I wanted to share with you a story I've been captivated with ever since I read it. It's essence is fictional, but in all honesty it could be the story of thousands of children anywhere in the world. This is the story of Wendy, and her journey from hopeless failure to Compassion sponsored child. It was written by Emily from the blog "An Ounce of Compassion", and reproduced on the
Compassion Blog on October 30, 2012 Enjoy.
I know I will never be
wanted; something deep down inside, tells me so. Each time the cold
eyes of my papa chisel at my heart, I know I am nothing
but shame to him. I am desperate, oh so desperate for his approval,
the love that he forever withholds from me. It shatters my
heart into a million tiny pieces that no one can put back into place. He
is ashamed of my weakness. I try to be strong. I struggle to pull
the tears back, but they so easily rebel. I cannot do better and I
know I am a failure.
The coldness of solitude creeps into my bones as the echoes of laughter reach
my ears. There is no room for me to partake in the laughter of my
fellow school mates. I am too ashamed to make friends. I know they
must despise me: a motherless creature, who fails before the eyes of both
my teacher and Papa. As Teacher gathers her students back to the
classroom, I slowly follow behind.
Nearing the doorway, my heartbeat nearly comes to a halt. I can
barely take in a breath. My exam is today. Will I even pass into
the next grade? Surely my Papa will be disappointed with me if I
fail him again. He cannot waste his meagre income on such a
slow animal.
Each minute of the exam seems to
stretch longer, as I scribble down answers. I strive to pull the
facts from my brain. I struggle to comprehend. As my dull
pencil gets shorter and shorter, the pink rubber eraser becomes worn with
frequent use. Fear grips my heart and twists it
relentlessly. My breaths are quick and short. My head is
dizzy. My hardened brown feet kick the legs of the desk
monotonously. A pestering fly teases me cruelly. The hot
air chokes my attention. And yet all I can think about is Papa.
Papa, working hard on the farm to feed me and keep me in school; day
after day, fighting the unyielding clay. If only he knew how I loved him
so dearly, how very hard I try to please him. If only I had worked a
little harder after school, it wouldn’t have been my fault.
I wouldn’t have killed my dear sweet
Mama, if only I had done more. She was too weak to work, but
I hadn’t known. How wicked I was to have stayed in school while Mama,
suffering with cancer, labored at the farm. If only I had known how much
pain she was experiencing, I would have worked harder. I would
have exerted all of my eight-year-old strength, so that she could rest. I
helped the best I knew how, but it wasn’t enough.
How can I expect Papa to forgive me,
when I cannot forgive myself?
All at once, my thoughts fly back to the exam. The dryness in my throat
makes it hard to swallow. With a minute left, I scratch out my name at
the top of the paper and hand it in.
The walk home today is more
painful than the hunger growing in my stomach.
Fear whirls in my mind and each dusty step fills my heart with
more dread. Approaching the stench of our small farm, I hear a pleading
voice from behind the tarp. Whipping in the wind, it seals out very little
sound. I know that my Abuela is speaking with Papa in the house. Her
smooth words advocate for me.
“This will be good for Wendy, my son. Surely you can see that? Do not let
your hardened heart stand in the way of her best interest.”
“Her best interest? Have I not
labored to keep her off the streets? She is a lazy child, who does
not deserve to go to school. I cannot allow her to attend a church program,”
his firm voice bellows above the loud flapping of the tarp.
“I will not back down Juan,” comes
the quiet reply of my grandmother. Her weak voice trembles with earnest,
and I yearn to be held in her arms. “Wendy must be registered
tomorrow for the Child Development Center. I believe that God has
sent this opportunity to us.”
Papa does not respond. His silence scares me. I creep closer, but
terror prevents me from entering the small room where they converse.
Finally his strong voice speaks.
“If it gets her out of my sight,” he
retorts, “you can take her tomorrow, but God has sent us
nothing. He has only taken from me and my family.”
Suddenly, the tarp flies back
sharply, and Papa storms past. After observing me angrily, he disappears
behind the rusty shed.
Taking Abuela’s wrinkled hand, I step
into a long line of waiting people. The children stare blankly at the
splintered floor of our tiny church. Pastor Jose greets the crowd kindly.
I tug Abuela’s sleeve gently, fearing
that she will become irritated with me. She turns her head and I can
read the sympathy in her eyes.
“Why are we here, with all of these
people?” I ask imploringly. She nods with patience and I wait for her
response.
“I am going to register you with the Compassion project here at Pastor
Jose’s church,” her words come slow. “This will help you greatly, my
child.” I want to believe her, but I am also puzzled. I know of a
young girl in my school who attends the project once a week. She talks
about her sponsor and shares about the activities and games she
plays at the Center. She says because of her sponsor, her family is
now able to buy groceries and provide her a uniform. And still, I do
not know what to expect.
We talk with several people and
answer many questions. Then I am whisked away with a number of other
children and each of our pictures are taken. I have never seen a camera before,
although I have always wondered what they look like. Something that is
able to capture the image of a person, must be
truly magnificent. I stare at it wonderingly, as lights flash three
times. It is almost a sort of magic I assume.
Abuela takes me home. I am very tired. Next week I will come to the
project and meet my teacher. I want to be happy, but the truth haunts
me. I know she will soon discover that I am a failure. I wonder if I
must take many exams at the Project?
I have attended the project for many
weeks. A new light is burning in my heart. At the project, we learn
fascinating Bible stories and I am making new friends. I still don’t have
a sponsor, but the teacher has prayed that one will come soon! I am very
happy.
I have passed the third year
of primary school. I had hoped that this would make Papa glad,
however most days he is silent. He will not speak to me, but I talk
to him. I tell him all about the joy I have found at the project.
“Papa, today my teacher, Marie, taught us how God sent His Son Jesus all the
way to this earth, just so He could die to save us from our sins. Do you
think He did that for me too?” I beam with excitement. But Papa does not
reply. My heart sinks with a heavy burden. I return to scrubbing his
shirts. The soap stings my cut hands, so I quickly dip them into
the cloudy water. Suddenly he speaks, but his words cut me like a
knife.
“So is my daughter too stupid of a girl to deserve
a sponsor? I knew no one would want you. It has been four
months now, and no one has chosen you.” He turns to leave the room. I
lower my head to hide the tears that stain my face and drip into
the bucket of laundry.
I didn’t think of it much before, but
now, each day without a sponsor seems to pierce me deeper and deeper. One
by one the other children in the Center find a sponsor, but I am left
alone. I am too much of a failure for anyone to want me.
The rainy season soaks the world around me. Wet mud puddles stain my
clothes, as I follow my grandmother to the church
service. My mind begs to silently slip into the back pew, but
Abuela steadily presses toward the front. I gaze upward at the wooden
cross which hangs majestically from one of the supporting beams. My step
becomes lighter, and I sit on the front pew, beside my beloved
Abuela. Her faithful eyes rest on Pastor Jose, who is opening his Bible
and preparing to speak. I listen intently.
“Jesus loves you all so much. In
fact, there is nothing you can do that is bad enough to remove His love.
He is forever knocking at the door of your heart. He
truly desires a relationship with you,” Pastor Jose paused and gave
his flock of sheep a genuine smile of love. He wanted so much to lead
them on the right path. If only they would listen to his cries
of sincerity. ”He wants to come into your hurting heart and fill it with
His love. Please let Him in. Please don’t keep Him waiting outside any
longer.”
My heart slowly fills with hope as I hear the wonderful words of Pastor
Jose. I never knew that Jesus would want someone like me. How could
one so perfect, love a child as horrible as I? The question is
rolling over and over in my head. But as I ponder this almost impossible
statement, a feeling of love is beginning to surround me. I am
beginning to realize that Jesus really does love me, even if no one else
does.
I shyly rise from my seat and creep
up to the Pastor after service.
“Will you help me let Him in?” I
stammer.
His smile pierces my hopeless
heart. ”I would be more than happy to help you.”
Pastor Jose kneels beside me
and leads me in a prayer filled with compassion. God’s love
pours in and washes away the sorrow. I am full of peace and joy.
Maybe one day my papa will feel this peace as well.
The days pass by and I eagerly count
each one. I am longing for the day when my sponsor will find me. At
the project, Marie pulls me aside when it is time for the children to return to
their homes.
“I have a gift for you,” her voice
dances with happiness. I take the small box she places in front of
me. Inside is a beautiful black Bible, all my own. I have never held
a Bible before, so I touch its smooth cover reverently.
The soft paper feels so soothing between my rough fingertips. This
Bible is a precious jewel to me; my only possession. Its treasured
words will lead me closer to Him, the one friend I
have. The One who gave salvation to a failure.
“And now,” she continues. ”I
have some very special news for you, my little Wendy.” Marie pauses
and places her warm hand on my stooped shoulders. ”Someone has
decided to sponsor you!”
I take in a quick breath of thick air, my brown eyes fixed on the tiny
letters of my Spanish Bible. At first, I do not look
up into Marie’s smiling face. But as her words sink in, gratefulness
overflows the tiny cup of my heart. My brimming eyes turn upward.
They want me? I whisper with a cracked voice unlike my own.
Marie nods.
They love me. I breathe.
