Just One at a Time

I learn that a “base” is both a geographic location and a group of people – a sort of mix between a gang and a homeless camp.

This base hit all five of my senses at once. The sight of 30 children living and sleeping in a park, the smell of sewage being used as both a bath and a washing machine, the taste of air so grimy and dirty it coats your throat, the touch of a boy – 12? maybe 13? – so high he needs your steady arm to stay upright, the sound of traffic driving past seemingly unfazed by it all.

This base was only about 30 kids.

“Only” because there are an estimated 60,000 kids – children – living on the streets of Nairobi, Kenya.

I was witnessing only 0.05% of the epidemic and already wanted to hide under my covers and never come out again.

I mean, I’ve seen things before.

We’ve worked with the oppressed and trafficked, loved orphans, and witnessed homelessness and poverty all over the world.

We have seen some things in our lives, but nothing quite like this. Nothing quite on this scale.

These are children – tens of thousands of them – living on the streets, so messed up they can’t walk straight. Hoping there are enough drugs to silence growling stomachs and numb abandoned hearts.

It is completely and utterly overwhelming.

My mind was racing as I stood among this group of boys, wondering how a crisis of this proportion could possibly be fixed, even with such amazing organizations as the one we were with.

As my body stood listening to the outreach team gather and encourage these kids, my heart was waging war in prayer.

This is too big. Too overwhelming. How is this happening? Is it even possible to make a difference here?? I can’t do this. Help me. Make my mouth smile. Make my feet move. Make my arms hug. Make me do something besides stand here paralyzed.

I felt my eyes drawn to those of a boy sitting off by himself under a tree.

I walked over toward him.

I squatted down in front of him and said, “Hi.”

Hi, he says.

I like your hat, I say.

Thanks, he replies.

Your English is great, I say. You’ve been in school before, haven’t you?

Yes, he says. I was in school for a while before I ran away.

His eyes are clear and focused, unlike the rest of his peers. He is highly intelligent, you can see it in them.

I tell him this. He looks away, unable to accept my compliment.

This isn’t the place for you, I say. Your brain has too much to offer. This organization, I say, pointing at our friends. Those men over there can help you.

He meets my eyes tentatively, asks How do I find them?

We give him directions to the center.

I hold his gaze for a few seconds. You are not forgotten, I say. We see you. I see you. Do you believe it?

He looks back at me, gauging my sincerity. He nods slowly.

Our team announces it is time to leave. I start walking away, knowing I’ll probably never see this kid again. I pause and look back.

Wait…what’s your name? I ask.

Isaac, he says.

Isaac, I repeat.

Of course the kid’s name is Isaac.

• • •

I knew another Isaac years and years ago. He, too, was a teenage boy living in Africa, just on the other side of the continent. West vs. East, and all.

This Isaac was the main character in my favorite ever personal story about God. It changed the entire trajectory of my faith about 10 years ago. The story involves a botched marathon and a well-timed pair of Nike Shox. I tell it often, any time anyone with ears has a spare 10 minutes.

So here I am a few weeks ago in East Africa

when I get a text from a friend in West Africa

telling me that my Isaac – the one I haven’t talked to in over a decade – needs help. He isn’t in school, he’s living homeless…he’s in bad shape.

The friend starts describing what living on the streets as a young man in Africa entails, trying to help me understand Isaac’s situation.

I laugh at the irony.

If there is ever a time in my life I can grasp what that might be like, it is now, on this current trip to Africa, just a few countries over, where we are quite literally working with street kids.

Helping him was a no-brainer. A small act of generosity from us would make an immediate and lasting difference for him.

“Tell me where to send the money…and then send me Isaac’s number.” I reply.

• • •

This conversation took place the day before our base visit in Nairobi.

The day before I stood in front of a group of homeless, high children, paralyzed by emotional overload, asking God to help me move.

The day before he drew my eyes over to a boy trying his best to remain invisible. 1 boy out of a group of 30 homeless boys…30 boys out of an estimated 60,000 children in Nairobi alone…60,000 in Nairobi out of 100 million throughout the world.

Just 1 boy out of 100 million, desperately needing to be seen.

Of course his name was Isaac, too.

God has a way of connecting obvious dots for me, of reminding me he’s got it. Not one person – not one Isaac – is lost on his watch.

• • •

We cannot fix everything.

We cannot solve the massive and systemic issues that plague our world.

We do not have the power to eradicate homelessness and pain and poverty and addiction and racism and trafficking.

….but we each have an Isaac. Several, probably.

Sometimes the Isaacs in our lives intersect for just a moment; people right in front of us that are aching for eyes to connect with and hands to receive from.

Sometimes the Isaacs in our lives are woven throughout years; friends who need to be reminded of what God has done in their past, knowing he will do it again in their present and future.

Maybe our job has never been to fix the whole, but focus on the one. The ones.

After all, that’s the example we’ve been given. We’ve each been the ones Jesus left the ninety-nine to come after.

And because he did, now we can.

We can fight for street kids one base visit at a time. Piece together a heart one truth at a time. Rebuild trust one reminder at a time. Combat loneliness one coffee date at a time. Get to know that family one invitation at a time. Encourage the friend one text at a time. Serve your spouse one day at at time. Love your kids one hour at a time. Extend grace to yourself one second at a time.

Just one at a time.

This is gospel math, and it adds up quickly.

 

// PS if this street kid organization intrigues you, visit MadeintheStreets.org and give all of your money to them. They are incredible and will put it to good use. //