Finally, I Have a Story and am Inspired to Write...

Human Resources took the morning off. Our very own, Ana Schierbecker, in charge of housing the crew in HR, suggested we take one morning off one day a week and head out in a land rover to work with Liberian children. She asked the department during our staff meeting two weeks ago and since no one objected, it was put into action. HR closed its doors at 8:30 this morning and tacked a sign on the door, “We’ve run away. Be back after lunch.”

Steven, Sandy, Ana, Marilyn, and I piled in the land rover. I pulled myself in and slammed the rusty door. We had managed to get one of the nicer vehicles. A treat. It was a 45-minute drive along the dirt roads, covered in markets and woman with babies strapped to their backs. The dust was inescapable. Little boys balanced tubs of food on their heads. I stared. I wondered how they learned this art. We turned off the main road and entered into Royesville. The school was in Royesville. The dirt road was long that led to the school. Deep pools of muddy water littered the streets. The old land rover took a dive every time as we prayed not to get stuck. She tore through like a champion. Mud splashed up on the sides as our bodies were thrown around like rag dolls. Jungles of tangled vines and muddy swamps surrounded the long road ahead. Topless woman were seen picking fruit off the trees with baby on their back. No shoes. No expression. Sweat coated their dark faces. A National Geographic moment, I was in the midst of. So it’s true. There are those who live in mud huts. There are those who walk all day long along the dirt road to bring home dinner. I thought about it.


We neared the end of the seemingly eternal road. We pulled into a field with a large building full of children. Their waving hands could be seen from the glassless windows. Children, ages 3 through 18, inhabited this school in Royesville. A small boy (4 years), named David, approached our vehicle immediately. Ana jumped out. “What’s wrong David? Why do you look so sad?” David said nothing. She felt his forehead. “You’re burning up. Oh honey.” Ana took David’s small hand and asked him if he had taken any medicine and then told him to go home and lie down. “You need rest.” She held his hands and asked him if she could pray for him. The children know Ana. She had worked at this same school when the ship had been in Liberia last March. David has the presence of a much older boy than 4. It shocked me. He answered very calmly, “Yes.”

We walked into a classroom of 83 kids. Their ages ranged from 3 to 10. I was put in charge of the 3-5 year olds. We were given an hour with them. This Wednesday, what we did with them, was completely up to us. Ana asked that we introduce them to ourselves and just try to get to know them a bit. The following weeks Ana will prepare Bible lessons with songs and crafts for us to teach the children. I took my class of 18 by the hands and led them outside their classroom. They followed me to the side of their school as I motioned for them to all “Sit. You can sit. Here, sit. Like me. Come on, right next to me. That’s it, right here.” I motioned. I encouraged. They looked at me with suspicion. I was lucky and delighted to have David in my group. Though he’s merely 4, he helped me immensely. The children and I speak the same language but still are unable to understand one another. The accents are so thick on both sides that even though I may understand some of what they say, it’s very hard for the little ones to understand me. So I smile. I motion. David seemed to get what I was saying and I kept asking him to “Tell them.” They started giggling though and I was awed by their perfect faces. What beautiful and intricate faces African children have. I asked them in they knew the song, “Jesus loves me” or if they knew how to play “Duck, duck goose”. David translated. They nodded and burst into some song, I’d never heard, proclaiming how “Jesus was born in Bethlehem. Praise God. Hallelujah.” They were into it! They carried the tune perfectly. I asked if they knew “This little light of mine” and they held up they’re finger. “Yes. That’s it. Sing it with me.” I started in the song, “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine...” Oh, it was shameful. I couldn’t find the tune. I searched. I kept trailing off into this awful hum. I laughed in spite of myself. I was surrounded my 3 and 4 year olds more musical then I, myself, could ever hope to be. Though frustrating, there was something beautiful in the scene.

So I sat with them. Tried to teach them ring-around-the rosie with little success. There were some silent moments where I had not a clue what to say. They were quiet as they stared at me. As I rose, to head back to their classroom though, they clung. Their small hands lurched into mine and I smiled and looked down at them so excited that I’m going to be able to see them every week for the next 8 months.

We go back next Wednesday. Liberia’s looking brighter by the day.