The Watoto Children's Choir is an African children's choir out of Uganda. Watoto means "children" in Swahili, and the choir is made up of children that lost parents to the AIDS epidemic or to war. I think they are the most beautiful choir. They sing a song by artist Israel Houghton called "Not Forgotten". [click orange link above] The kids are so thankful and happy in spite of their losses. Do you ever feel abandoned?
You are not forgotten!
Psalm 68:5 A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in His holy dwelling.
There are so many without families, and many more with families that are addicted or absent from the home for some reason. There is much reason to despair when considering the trouble in our world, but we are not forgotten. God knows our name, and therefore I do not despair. But instead, I put my hope in him.
In my neighborhood, there were bad things going on. My neighbors across the street had just escaped from a Phoenix ghetto, where literally their car had bullet holes throughout it. My neighbors on the other side of the street consisted of a grandma, her adult son, and his own son. The boy's mom was in prison, and I remember one day the boy found his dad dead in bed. I never heard if it was alcohol, drugs, or what. It was just sad. The neighbors a few houses down were supported by Indian Reservation funds until their house burnt down. And a few houses down from there was a home for foster kids. I remember when the SWAT team staged a drug bust in our cul de sac, and how my brother described the drug ring that his friends ran. You'd see cars come and go from that house all night long. My brother describes the crips and bloods showing up, and how they'd only talk to him when dealing because he wasn't a member of either gang. Some of those friends robbed our house and they'd beat each other just to 'toughen up'. I remember one of his friends took care of his mom, who was dying because of her meth addiction. She was his only parent. Another of his friends accidentally shot himself with his parent's gun. Another one hit and killed an elderly man with his car, sending the boy to prison. This is only a snippet of stories from a single neighborhood among millions.
In my house, we had our own dynamics. Addiction, anger, financial strife. Typical things of our neighborhood. There are a few memories from childhood that are seared into my brain, and one was of chasing my brother. He is two years younger than me. Unlike me, he made friends in our neighborhood. There were a lot of boys on the streets at all hours, and they got into trouble early on. My brother's story of the first time he smoked pot is really heart wrenching. And how that led to meth, heroine, homelessness, dealing, stealing, etc. etc. etc. I remember being home and realizing that my brother was going to go do something bad. I was crying and begging him not to go, but he was so cold. I am not lying when I tell you that his eyes were like stone, so dead. It was frightening. He shoved me out of the way, and went out the door. I was desperate for him not to leave, and was afraid he would die. I chased him down the street, screaming and crying for him not to go, but he hopped a fence to try and lose me. I got the car and tried to follow him, but eventually he crossed the main road into these apartment complexes and I lost him. I remember just sitting there in the car, devastated that there was nothing I could do.
That day I felt like I lost him forever. [I didn't. Thank you God.] The weird thing was that I never saw myself as a victim or felt like I wouldn't make it. I believed God that I would.
The other day I was at a Christian leadership training with hundreds of other people when I ran into a woman that used to live in my neighborhood. She and her family moved out, but I remembered her because she took me to church a few times and even got me to go to a church camp. When the lady realized who I was, you should have seen the shock in her face! She stumbled over her words, saying something like, "You? You don't go to chur--" and she kinda' stopped herself. I'm pretty sure I know what she was thinking. She was surprised I was at a church function, married, a teacher of four years, and happy.
Her reaction was so weird. I always saw myself as the person that I am today. But I wonder what she thought of me, back in those days when I lived in the hood with a brother on the streets, a father who yelled loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear, and a house that wreaked of illegal substances. I have to laugh. It's true. Who would have guessed?
This is my story of hope. There are many, many good things God did throughout my childhood. Vacation bible schools my mom put me in, special friends he gave me, loving neighbors, teachers, extended family, a home in Northern Arizona for a few years, and much more. So please don't get the wrong impression. I was always blessed and I don't consider those hardships to even be worth mentioning, other than that sometimes things need to be shared.
I have journals filled with prayers written in childish scrawl to a God I knew was there, though I didn't know who he was. The miracle is that I was not forgotten. God led me to salvation in Jesus Christ. There are far greater miracles and impressive stories out there. There are many who explain Him in a grander way, but I can at least tell you that my heart beats for Him. I pray today that God makes it so obvious to you that you are not forgotten, and that He is there for you, too.
This graffiti art is from my old neighborhood corner. A picture is worth a 1,000 words.
