I knew they
existed.
I read of
them decades ago. They are the spawn of
poverty, the offspring of despair and they are everywhere. They are in Caracas and Chicago, Dar es
Salaam and Denver; they lie under palms and hide in sewers. They are the children of hunger and hopelessness. They fall early and they die young. They are small and silent and all too easily
avoid detection. They are hidden by our
daily concerns of appearances and appropriateness. They disappear and become the dust of time.
This one
was standing in front of me with the small cadre of children who ran to shake
my hand, some to see if the white would rub off. I pegged him at six years old, smiling, but
oddly cloudy. I knew the instant that he
offered his green-painted hand that the crystal eyes of youth were fogged by
the fumes he eagerly sought from the bottom of the black plastic bag in his
other hand.
Qu’est-ce
que c’est? I asked as I touched his painted palm. He pulled his hand away and looked down at
the ground. He didn’t move. I bent down and took his small face in my
hands and asked him if he breathed from the bag. He gave a small nod, his eyes still searching
the ground. I spoke to him in gentle
tones and told him that it was not good for his health. I told him that I was worried for him. I asked him to stop breathing paint.
I asked him
his name. “Ésaïe,” he whispered. “Children have I reared and brought up, but they have rebelled against me.”
Tiny Isaiah was well on his way to being lost before he could ever rebel.
I told him again
that he was hurting his health by breathing from the bag. I knew that my words would not pierce the
fumed fog nor could my words fill the voids of hunger and hopelessness. I rubbed his small head and took his
hand. “I have concern for you,” I smiled
at him.
I shook his hand. I asked, “Connais-tu “high five?” He stared
with eyes too young for so much pain.
Some of the other children raised their hands having encountered my
question before. I “high-fived” them and
then put my hand in front of Isaiah. He
raised his hand but stopped midway as he looked at the fresh green paint on his
palm. He looked up at me as I took his
hand and said, “High five!” I pushed my
hand into his and he smiled.
I took their
photo, hoping to capture Isaiah’s image to be on the lookout for him. I called out, “À plus tard,” as I fixed my
eyes again on Isaiah. A couple of the
children who knew me responded, “Later!”
I walked the rest
of the way to my office at the SIL center while rubbing the small stain of
green paint on my hand as I prayed for God’s grace to fall on Isaiah.
I knew they
existed, but this one now has a name.
