This story is based on the many stories I have heard and read describing the profound impact a sponsor’s letters can have or not have on his/her child. The letters really matter. It is true that words can build up or tear down, but sometimes silence can shred a heart in an equally painful way.
“Always remember, my dear Issac, that I love you more than you can even imagine and I know that God has an amazing future for you.” A salty crystal dripped on to the crinkled paper in Samuel’s brown hands. Those last words had come difficult, and his voice betrayed the sorrow puddling in his heart. His younger brother, Issac, placed six-year-old fingers on his brother’s knee.
“Won’t you read it again, Samuel?” he breathed with a sigh of contentment. Samuel shuddered, drying the tears with his sleeve, and glancing at the smiling face of Issac.
“No, not now,” he spoke in a low voice, trying to conceal his feelings. Issac reached for the paper and eagerly stole it from the trembling hands of his brother. Then, sliding from the bed, he proudly placed it with the ever-growing collection of sacred letters.
Samuel uneasily turned to crumple down on the straw mattress he shared with his brother. Night air snuck through the cracked windows and whispered a sobering message through the trees. Samuel was seventeen years old. At the age of eight his family was rescued, when a Compassion project established itself in the tiny Indian valley he called home. His sponsors had provided meals, schooling, and the opportunity to meet Jesus while surrounded by a muslim world. But they had never written, and Samuel was sure they never would.
He ached to know them; his heart burned for a few words of love, but still none came. His mind raced with doubt. Who are these mysterious people living in a different country, speaking a different language, and living a different life? Why do they want to help me? Are they even real? His mind starved for the answers to these questions. Even if only one letter came, he knew it would make all the difference.
But not even a spark of hope remained. He knew none would come. He had written faithfully to his sponsors telling them of his life, his language, and his country. He wanted to love them, and although deep inside he was extremely grateful, how could he love someone he knew nothing about?
Letter day arrives at the project and all the younger children dance around the boxes of treasure. The older boys and girls crowd around the stack, hungry for words. They are more like men and women than children, and unlike other children living in poverty, they have a future. Their sponsors tell them so.
Samuel lingers in the back of the room. Several other children join him. Little hope dwindles in their hearts. At the front of the classroom, each treasure is accepted with an overflowing amount of joy. After several minutes, a project worker makes her way to the back of the room. Samuel eyes are glued as he watches her every move. His eyes fall upon Ameya, a boy close to his age. The teacher approaches his stooped body, hidden in the shadows, and her arms extend, gently handing him a letter. Ameya’s eyes glance up in paralyzing shock and remained fixed on the letter offered. He snatches it like a hungry wolf. Tucking it under his cotton shirt, his flies from the classroom to pour over every syllable and drink of the sweet words he has never known before.
The last of the boxes are emptied, and each child wanders off toward home. Little feet float down the dirt roads with dreamy happiness. Others are heavy with the burden of sadness. The classroom echoes with silence. Issac tiptoes to the back of the room.
“Samuel,” he whispers. “Would you like to share my letter?” His happy little childish heart is spoiled by the grief tormenting the heavy heart of his big brother. Samuel’s brown eyes fill with gratitude. Rising to his feet, he takes the hand of Issac and they slowly walk home in the afternoon sunlight.
Samuel continues his wait, but is there any expectancy left? What’s the use of watching and waiting, if all hope is lost?
–
Is there a valid reason I can’t spare a few minutes to jot down words of life and love to my sponsored child?
There is not one I can think of.
My heart pours on to the paper. The words come too quickly for my tired hand, but they are not wasted. Three folds, a prayer, a stamp and it’s on its way.
In a few months, the paper, the words, will be held in the hand of a friend and devoured with delight. She will chew every word, cherish every sentence, and know that I truly care.
I will mold her future and strengthen the flame of hope that burns a pathway to freedom.
If you sponsor a child and have not taken the time to write words that will feed his mind and spirit, please, never pound yourself with the label, “bad sponsor”. It is sometimes easy to not fully realize just how vital our letters are. But, now that you know, please do not waste another minute. Right now, pick up a pencil and write. Your letters will be kept forever.
I will leave you with the links below. They will bring you to wonderful posts about the importance of letter writing.
http://blog.compassion.com/sponsored-children-love-your-letters/
http://www.bloggingfromtheboonies.com/2011/06/yes-letters-really-are-that-important.html
Love,
Emily
An Ounce of Compassion 