Dear Friends:
Sweet Esther, an eleven year old girl, told me her story yesterday at the children's home.
As I was playing with and entertaining some children, Esther was helping me to improve my Luganda language skills. I could tell the moment I met her she was special. She is quite intelligent, and at first I thought she was much older. I asked her how old she was, and she stated eleven years. I was taken back. Her self confident manner and her articulate speech put her, in my mind, many years older. However, if you were to see Esther, with her slight frame you may place her at eight or maybe nine years old.
After a morning of singing and dancing, we had lunch. We all ate and enjoyed some rice, beans, chapati, and tea. Following lunch, we played some more and sat down to learn about each other. All of the stories I heard that afternoon were sad, touching, and yet had a glimmer of hope. Esther's story struck a chord, one of dissonance, that made me look inside my own heart.
We were sitting on the front steps of Hope Children's Home, when I asked her to tell me her story. She was almost reluctant, yet something inside her also wanted to share, because I sensed that by telling someone... healing can come. Her voice suddenly became quiet. She was no longer speaking English, but fell back into her native tongue. Another young girl, Mariam, translated for me. A precious young boy, Frank, also assisted me as he was closely snuggled up to my side. Her first words were spoken to the side, so maybe we wouldn't hear her. I asked her face me, and she obliged. She now spoke even more quietly, slowly, and introspectively. She was lost for several moments in her thoughts, probably recalling those days of pain and abandonment. Then she spoke. She told me that she doesn't remember her mother. She doesn't know if she is alive or dead. She does remember her father...she was six years old at the time. She remembers a conversation around money, and how he told her that he couldn't afford to keep her, he had no money to pay for school, clothes, or even food for her. So her father took her on a journey... as Esther recalls... "He took me to the pit." I questioned her, "Esther I don't understand, what is the pit?" "You know, it is where they put the rubbish. He left me there to die." Her eyes stared straight ahead, there was no expression on her face, no emotion. Hard and cold. I asked again in disbelief, "How old were you?" "Six years" she said. I continued my probing. "So how did you end up coming to Hope?" She stated that a neighbor came out looking for her when news of this came to her village. "She took me to the home and now that was 3 1/2 years ago." "How long were you in the pit?" I asked. Again her face went to stone. Speaking in her own tongue once again, Miriam said, "She doesn't remember".
I held her, tears in my eyes, yet her eyes were dry. Then I reassured Esther that she is in a safe place now and that she is loved. I tried to communicate that good fathers would care for their children in any circumstance, and that they would never leave them. She shook her head in agreement and met my eyes in a stare, to confirm that I was telling her the truth.
Earlier in the morning, Esther told me how she has dreams of becoming a physician. She told me how she wants to help her people. I said that was just like the Esther in the Bible. She said she would love to study in America. She said when she is older she will visit me in Oregon. I would love that.
Jerry
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