Compassion for Sarah

It was finally Friday. I dug through my suitcase to find the little gifts I had packed haphazardly, in the rare chance that I "ran into" Sarah. I could hardly believe I would have a chance to give them. There was a little jewelry box with a mirror inside, and a necklace with pink beads that I had made. I packed my camera, and ask my friend Josh to come with me and be the picture-taker. I went to the front gate of our lodge and waited. And waited. African time = somewhere in the 2-hour timeframe of when we said we'd be there.

The taxi finally showed up. I got in, completely on faith, and exchanged what little Swahili I knew with the driver. He seemed to know where he was taking me. After only a ten minute ride, we arrived at Galilaya Student Center. I was greeted by several adults and welcomed into a small, empty classroom. The principal of the school spoke English and told me this was one of the Compassion project schools. The served me tea and introduced me to a social worker and several teachers who were part of Sarah's life. It was surreal to see what our measly $28/month was helping to offer Sarah: education. Priceless!! I listened to the teachers tell about their program for several minutes, my peripheral vision drawn to any glimpse of a child walking by. But no Sarah. We then posed for a picture, and I was escorted back into the taxi. "That's it?" I thought, ashamed that I was disappointed.

But then I realized there was another passenger in the taxi with me. It was a woman, who I would learn was our translator for the day. I asked where we were going next. She said "to Sarah's house." As it turned out, Sarah was off school that day, and would be waiting for me at her home.

We traveled through Arusha, then turned up into what looked like wilderness. There were bumpy, dusty roads winding through shaggy fields of corn, beans, and potatoes. Children peered through cornstalks as if out of nowhere. I tried not to blink - there was too much to see. We drove up and up some more into what looked like a small hillside village. Homes were made of tree logs, mud, and hay. Finally we turned into an overgrown pathway and the taxi stopped. I looked out the window and saw a small log stable where a cow glared at me. Next to that was a small hut with clay walls and children running out of the doorway opening. I burst out of the taxi and took in all of the beautiful little faces, searching for Sarah. There were five children, but only one with the smile that had captured my heart in her pictures. Sarah was standing there in front of me, shyly approaching for a hug. I forgot all cultural etiquette and bent down, arms open to receive her. She fell into my arms and I breathed in her nubby black hair. "Hello Sarah," I said. "Asante," (which means thank you in Swahili) she replied in her sweet little voice that I"ll never forget. All around us children gathered in fascination. Some touched my hair, others just stared.

When I realized the translator was waiting for me to rise up again, she escorted me inside Sarah's home. I saw her living room, which had bare clay walls other than a few metal bottle caps pressed into the clay for decoration. I saw two other rooms - a kitchen with a tiny stove (which I later learned was fueled by cow pee), and a sleeping room. For five children and a mother? I wondered. There were no beds, just lumpy cushions on the floor and ragged quilts. Sarah's mother invited me to sit on their couch - the only piece of furniture in the house. Sarah sat beside me, and soon all of the children piled in next to us. Sarah's mom, the translator, and my friend Josh sat on the floor.

First, we exchanged a few comments about how wonderful it was to meet each other. Then I remembered the gifts in my bag. I brought them out and Sarah's face lit up with gratitude. In the jewelry box I placed a photograph of Nick and me, and she stared at it with a big smile on her face for a long while. "Asante....asante" she said, over and over. She said "Asante" followed by some words I didn't understand, and the translator explained that the black and red dress Sarah was wearing was also a gift from us (provided by the small Christmas amount we had sent a few months before). Sarah was thanking me in person for her Christmas gift. I hugged her and told her I loved her and what a special girl she was, but she wiggled away to gather up something to show me. To my surprise, Sarah had worked hard all week to make gifts for me. The first was a beautiful beaded bracelet and necklace. And for Nick, a big gourd that she had burned a message into: "I Love You." "Asante," is what I said. "Wow" is what I felt.


Next, Sarah's mother told me that Sarah had been waiting up since the darkness of the morning, running out to investigate any distant sound of a car coming up the hillside. She had run out tens of times before we finally arrived at 11am. Her mother thanked me repeatedly for my prayers and my help. I could tell in her eyes there was suffering and hardship. I vowed to never stop sponsoring Sarah, and when Sarah graduated from Compassion I would sponsor another child. Seeing the face of poverty shattered every suspicion or cynicism I ever had about child sponsorship organizations. This was the real thing. My money was changing a life.

We took some pictures together, and then I prayed for Sarah. The translator patiently relayed all of my prayers to Sarah, and Sarah whispered "Asante" over and over. I said Amen and got up to walk outside, but Sarah quietly asked if she could pray for me. I bowed again, and listened to the sweetest prayer ever. Prayers of thanks, of blessing, of protection and grace upon me and upon Nick. "Wow" again.

I wished I could stay all day, but even an hour was a miracle to me. I hugged Sarah one last time, told her I loved her, and promised I would send pictures and continue writing letters.

I climbed in the taxi, and sat in bewilderment at the amazing orchestration of details that God had just put together. How some scholarship money, a course taught in Africa, and a little town of Arusha could all weave perfectly into the hour I just spent with my sponsored child.

We have reminisced over the years about our meeting. Sarah sends me pictures, drawings, "come back" requests, and updates on her studies and friendships. She is almost 18 now, and wants to be a doctor when she grows up. She loves the Lord and has seen first hand how He provides. For her, thankfulness is as natural as breathing. I will never forget her chanting of "Asante." Nick was thrilled to hear of all of this, and when I got home we decided to send another small gift of money for her birthday, which was coming in July. $12 was all Compassion asked us to send -- it would be plenty. The next month we received a picture of Sarah and her mother. Sarah was wearing her Christmas dress and the necklace I gave her during my visit. And in front of them was a wooden bed. Compassion had used our money to give Sarah (and I'd expect her other 4 siblings would pile in!) a new bed to sleep in. That's just the start of the amazing stories that have developed over the years in our relationship with her. To say our lives are richer because of Compassion is an understatement.


Sarah, our daughter, we love you!!!