Cinderella’s Story

How often have we all heard the story of Cinderella?  Think about it.  It’s probably one of the most familiar stories that you know.  You’ve seen the movie.  You know the story.  When you hear the name, you get visions of blue ball gowns and glass slippers and singing mice in your mind.

Most of Cinderella’s story is made up of fairy godmothers intervening, incredible balls and dreams coming true.  However, in the beginning of her story, for the first five minutes of the film, you hear about her mother dying, her father remarrying, and her new, horrible stepmother.  This tragedy takes place in a matter of seconds and is immediately replaced with all of the complications of going to a ball and having the perfect dress.

Did you ever stop to think how many other ways Cinderella’s story could have turned out?  I will be honest, I never did. At least, I didn’t until earlier this week.

Earlier this week, one small boy from our project told another that when he left for school the next morning, he was going to run away and not return.  Thankfully, the second boy came and told us that this was going to happen, giving us a chance to intervene.  We kept the boy home from school the next day, so as not to give him the opportunity to leave until we could talk to him in depth.  The next day, instead of going to school with the others, he stayed with me.  We did simple math assignments, logic worksheets, and art projects for the whole day, and as we worked, I gradually got him to talk about why he wanted to leave.

This boy is so small, only 12 years old. He left his home four years ago, because his mother died and his father remarried a woman who spent most of her time abusing him. He spent years on the streets, alone, doing menial jobs and trying to survive, until he finally joined our project.  He now attends school in the fourth grade, because he is not old enough or big enough to train in a  technical field. He finds school really difficult, and since he cannot go home and continue his school later, he thinks it might be better to go back to the streets and just work.  He believes that is all that he will ever be good at, that there is no hope for him to do anything more.

I spent eight hours with this boy, working with him, talking with him, encouraging him.  Finally, by the end of the day, I managed to get him to promise me that when he went to school the next day, he would come back to me.  I waited for him at the gate the next day, hugging him and telling him how happy I am that he is here as soon as he arrived.  And that evening, I had him promise me again that he would come back the next day.  Now, by the end of the week, it has become the routine.  He comes to me when he arrives from school, so that I can hug him, call him by his nickname, and ask how his day was.  And in the evenings, on his way to bed, he comes to say goodnight and promise me that he will come home the next day.

I cannot promise this boy that everything will work out.  as much as I want to wrap him in my arms and take care of him forever, to let him be a 12 year old boy and have his biggest worries be his homework and trying to win in soccer, I cannot guarantee him this future.  But I realized what a battle that we are fighting here in this project.  We are fighting against the shame that these boys feel.  They have never been forgiven, never been loved unconditionally, so they have no idea how to put their past behind them and believe that they are worth more.  Now, when I see this boy smile because he sees me waiting for him, I understand how important it is to know that someone is waiting for you, that someone notices when you are not okay or missing.  It is essential to know that someone knows your mistakes, your imperfections and your struggles, and still loves you and wants you in spite of it all.

I have this assurance in Christ.  And I am doubly blessed because I have this assurance from my family; I know that not everyone has this extra blessing.  It does no good to tell these boys that they are important.  They don’t believe it.  I have to show them.  I have to show them through my actions that I notice when they are here, that when they are missing I am sad, that I want to spend time with them and to be with them.  Because until they realize that someone thinks of them as worth something, they are unable to think of themselves as worth anything.

In Cinderella’s story, things never got so bad that she actually left home. Then, later, a fairy godmother came and solved all of her problems for her.  So many of my boys here have a story that begins similarly to Cinderella’s, but then, somewhere in that first chapter, their stories went a very different way.  For my boys, there is no fairy godmother who will appear and magically make them comfortable and cared for.  They have to learn to be strong enough to change their own stories.  But, until they believe that they are worth it, their inclination is to give up.

They are worth it. They are worth every good thing on this earth.  They deserve to be happy, to be loved, to be free. I will wait by the gate every day to take them in my arms if that is what it takes for them to know their worth.  And, someday, I pray that they will realize just how beautiful and precious they are.

Never Enough

We are never enough.  Nothing we do is ever enough.  And it does not matter how much we give, we will not be able to satisfy every need.

This is the realization that I have been struggling with this past month.  I live with 65 teenage boys from very broken, destitute, and desperate situations.  I spend nearly every waking moment with them, and when I am not with them, I am usually planning, preparing, or organizing things for them.  There are numerous nights where I have less than 3 hours of sleep, only to wake up for mass and begin again.

Think of all the things that we learn while we are at home. We learn not only things like how to play with others, study well, follow a schedule, etc., but we also learn so many small, informal things like how to wash our clothes, how to give and receive hugs, how to ask for something, how to use our imaginations and draw a picture. We have people to ask any question that comes to our mind, and we know that they will answer us as honestly as they can. When we are at home, we have people who let us know through their words and actions that we are valuable, special, and cared for. This security of knowing that we are loved and accepted allows us to grow up healthy and able to give to others.

My boys here, many of them, have never experienced this. They do not think that they are valuable. They tell me quite frankly that they are bad, or stupid, or hopeless. They flinch when I raise my hand near them, afraid of a beating, when all I want to do is clasp their shoulder, hug them, or pat them on the back. These reactions are reducing around me now, but in the beginning, it was very obvious that these boys have little value of self worth.

Now, because I spend every moment, every dollar I have, everything that I own for their benefit, they are beginning to realize that they are cared for. They do not flinch so much now when I hug them, and some of them return the embrace or even initiate it. (Some of them still complain loudly, pretending that they are sick, but that is because they are teenage boys and they have to maintain their cool factor.) It is now expected that I will be available to answer any questions they might have, to give them worksheets in the library, to teach them how to play cards and pick-up sticks in their break times, to let them use my phone to call their families in the evening.

I am now the one who answers the questions that they come up with. “Why don’t head hair and leg hair have different names?” “When will my chest hair grow?” “Why don’t you die when you go west from California? After all, on the map, there is nothing there!” “How do you learn how to do the splits?” “Don’t all sharks eat people?” “How do you curl your tongue up?” “How can I make that girl I like talk to me?” And many, many more.

I am the one who they come to when they are disappointed. When they come home from their free day outside the compound on Sunday, they come running to greet me and tell me that they missed me, even though it has only been 7 hours since they saw me. If I am not present during the sport time, or in the library in the evening, it is a big deal. Surely I must have died, because they know that I am always there! And I know that this consistency, this constant reassurance that they are doing well, that I notice when they learn to read a new word, or do well on an assignment, or play football exceptionally well, or remember what they told me one week before, allows them to begin to understand just how precious they are.

But it is never enough. For every hour that I spend in the library with them in the evenings, by the end of the time, when I send them to bed, there are still 15 more boys who are disappointed because I didn’t have time to work with them individually that day. For every break time that I play basketball with one group of boys, the ones who played volleyball are sad because there wasn’t enough time for me to play with them. There is never enough time to answer every question, reassure every fear, encourage every struggling boy. And there are days when I have just sat and cried in the evening from my own exhaustion and the fact that still, I am not enough.

I pray, every day, all day, that these boys will come to know the God who created them, who died for them, and who loves them more than I ever can. He is enough, if we seek Him. But I also know that one of the ways that these boys are going to meet Him, to understand this kind of love, is through my perseverance and presence. This means that I must persist. I have to run the race. I have to teach all day, spend all night in the hospital holding a boy’s hand, and wake up the next morning, ready and happy to be with them and help them again. It is the greatest privilege I have ever had, and the hardest work that I have ever done. And so, I pray for them, and for the religious who I am working with, that we can lead these boys to the One who is enough, so that they can finally have the rest and peace that they were so desperately seeking.