Confessions of a Guilty Bystander

Almost three years ago, I read the news story of an 8-year-old orphan who lived in a large Ugandan city and worked daily breaking large rocks into small ones. He earned 35c a day by filling two five gallon buckets with his rock breaking labors. Earlier, his mother had taught him this work, that she too had taken up to provide her sustenance, only she had died in a rock slide and now the child was alone to fend for himself. The news reporter shared his account of the government official who took him to the place having difficulty finding it, not really being familiar with where it was. The child was a member of a minority population trapped in the urban sprawl and limited opportunities of his place. The government official was quoted as saying, there was not much he could do to help; but he emptied his own pockets and shared what he had with the people there.

Every time I think about an 8-year-old child faced with that type of existence, it haunts me. I wanted to go and find him and bring him to my house, knowing I could provide food and bread and education and opportunity. But there are children like him in countless places…almost everywhere, and my impulse is to weep for them, and to beg God to help them, and to know that their help may well be in my hands…in my heart…in my capacities. I have friends in Uganda. They struggle daily to share the love of Christ with multitudes who need to know him. They have limited resources, but a God who can make anything possible. I pray for that little boy. I pray he lives. I pray he finds those who care about his future. I pray that I may someday find a way to let him know God cares for him. In the meantime, I pray for God to open the way for a new life for him.