Missionary Daddy. Linda Goodnight
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food bus arrives at noon,” Eric told them. “They should be here any minute.”
“Don’t you have food here?”
“Sure, but we’ll eat later. The food van is for the others.”
Sam didn’t recall seeing any others, but she didn’t argue on a day filled with interesting occurrences.
The sun was high in the sky and the heat scorching, much hotter than along the beach. Even though she was an exercise fiend, Sam doubted if she’d ever perspired quite this much. She pulled her damp cotton shirt away from her body, letting cool air rush in. She should be exhausted and ready to escape. Instead she felt an energy rush and deep satisfaction.
A white van chugged down the road, horn blaring in a jolly rhythm. Suddenly, the landscape erupted with humanity, mostly children. They came running from all directions, feet bare, clothes in pitiful condition, smiles wide, carrying containers of every sort from a regular bowl to a discarded lid.
The teenagers appeared as startled as Sam. Eric clapped his hands and motioned toward the awning being erected by staff members. The chattering children crowded in to sit on the hard-packed ground.
During the next few minutes, Eric, with children in his lap and hanging over his back, spoke to the group about Jesus’s love for them. The simple, sweet, spiritual message brought a lump to Sam’s throat. She hoped it was true. These precious babies needed someone big and strong to love them.
Two of the teenagers from the mission team presented a children’s song, urging the sea of faces to sing and clap. Laughter and energy rippled through the clearing. For all the despair, these people could still find joy, something sorely missing in her life most of the time.
A child no more than three had chosen Sam’s lap and cuddled close to play with her shining bracelets. Flies swarmed, the sun scorched and dirt was everywhere. But Sam was oddly content.
When the brief Bible lesson ended, a makeshift table was loaded with an enormous pot of porridge-looking stuff.
“Can you handle this?” Eric asked, offering the ladle to Sam.
“I may not be able to hammer but I can dip,” she said and was rewarded with his wide grin.
“I knew you were a talented woman. Today the dipper. Tomorrow the roof.”
Tomorrow. She didn’t know how to tell him there would be no tomorrow.
A sea of thin, hungry faces swarmed the table, bowls upraised, amazingly considerate of one another. Though clearly in need of food, no one pushed the other out of the way. Most even took their meager rations and headed home to share with other family members. When Sam heard that, she almost cried.
The rest of the group handed out slices of white bread while she filled containers. Eric worked beside the orphan children, quietly directing them to be of service to the others. Not a one argued or insisted on eating first.
Sam dipped until the pot emptied. Still the children came.
“We need more,” she said.
The van driver shrugged. “There is no more.”
With a sinking feeling, she scraped the remains into one final cup and watched with heavy heart as the latecomers trudged away empty-handed but uncomplaining. The message was clear: such was the way of life in Africa.
Eric appeared at her side and draped an arm comfortingly over her shoulders. He brought with him the pleasant scent of healthy, hardworking male. “You can’t let it get to you.”
Hot and sticky and sad, she stared bleakly at the last child ambling down the dusty road, empty container dangling from his fingertips. “Some went away hungry.”
“But many didn’t. You have to look at the good you’ve done instead of what you can’t do. That’s Africa.”
“Can’t we get more food out here?” She had money. She could buy whatever they needed.
“The town missionaries bring what they can every day, but they have people inside the city to feed, as well.”
She had to find a way to help. To make a difference in these precious lives. Maybe she couldn’t change things today, but some day…
“Come on,” Eric said. “Zola has lunch for the rest of us inside.”
Food held no appeal for Samantha. These children needed to eat far more than she did. She pinched the skin on her upper arm, dismayed to find a fleshy strip of triceps. The negative voices started up inside her head. Too fat. Ugly. Worthless.
With the skills she’d developed over several years of coping, she pushed the thoughts away and concentrated on feeding the orphans. According to the doctors, her weight was finally at a semi-healthy level, whether she believed it or not.
Along toward sunset, a van rattled down the road to take the teenagers back to their base camp inside the city.
Sam didn’t go with them.
“The driver who brought me is coming back later,” she said.
That was fine with Eric. He could use her help getting the kids washed, read to and down for the night. And he enjoyed the prospect of spending a little one-on-one time with the sweet and lovely Samantha. Broken fingernails aside, she’d proven herself to be a real trooper all day.
“I’ve never seen anything quite so brave and wonderful as these children,” Sam said later as they settled outside in the evening with bottles of clean water. Even the water struck her as more significant than ever before. Here, water was at a premium all the time.
Eric angled toward her in the semidarkness, water bottle dangling from one hand. “They were fascinated with your hair. I doubt they’d ever seen so much long, straight, white hair. It was nice of you to let them touch it.”
Her ponytail had long since pulled loose on the sides and Eric was as tempted as the children to get his hands on the flowing blond silk.
She brushed the strands back with both hands. “I didn’t mind. The kids are adorable.”
“So what do you think of Africa so far?”
The easy smile disappeared. “The people are gentle and friendly, but the poverty is unbelievable. And the orphans…”
Eric knew exactly what she meant. Sometimes the conditions overwhelmed. If God hadn’t called him here, he would have given up a long time ago. But the Lord and his heart wouldn’t let him.
“Every day the problem grows worse. More parents die of AIDS or malaria. More children left alone. The African people take care of one another when they can, but most barely survive. How can they take in an orphaned child?”
He shook his head, aware that the worry he hid from the kids had seeped through.
Sam’s smooth, soft hand touched his. “Your work here is wonderful, Eric. You’re doing all you possibly can.”
But it wasn’t enough.
Sweet Sam was trying to encourage him and the thought both moved and amused Eric. He was generally the comforter, the strong one. But he was grateful that God had sent this particular missions’ worker halfway across the world just when he needed encouragement.
“If only those with the financial means would do more,” he muttered. But in his experience, the rich just got richer. Africa was proof of that. “You drove through the townships to get here. You saw the line between the haves and have-nots—a mansion on one side of the road and hovels on the other.”
“It’s shocking, isn’t it?”
Resentment burned the back of his throat like acid. “There are people in this country wealthy enough to solve the hunger problem, yet they won’t even cross the road to offer a loaf of bread to a needy family.”
It was the regular working folks,