We wandered through the streets of the town, marveling at the beauty of dark thatched roofs against clear blue skies. Flowers abounded and palm trees swayed elegantly in the warm breeze. It was, from what we could gather, a typical Sunday afternoon here.
Children scattered down the road in front of us, laughing as they chased each other between the houses and back on to the street. As we walked further, we heard laughter coming from the river's edge. There children splashed each other in the shallows. One boy dived into the murky water and emerged a few seconds later within inches of his friend, startling him. They both squealed in delight.
We walked on. The front yard had been converted into a soccer field. At first I thought it was sand, but on closer inspection I realized they had made good use of the sawdust from the nearby lumber mill.
"Goal!" one small boy shouted. He spun, his fist beating the air, and his friend slapped him on the back. Another chased the wayward ball down the narrow street. When he returned, they took their positions again and the game resumed. We walked on, careful to not get hit by a stray ball.
There certainly was no lack in the number of children here, I thought. They seemed to be everywhere: children carried wood home in small bundles for cooking fires; others played happily at their mothers' feet while they tended the small stores in front of their houses. I smiled at the joy and blessing they were bringing their families.
The next day we visited Pastor M.'s family. His eldest daughter was staying with them after the birth of her baby who slept peacefully in the tattered hammock in the kitchen.
"What is her name?" I asked.
"She doesn't have one yet," her mother told me.
"How old is she?"
"Ten days old."
Ten days old and not yet named. How different things are here, I thought. Is it because you do not want to name a child that might not survive? I decided I would leave that question for another time, but here was another example of a beautiful child in this beautiful town.
On Tuesday I wandered into the market. A round-faced girl with shining eyes, no more than four years old, ran up to me and grabbed my hand in her little one.
"Why are your legs so white?" she asked me. Reaching down with her other hand, she stroked my leg from ankle to calf.
"God made them that way," I told her. I smiled at her.
She happily chatted on, tugging at my hand the entire time. Eventually she asked, "May I go to your house?"
"I don't live here," I told her. "My house is very far away."
"Oh," she said. "I really wanted to go to your house." Eventually, she let go of my hand and ran off to play again.
The next day when I headed out for a walk, a makeshift barricade prevented moto-taxis from using that road. I carefully stepped around the barricade, wondering why it was there. A few moments later, I got my answer. Outside the school, dozens of children stood in groups with their teachers, lining up in neat lines. Independence day was coming, and they were rehearsing for their part in the parade.
"Now let's march," called the teacher. "Left, right, left, right." The children followed their teacher, marching down the road. Some looked my way as they passed, smiling for my camera.
Later that evening the seven of us sat in a restaurant, discussing the events of the day. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw four teenagers walking quickly down the street carrying something between them. It was a stretcher with someone on it. The figure under the sheet was quite small.
"What is that?" I asked.
"It looks like they are carrying someone to the hospital," one of the men said.
"But his face is covered," I said. "Is he dead?"
By this time the restaurant owner had joined us.
"A ten-year-old boy died this morning," he said. "You should have heard the father wail."
"Who was it?" Pastor M. asked.
When the owner told him, a look of deep sadness spread across the pastor's face.
"I know the family," he said. "The children occasionally come to special children's events. I talked to that boy about his need of a savior, but I do not think he ever made a decision to follow Christ."
"That's the second child to die this week," the owner elaborated. "The first one, also a ten-year-old boy, drowned on Monday."
My heart sank. Two children dead in this short span of time while we were here. Thousands of children in this town who need a Savior, yet so little gospel witness here. Who will tell them?
"Lord," I prayed. "Help Pastor M. to reach these children. Raise up more workers who will reach these precious souls before it is too late."
