Ever
left your crying toddler in the Church nursery, or your kindergartner
on the first day of school, or even a pre-teen at a summer camp? They
look up at you with “Please don’t leave me, Mommy” tears brimming, lower lip
protruding, arms reaching out to for you to pick them up. You know
there is nothing you can do; the time has come and you have to
leave, but you feel a little nauseated. And the second you get to your
car, you let the hot tears flow.
My
last week in Nsoko felt just like that. I did not have a choice; I had
to leave these precious little ones. They didn’t understand, and in
many ways, neither did I. They tried to crawl in my car after my final
goodbye. I kept explaining over and over, that I was coming back, but
everyone says that to them, and most never do.
Maternal
instinct is a powerful thing; I still check on my all my kids in the
middle of the night (even the ones that are
taller than me!), and I
think about the Children of the Dirt all the time.
The
same way I awaken with a start, wondering who in my home has kicked off
their covers and might be cold, I awaken several times a night, and
wonder what the community of Nsoko is facing today.
I often think we are so arrogant to think that our
children would never be in that situation. Sometimes, I think “what if…” What if something did happen in our
country: a plague, a war, a catastrophic event. What if we were all
gone, except Noah, the baby of our family, or the baby or your family?
What if our five year-old prince was suddenly alone on this earth? No
parents, grandparents, brothers or sisters, just little Noah walking
around vulnerable, alone, searching for food, exposed to the elements,
scared, and prey for predators.
Would
someone who didn’t know him take him in, feed him, love him and
protect him, simply because God commanded them to? Would a stranger
make a sacrifice to save my baby? 
See, my motives here? They are all somebody’s baby; they could be yours.
We can all do something, no matter how big or how small.
It matters to them…
