When we entered the orphanage in Mombasa, I didn’t know what to expect. But what I saw that day stayed with me. There were about 120 children, most of them under 11 years—though some looked older but just too small for their age. They were sleeping five on one bed. Some of the beds were double deckers, no mosquito nets, no bed rails, just one blanket to share. Kids that age, most of them still wet the bed. And I kept thinking, how do you even sleep in such conditions? No parent to help. No bedtime story. No one saying “I love you.” Just a cold room, and other kids beside you who are also trying to survive.
You could tell these kids had been trained to sing for visitors. When we came, they sang “Jesus loves me” songs and I kept wondering—do they actually know it, or have they just been taught to sing it? They’ve been made to smile and perform, hoping maybe the visitors will give something. And it hurt me, because love is not something you should have to perform for. I felt that they were being used. I just kept praying that when we cooked for them, danced and sang together, and told them “Jesus loves you,” that maybe, just maybe, they actually felt it. Not from our mouths, but from our hearts.
There was one room that finished me. The last room. Two twin babies were sleeping quietly. The caregiver told us their mother had dropped them off and ran away. I had no words. That was the point I knew I couldn’t look at any more rooms. It was too much. Too heavy. But then I remembered Jesus’ words in Matthew 25: “I was hungry and you gave me food… I was a stranger and you welcomed me… I was in prison and you came to me.” And in verse 40 He says, “Whatever you did for one of the least of these, you did it for me.” These children may not be behind bars or in hospital beds, but they are suffering all the same. And when we love them, we’re loving Jesus directly.
What opened my eyes even more was what happened the next day. July 18. It was the day after my birthday. My Friends remembered my birthday and sang for me. Twice. They sang “Happy Birthday” with the sweetest voices I’ve ever heard. And I felt loved. Not just by them—but by God Himself. And in that moment, I remembered again: we are all loved. But not all of us get to feel it growing up. I thought about those kids and I wondered whether if someone tells them of God’s fatherly love whether they understand it, motherly love who were not there in their lives growing up. A God who took the parents to heaven, away from them. I don’t know how to even think about what could be going on in their minds and how they actually feel about God once they begin conceptualizing reality.
We are hopeful about our own lives. We pray, we trust, we wait on God. But what about those children? Who prays for them by name? I may not have all the answers, but I know this one thing—Jesus is not blind. He sees them. And if He hasn’t forgotten them, we shouldn’t either. This love we show, it’s not a suggestion. It’s a command. And every time we love one of these little ones, we’re loving Jesus Himself.
God help me to know how to serve in these communities.