acceptance that everyone searches for their whole life and here it was in small city in Ukraine. The kids attending obviously had difficult lives, but it was also clear that through unconditional love the club was speaking hope into each one. Genuine happiness and joy was tangible in the room. It was incredible and again, such a blessing to see. I couldn’t decide which was more amazing, the fact that ten teenagers had organized and planned the whole thing, or the fact that it was changing lives and bringing joy to so many people.
Though I wouldn’t trade this experience for the world, it made Sunday’s experiences all the harder to take in and accept. Yet I wouldn’t trade Sunday’s experiences either…
Diamond in the Rough
On Sunday, we went to visit an institution made to be for the elderly, a nursing home. The front of the building was all you needed to see to know that it came straight out of the communist era. Basically it was a big square, outmoded, cost efficient, gray, and run down sort of place. I know that sounds harsh. The truth is that if you go someplace that has survived communism, scars scatter the surface of the country in the shape of large and not-so-pretty buildings. This one held the title well.
We walked in and a pungent smell of cigarette smoke mixed with body odor greeted us. Actually, as we walked upstairs to the “best part” of the place, a new smell came with each passing room and hallway. Most of them mixtures of things resulting from bodily functions with smoke. However, the top floor was pristine. It was their new floor that had just been finished. I was blown away by the beauty of it. Huge windows, bright rooms, big balconies on each room, pretty comforters for the beds, all wheel chair accessible, the smell of fresh paint, and the fact that it would be home for recovering stroke patients.
Immediately from the tour of this floor we were taken to the two halls out of who knows how many (150+ people in the facility, probably about 30 people per hall) that we were to work in. After splitting cleaning supplies in half and receiving dirty looks from a couple of the staff, we also split into two groups and each went to our designated hall. I remember thinking to myself that someone should open the shades, when in fact, they were open. It was just such an oppressive atmosphere that it seemed dark…it felt dark. It helped that there was no trace of the intended colors on the walls. Yellow, brown, and black beamed down on us as we walked in and as we looked down the narrow hall, it seemed to shrink with every glance. People were shuffling in and out of rooms and the hum and chatter of several televisions on at once could be heard. It felt like the set of a horror movie. The two nurses, at least I think that’s their title, came to greet us. Later we were told that two women are assigned to each hall and they do everything; from taking out the trash, to serving the patients lunch, cleaning the bathrooms and regular rooms, watching after the patients, and more. They are expected to do it all. Usually they are not professionally trained and certainly are not paid well.
So our conversation went something like this:
Nurses: “Where do you come from?”
Students: “America.”
Nurses: “What?”
Students: “America.”
Nurses: “Why are you here?”
Students: “We want to help.”
Nurses: “Really?”
Students: “Yeah, we’ve got cleaning supplies.”
Pause.
Students: “Can we scrub your bathrooms a bit? And maybe wipe down a little in the rooms too?”
Nurses: “We don’t have running water, but we’ll get you two buckets full to start.”
Needless to say, they were astounded. Help rarely comes and even more rarely in the form of cleaning sinks, scrubbing toilets, sweeping, mopping, and wiping down dusty surfaces. But there we were ready and willing, and they weren’t going to miss the opportunity, even if it was only for a few hours.
At first, Maggie and I went from bathroom to bathroom and scrubbed. It was not a pretty job. Although the water was turned off just for that day (with no prior warning), it was obvious that water is used sparingly, if at all in the bathrooms. The sinks had crusty filth all over them and the toilets, well they had wet filth. You could see the bacteria without a microscope in this place. The nurses weren’t the only people surprised by us. The patients thought we were something else, too. They would come to the door and mutter things at us in Russian and we would just smile holding up our soggy sponges and nod, adding “da!” because that was the only mutually understood word between us (yes!) . Most of them would smile back and then saunter away. Some chose to stay and watch until the job was done. Maggie mentioned the other day that the cleaning was more about giving them back a piece of their dignity, even if it meant only until the bathrooms were dirty again. That struck me as profound, especially since I had a hard time understanding how what little we did was helping.
After we had finished the bathrooms, we started in on the rooms. Both of us were anxious to get into the rooms and interact with the patients. So the first two rooms were a little disconcerting. The first had 2 men in it. They were rather silent and watched us at work with silent, staring eyes. We smiled and tried to help them understand we were just coming to help clean a little, but before it was fully understood we were on to the next room. The next room was 3 women. Again, our presence was obviously not appreciated or enjoyed. One particular woman was very insistent on asking us question after question in Russian, following up with a demeaning glare. As uncomfortable as I was, I understood the frustration. I mean, who were we? Why did we think it was okay to just show up and clean? What on earth were we trying to do? Make a point? What’s the point? Were we really just there to observe? In that case, doesn’t that make the patients like lab rats? Would I like to be treated like a lab rat? No way. I just wished we could say, “We want to love on you!” in Russian. But at the same time, I have to think if someone said that to me I’d give them the sideways glance back. “Huh?”
Anyway, all barriers broke when we entered the third room. Including the language barrier. The most joyful and happy soul I saw all day was in that room. She (Maria) had a friend visiting and she was cleaning out the closet, sharing her clothes with her friend. We had actually seen her while we were scrubbing and she was one who smiled at us, laughed, and kissed Maggie’s cheeks with blessing before wandering off to do her own thing. We walked in on “her own thing” and she was thrilled. She talked and talked to us. Telling us who knows what. She laughed at her own jokes, which in turn made us laugh, and further spurred her on in her laughter as well. While we were squeezing past her to clean, she held a sweater up on me and I said “OoooOOh, frumos” (nice in Romanian) and she tried to give it to me. I made motions to show her it wouldn’t fit me, so she immediately brought it over to Maggie and put it up to her. Smiling she handed it to Maggie and made “Aaaah, uh huh, da” noises. It was to be Maggie’s. After that we had little choice (or desire to do otherwise) but to sit down and she went back to her closest. Looking at me barehanded she thought to herself and then said “OH, OH, OH!” really loud and excitedly. Digging deep in her closet she pulled out a floral, brown striped dress and making the same “Aaah, uh huh, da” noises she held it up to me and placed it in my hands. There was no way either of us were refusing these gifts. We knew that she wanted more than anything for us to have them. Again, she talked and talked. At one point she came over and put her face about an inch from mine, took on a serious voice, and talked for about a minute pinching at the skin on my cheeks and my chest before throwing her head back and laughing. She was beautiful. A flower amongst the withering, her soul shone.
We continued to visit in and out of several rooms. Many of the people wanted to hold a hand or just talk a little. Some just wanted to see us, but were bedridden. Others were unable to even acknowledge our presence, whether deaf or blind (or both), severely disabled from old age, or “not all there.” No matter what way you look at it, these people were starving for love. Everything said it, from their distaste to their joy. Both extremes demonstrated that thirst.
Lunch time came and we helped serve. It was a fast-paced race, it seemed, to get everyone their food and then collect all the dishes back. I made it about halfway through, until the nurses stopped at a room and pointed out a man who needed to be fed because he couldn’t do it himself. I had never done it before, but I looked around and no one else was volunteering. I think we were all a little shocked. “Who does this when we aren’t here?” was the resounding question on all of our minds. So, I went. He was so excited to have me there. I know he doesn’t have help every day. I imagine some days he goes without eating just because it’s easier. So I fed him and afterward, he grabbed my hand and squeezed hard, thanking me in a language I could understand. At first I had worried that maybe the act of feeding him could shame him, but I realized through his thanks that the opposite came about. He was just so thankful that I would take the time to help him eat. That was so eye-opening to me, yet so heartbreaking. That 10 minutes time was all it took to make him feel loved and it was obvious (again) that normally, he wasn’t getting that.
The woman who took us to the facilities said that 80% of the people there didn’t have anybody visiting them. She also said that more people in the institution die of depression and loneliness than of actual sicknesses. I just kept thinking to myself, “that is hell.” Really, seriously…it is. The feeling of complete abandonment and isolation is exactly what is feared the most. The feeling that no one is behind you, no one supports you, no one loves you is so painful, it can kill. So no wonder that doubts enter your mind when you hear this truth and see it at work. How can this happen? It felt like these people had slipped through a black hole and had no chance of coming out because they had become invisible to the world. And for some reason, we were allowed to enter that hole and come out alive with a new perspective on life and greater appreciation for our own lives, even if it came in the form of disgust at first.
The question that many people ask each day and surfaced on my mind is “how can God let this happen?”
But soon after, His still and small voice came back to me. “No, daughter, I have not let this happen. It is a broken world you live in, where I have endowed free will and choice, and sadly this is a result of that process in such a broken place. Never would I have allowed such evil and awful things to occur, but neither can I stop the pain right now. The time will come and all will be restored, but today is not that day.”
We walked in and a pungent smell of cigarette smoke mixed with body odor greeted us. Actually, as we walked upstairs to the “best part” of the place, a new smell came with each passing room and hallway. Most of them mixtures of things resulting from bodily functions with smoke. However, the top floor was pristine. It was their new floor that had just been finished. I was blown away by the beauty of it. Huge windows, bright rooms, big balconies on each room, pretty comforters for the beds, all wheel chair accessible, the smell of fresh paint, and the fact that it would be home for recovering stroke patients.
Immediately from the tour of this floor we were taken to the two halls out of who knows how many (150+ people in the facility, probably about 30 people per hall) that we were to work in. After splitting cleaning supplies in half and receiving dirty looks from a couple of the staff, we also split into two groups and each went to our designated hall. I remember thinking to myself that someone should open the shades, when in fact, they were open. It was just such an oppressive atmosphere that it seemed dark…it felt dark. It helped that there was no trace of the intended colors on the walls. Yellow, brown, and black beamed down on us as we walked in and as we looked down the narrow hall, it seemed to shrink with every glance. People were shuffling in and out of rooms and the hum and chatter of several televisions on at once could be heard. It felt like the set of a horror movie. The two nurses, at least I think that’s their title, came to greet us. Later we were told that two women are assigned to each hall and they do everything; from taking out the trash, to serving the patients lunch, cleaning the bathrooms and regular rooms, watching after the patients, and more. They are expected to do it all. Usually they are not professionally trained and certainly are not paid well.
So our conversation went something like this:
Nurses: “Where do you come from?”
Students: “America.”
Nurses: “What?”
Students: “America.”
Nurses: “Why are you here?”
Students: “We want to help.”
Nurses: “Really?”
Students: “Yeah, we’ve got cleaning supplies.”
Pause.
Students: “Can we scrub your bathrooms a bit? And maybe wipe down a little in the rooms too?”
Nurses: “We don’t have running water, but we’ll get you two buckets full to start.”
Needless to say, they were astounded. Help rarely comes and even more rarely in the form of cleaning sinks, scrubbing toilets, sweeping, mopping, and wiping down dusty surfaces. But there we were ready and willing, and they weren’t going to miss the opportunity, even if it was only for a few hours.
At first, Maggie and I went from bathroom to bathroom and scrubbed. It was not a pretty job. Although the water was turned off just for that day (with no prior warning), it was obvious that water is used sparingly, if at all in the bathrooms. The sinks had crusty filth all over them and the toilets, well they had wet filth. You could see the bacteria without a microscope in this place. The nurses weren’t the only people surprised by us. The patients thought we were something else, too. They would come to the door and mutter things at us in Russian and we would just smile holding up our soggy sponges and nod, adding “da!” because that was the only mutually understood word between us (yes!) . Most of them would smile back and then saunter away. Some chose to stay and watch until the job was done. Maggie mentioned the other day that the cleaning was more about giving them back a piece of their dignity, even if it meant only until the bathrooms were dirty again. That struck me as profound, especially since I had a hard time understanding how what little we did was helping.
After we had finished the bathrooms, we started in on the rooms. Both of us were anxious to get into the rooms and interact with the patients. So the first two rooms were a little disconcerting. The first had 2 men in it. They were rather silent and watched us at work with silent, staring eyes. We smiled and tried to help them understand we were just coming to help clean a little, but before it was fully understood we were on to the next room. The next room was 3 women. Again, our presence was obviously not appreciated or enjoyed. One particular woman was very insistent on asking us question after question in Russian, following up with a demeaning glare. As uncomfortable as I was, I understood the frustration. I mean, who were we? Why did we think it was okay to just show up and clean? What on earth were we trying to do? Make a point? What’s the point? Were we really just there to observe? In that case, doesn’t that make the patients like lab rats? Would I like to be treated like a lab rat? No way. I just wished we could say, “We want to love on you!” in Russian. But at the same time, I have to think if someone said that to me I’d give them the sideways glance back. “Huh?”
Anyway, all barriers broke when we entered the third room. Including the language barrier. The most joyful and happy soul I saw all day was in that room. She (Maria) had a friend visiting and she was cleaning out the closet, sharing her clothes with her friend. We had actually seen her while we were scrubbing and she was one who smiled at us, laughed, and kissed Maggie’s cheeks with blessing before wandering off to do her own thing. We walked in on “her own thing” and she was thrilled. She talked and talked to us. Telling us who knows what. She laughed at her own jokes, which in turn made us laugh, and further spurred her on in her laughter as well. While we were squeezing past her to clean, she held a sweater up on me and I said “OoooOOh, frumos” (nice in Romanian) and she tried to give it to me. I made motions to show her it wouldn’t fit me, so she immediately brought it over to Maggie and put it up to her. Smiling she handed it to Maggie and made “Aaaah, uh huh, da” noises. It was to be Maggie’s. After that we had little choice (or desire to do otherwise) but to sit down and she went back to her closest. Looking at me barehanded she thought to herself and then said “OH, OH, OH!” really loud and excitedly. Digging deep in her closet she pulled out a floral, brown striped dress and making the same “Aaah, uh huh, da” noises she held it up to me and placed it in my hands. There was no way either of us were refusing these gifts. We knew that she wanted more than anything for us to have them. Again, she talked and talked. At one point she came over and put her face about an inch from mine, took on a serious voice, and talked for about a minute pinching at the skin on my cheeks and my chest before throwing her head back and laughing. She was beautiful. A flower amongst the withering, her soul shone.
We continued to visit in and out of several rooms. Many of the people wanted to hold a hand or just talk a little. Some just wanted to see us, but were bedridden. Others were unable to even acknowledge our presence, whether deaf or blind (or both), severely disabled from old age, or “not all there.” No matter what way you look at it, these people were starving for love. Everything said it, from their distaste to their joy. Both extremes demonstrated that thirst.
Lunch time came and we helped serve. It was a fast-paced race, it seemed, to get everyone their food and then collect all the dishes back. I made it about halfway through, until the nurses stopped at a room and pointed out a man who needed to be fed because he couldn’t do it himself. I had never done it before, but I looked around and no one else was volunteering. I think we were all a little shocked. “Who does this when we aren’t here?” was the resounding question on all of our minds. So, I went. He was so excited to have me there. I know he doesn’t have help every day. I imagine some days he goes without eating just because it’s easier. So I fed him and afterward, he grabbed my hand and squeezed hard, thanking me in a language I could understand. At first I had worried that maybe the act of feeding him could shame him, but I realized through his thanks that the opposite came about. He was just so thankful that I would take the time to help him eat. That was so eye-opening to me, yet so heartbreaking. That 10 minutes time was all it took to make him feel loved and it was obvious (again) that normally, he wasn’t getting that.
The woman who took us to the facilities said that 80% of the people there didn’t have anybody visiting them. She also said that more people in the institution die of depression and loneliness than of actual sicknesses. I just kept thinking to myself, “that is hell.” Really, seriously…it is. The feeling of complete abandonment and isolation is exactly what is feared the most. The feeling that no one is behind you, no one supports you, no one loves you is so painful, it can kill. So no wonder that doubts enter your mind when you hear this truth and see it at work. How can this happen? It felt like these people had slipped through a black hole and had no chance of coming out because they had become invisible to the world. And for some reason, we were allowed to enter that hole and come out alive with a new perspective on life and greater appreciation for our own lives, even if it came in the form of disgust at first.
The question that many people ask each day and surfaced on my mind is “how can God let this happen?”
But soon after, His still and small voice came back to me. “No, daughter, I have not let this happen. It is a broken world you live in, where I have endowed free will and choice, and sadly this is a result of that process in such a broken place. Never would I have allowed such evil and awful things to occur, but neither can I stop the pain right now. The time will come and all will be restored, but today is not that day.”
Bubble-gum Pink
It wasn’t until we entered through the gate of a high wall that I could take in the big bubble gum pink building. I guess you could say that this building looked like it was trying it’s hardest not to be of the communist era and it was doing a pretty okay job of it. The director immediately came out of the building to see us and started explaining things right away. He was actually Romanian, so I was able to understand some of what he said and the rest was translated by Dorothy. He told us that there were 70 or more people in this facility. All but one (or two?) of them were boys and men. The ages ranged from 4-35 and he told us that he actually had to fight for those staying past the age of 18. Eighteen was the normal age that kids were forced to leave a “children’s facility” and usually the only place to go after that was a nursing home for the elderly. Right away he informed us that the range of disabilities in this facility was from “imbecile to highly capable”. How’s that for a shocking description.
There were a couple of men who were separate from the rest of the people and we were told that they cook and clean themselves. And that they’ve learned some crafts and skills for themselves which they get a very low pay for doing. Moving on we “toured” the place and saw all kinds of rooms. Play rooms, medical rooms, bed rooms, and a computer room. Although they did have some things to distinguish them from one another, they were rather bare. And there were no men present anywhere. It was an odd feeling walking through all of these rooms and finding men placed in only the places the staff wanted us to be impressed with. The computer room for example. There were about 5 guys in there and the director told us just how “capable” each one was. Singling them all out right in front of us. I couldn’t believe that he would degrade them (for surely it was degrading) in their presence to complete strangers, I can only imagine what that means when we aren’t around. Finally we met a lot of the men. We walked into a room with nothing in it but benches lining the walls and there they sat. All of them obviously waiting for something to happen since they’d been sitting there. Yet once we came in, they just looked. Some tried to talk to us, but were scolded (by one of the four total staff on duty). Others just smiled, big, goofy grins. Sure enough, at least their physical disabilities ranged from almost none to hugely distorted faces and bent limbs. But there they were, all grouped together, obviously told to sit and be quiet. And to just let us look.
Next we walked through a huge metal gate from floor to ceiling that separated one part of the building from the other and past many locked doors to see more bedrooms and playrooms. The place was unusually clean. All the beds were made and the floors looked like they’d recently been mopped. Each bed had a stuffed animal on it. And I couldn’t help but feel it was all an act. Something about it felt off. Even the way the director talked about the kids making their beds and the “best room” having a TV to watch, just gave me the shivers. Again we didn’t see any kids until we entered specific rooms. One room had a few boys in it who were happy to see us. They asked for their picture to be taken and we realized we had forgotten that cameras existed until then. We took their picture, they shook our hands. I was the last one out the door and upon leaving the room I heard several of them break out crying and one of the nurses talking sternly. Bekah (another student) thought she heard someone being hit. It took all I had not to turn around and hug all of them while staring down the nurse. I didn’t because we kept moving. The director wanted to take us elsewhere. A few more bedrooms later he said, “well, that’s about it!” and smiled. We all shifted uncomfortably because we knew there was no way we’d seen 70 people. “Oh, I almost forgot. One more thing to see,” he said. And he brought us downstairs into a room with more patiently (or not so patiently) waiting children sitting on benches along a wall and in wheelchairs. These kids were so excited to see us and we immediately started to interact with them. Some of them could walk and got up and walked around from person to person just holding a hand or asking to be picked up. Others laughed from their chairs and watched, waiting for their turn for attention. One little boy I picked up was so adorable. He was 9, but obviously dwarfed and I’m not sure he could walk. I could immediately feel that he had wet himself (who knows how long before we got there) when I plucked him up from his tiny chair. I held him he just stared and stared at me and at the others. I tried talking to him in Romanian, but he wouldn’t respond. He giggled when I made faces at him and touched my face like he was making sure I was real. The director was talking to us, but I’m not sure if any of us listened. We were enthralled by these kids. They were such little balls of energy and so longing for attention and love. They were beautiful. My heart ached as I set the boy back down in the chair and he looked up at me with sad eyes, his arms still stretched out. I kissed the top of his head and walked out of the room, feeling like a monster. How could we leave these kids?
As we left the facility, the director continued to talk. The only thing I really heard was “this is all the result of someone else’s sin.” I was so sad and frustrated by that comment and so overwhelmed by what I saw that I just cried. He looked at me and so “Oh, you’re crying!” and I looked down. I couldn’t make myself look at him.
Between this moment of anger and saying goodbye, I rationalized a little bit. Although it’s not perfect, this man was willing to at least try. He was taking the extremely difficult responsibility of being the director of a very understaffed, large, 70-people organization. No matter what it’s like, he deserves some respect for being the man to take that. So before climbing in the car I said good bye and gave him the Romanian “good health” blessing. He would need it, I knew.
Our visit was even quicker here than at the nursing home. And we really had just come to see it. I don’t regret going. I don’t regret meeting those kids, those men, but again their situation cried out at me. I felt like part of the blame of such a place existing fell on me. I am, after all, just as much a part of this broken world as any of these people. Doesn’t that mean that I am somewhat responsible for what goes on there? I’d like to think it does, but then again, maybe that is giving myself too much credit once again. Still, part of me was left there. I’ll always pray over the bubble-gum pink building in the Ukraine, holding 70 precious souls.
There were a couple of men who were separate from the rest of the people and we were told that they cook and clean themselves. And that they’ve learned some crafts and skills for themselves which they get a very low pay for doing. Moving on we “toured” the place and saw all kinds of rooms. Play rooms, medical rooms, bed rooms, and a computer room. Although they did have some things to distinguish them from one another, they were rather bare. And there were no men present anywhere. It was an odd feeling walking through all of these rooms and finding men placed in only the places the staff wanted us to be impressed with. The computer room for example. There were about 5 guys in there and the director told us just how “capable” each one was. Singling them all out right in front of us. I couldn’t believe that he would degrade them (for surely it was degrading) in their presence to complete strangers, I can only imagine what that means when we aren’t around. Finally we met a lot of the men. We walked into a room with nothing in it but benches lining the walls and there they sat. All of them obviously waiting for something to happen since they’d been sitting there. Yet once we came in, they just looked. Some tried to talk to us, but were scolded (by one of the four total staff on duty). Others just smiled, big, goofy grins. Sure enough, at least their physical disabilities ranged from almost none to hugely distorted faces and bent limbs. But there they were, all grouped together, obviously told to sit and be quiet. And to just let us look.
Next we walked through a huge metal gate from floor to ceiling that separated one part of the building from the other and past many locked doors to see more bedrooms and playrooms. The place was unusually clean. All the beds were made and the floors looked like they’d recently been mopped. Each bed had a stuffed animal on it. And I couldn’t help but feel it was all an act. Something about it felt off. Even the way the director talked about the kids making their beds and the “best room” having a TV to watch, just gave me the shivers. Again we didn’t see any kids until we entered specific rooms. One room had a few boys in it who were happy to see us. They asked for their picture to be taken and we realized we had forgotten that cameras existed until then. We took their picture, they shook our hands. I was the last one out the door and upon leaving the room I heard several of them break out crying and one of the nurses talking sternly. Bekah (another student) thought she heard someone being hit. It took all I had not to turn around and hug all of them while staring down the nurse. I didn’t because we kept moving. The director wanted to take us elsewhere. A few more bedrooms later he said, “well, that’s about it!” and smiled. We all shifted uncomfortably because we knew there was no way we’d seen 70 people. “Oh, I almost forgot. One more thing to see,” he said. And he brought us downstairs into a room with more patiently (or not so patiently) waiting children sitting on benches along a wall and in wheelchairs. These kids were so excited to see us and we immediately started to interact with them. Some of them could walk and got up and walked around from person to person just holding a hand or asking to be picked up. Others laughed from their chairs and watched, waiting for their turn for attention. One little boy I picked up was so adorable. He was 9, but obviously dwarfed and I’m not sure he could walk. I could immediately feel that he had wet himself (who knows how long before we got there) when I plucked him up from his tiny chair. I held him he just stared and stared at me and at the others. I tried talking to him in Romanian, but he wouldn’t respond. He giggled when I made faces at him and touched my face like he was making sure I was real. The director was talking to us, but I’m not sure if any of us listened. We were enthralled by these kids. They were such little balls of energy and so longing for attention and love. They were beautiful. My heart ached as I set the boy back down in the chair and he looked up at me with sad eyes, his arms still stretched out. I kissed the top of his head and walked out of the room, feeling like a monster. How could we leave these kids?
As we left the facility, the director continued to talk. The only thing I really heard was “this is all the result of someone else’s sin.” I was so sad and frustrated by that comment and so overwhelmed by what I saw that I just cried. He looked at me and so “Oh, you’re crying!” and I looked down. I couldn’t make myself look at him.
Between this moment of anger and saying goodbye, I rationalized a little bit. Although it’s not perfect, this man was willing to at least try. He was taking the extremely difficult responsibility of being the director of a very understaffed, large, 70-people organization. No matter what it’s like, he deserves some respect for being the man to take that. So before climbing in the car I said good bye and gave him the Romanian “good health” blessing. He would need it, I knew.
Our visit was even quicker here than at the nursing home. And we really had just come to see it. I don’t regret going. I don’t regret meeting those kids, those men, but again their situation cried out at me. I felt like part of the blame of such a place existing fell on me. I am, after all, just as much a part of this broken world as any of these people. Doesn’t that mean that I am somewhat responsible for what goes on there? I’d like to think it does, but then again, maybe that is giving myself too much credit once again. Still, part of me was left there. I’ll always pray over the bubble-gum pink building in the Ukraine, holding 70 precious souls.
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