The Face of Hope

--posted by Regina

I’m starting to recognize the look of extreme hunger—starvation, if you will. Huge eyes stare out of a face devoid of emotion. Body movements are slow and calculated—energy is conserved for more important matters, like breathing. This hopelessness was written on our little Haitian girl’s face nine years ago, and I’m seeing it again in children’s eyes here in Mozambique.

Last month, xenophobia in South Africa sent 40,000 Mozambicans living there pouring back over the border—leaving their hopes for a better livelihood and opting instead for the relative safety of their impoverished home country. In a land devastated first by civil war and now by AIDS, this only adds to the staggering numbers of needy children. All Nations Mozambique, run by South Africans Pieter and Rika Boersma, provides two family-style baby houses near Maputo. I am privileged to spend six weeks investing in these babies’ lives. Let me introduce you to one of them:

Hawa arrived at the baby house three weeks ago, wearing the stoic face of hunger. Although she is almost three years old, she weighed in at 17 pounds. Claw-like hands dangle at the ends of arms that are frighteningly thin. When I pick her up, I instinctively move very slowly—the ribs so close beneath her skin feel terribly fragile. Her hair is light and reddish, another indication of severe malnutrition.

AIDS has bulldozed through Hawa’s family. Her father succumbed recently to the disease, leaving behind a sick wife (20-year old Felizmina) and three children. And now Hawa’s frail little body shows the stark effects of the illness. Pieter and Rika gave Felizmina food for the healthy children at home, offered her a jewelry-making class that could lead to a job, and received Hawa into their house—mom’s face brightened considerably. Smiling now, she turned to go, embracing every one present except her little daughter (who now has a new home). As Pieter says, “She already abandoned Hawa long ago.” I can’t pretend to understand these things—maybe detachment is the only coping mechanism left to her.

Hawa is now on anti-retroviral drugs, beginning an upward journey. Because she is still so weak, I’ve had the privilege of being her “mom”, giving her special attention. She sleeps beside me at night, her little hands grasping to find mine in the dark.

What excitement to see the first smiles, to hear her impish giggles as she splashes me at bathtime! It will take time to erase that impassive mask completely, but there is hope for Hawa, as evidenced by many of the other children who came here severely malnourished but are now flourishing. These are lives literally being saved, these are children who, God willing, will one day be men and women of integrity, transformed by the love of Jesus and influencing Mozambique for the kingdom.

(For more information about All Nations baby houses in Mozambique, see http://www.allnationsmozambique.com/.

Love Trumps Victory

June 9--posted by Regina

I’ve spent a fair amount of time in third-world countries over the past number of years, and yet my heart is breaking anew tonight as if it were the first visit. Last week there was Hortencia, the feverish young mom writhing in pain for days on a grass mat covering the dirt floor of her hut. At least we were able to get her to a hospital, but diagnosis was unclear—something involving her ribs and spinal column.

Yesterday several of us made our weekly visit to the TB ward of a local hospital. It’s a safe bet that almost all of the residents here have AIDS. Because of weakened immune systems, they usually succumb to tuberculosis or pneumonia. The facility had a “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” feel to it—quite clean, but appearing to be a few decades behind modern medical science.

A staff person announced our arrival, and a dozen women shuffled out of rooms-for-four in slow motion. The majority are walking skeletons with impossibly long, thin limbs. They settled into chairs around small tables while the worker served up tea. Through an interpreter we shared words meant to uplift and encourage. We prayed with them for healing, for comfort, and to know that One who passionately loves them waits at the end of the journey with open arms.

My friend Regina (a common Portuguese name) slipped back to her bed early, feeling worse than usual. I stood by her bed praying, crying, gently stroking her back as the frail feverish body convulsed again and again with coughing, then spitting into a cup. Do these women realize they are dying? How is it that the one Regina is blessed with abundant opportunities and resources, while the other seems so doomed?

This morning several of us accompanied Luis, a young Mozambican staff member of the All Nations baby houses, on a home visit to a very poor village. The mother is HIV positive and is interested in giving up her two-and-a-half month old baby, Antonio. After leaving the road, we walk on footpaths for 15 minutes before arriving at a simple reed shack that is home to eight people.

Mom is 16 years old and seems amazingly detached, considering it may be the last day she sees her son. Grandma is holding a blanketed bundle, and consents to let me have a turn. I can only weep when I look inside. Two alert eyes look up at me out of an emaciated little body, as tiny as my premature son at birth. He can’t possibly weigh over several pounds. Antonio’s arms and legs dangle limply, and his head is covered with a nasty cradle cap infection. Grandpa is concerned about child trafficking, and so Mom and a cousin bring the baby with to visit the baby house and see for themselves how the children are cared for. Pieter and Rika offer to care for the child only until he is healthy, or to keep him long-term, never cutting contact with the family. The final say rests with Mom.

It feels like there are missing pieces to this story, but in the end Mom bends to pressure from her father and nonchalantly decides to keep the baby. Her lack of responses and her strange detachment make us wonder if she is mentally delayed. The village footpaths are lined with ditches filled with standing water, perfect breeding grounds for mosquitoes. If AIDS or starvation don’t claim little Antonio, then surely malaria will. Outside of a miracle, I can’t believe this child will survive without intervention. And yet I’m told that the Mozambican government cannot take him without Mom’s consent…


I am broken, I am undone by the suffering I see. Where is the God of Elijah? I want to see miracles! It’s hard to feel so powerless. I’m doing a lot of crying these days. That seems to be about all I can do.

But maybe that’s the point—perhaps love is the greatest gift I could give, trite as that sounds. Maybe my tears can somehow begin to convey the heart of Jesus, broken for his Mozambican children. Maybe that’s the starting point from which all other ministry flows. It’s not always about victory—but it IS always about love.

“Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress…” (James 1:27).

(POSTSCRIPT: good news! Little Antonio's mom changed her mind, and he is now the newest, tiniest resident here, bathed and wrapped in clean clothes and much love.)