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 echos 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 meager 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 developement 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 Paster 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.
As the last week of Compassion Bloggers Month slips by, a number stares me in the face. It’s a large number, but not an impossible number. It is a number that represents the purpose of our endeavors and the goal of all Compassion bloggers everywhere: three thousand, one hundred eight. That’s a lot of children relieved from the chains of poverty and hopelessness. The good news: 2,842 of those children have been sponsored during the month of September!
As we approach the end of September, we cannot let go of our goal. There are 266 more lives in need of your love and support. I am not sure how many views my blog receives each week, nor am I aware if my posts have made that big of an impact. But there is one thing that I am sure of, and that is of my strong desire to help children in need; not only financially, but also spiritually. I would be so deeply grateful if I was able to lead one child to a sponsor this month. The privilege of helping just one child would mean more to me than you could ever know. If I knew that I was able to give one child a sponsor this month, it would be worth all my efforts.
As I searched the faces of waiting children, praying over each one, a little girl caught my eye. I instantly knew that I had to find her a sponsor.
Please meet Wendy Paola Moreno Montoya from Mexico, a little girl who has been eagerly awaiting her sponsor for over 200 days. She is only nine years old, and yet I can read the sorrow in her eyes and the longing to be loved.
Although the story above is a fictional account, it may be a very realistic picture of a child living in poverty.
Wendy needs the love and encouragement of a sponsor. She struggles in primary school where her grades are below average. She enjoys playing with dolls, running, and playing group games. There are three children in her family.
This is just one child reaching out for the love of a sponsor. Will you let her know that she is wanted?
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