Paul Myhill's Blog

Broken Heart

It was a million dollar view. The wooded property on a hillside overlooks Guatemala City. Volcanoes dot the horizon and add further majesty to the scene. One would expect the rich of society to be dwelling on such a plot. A mansion could have suitably left its footprint on the land, nestled in comfort and grandiosity. Grecian columns would have matched the noble girth of trees. Rock gardens and ponds would have complimented natural terraces of foliage and sloping outcroppings. It would have been a fine estate, one of enduring legacy, one fit for a national leader or captain of industry.

Instead, a stark and underfunded Catholic orphanage sits on the land. Manicured lawns have given way to bare dirt. Grand vistas and pools of leisure have given way to makeshift playground equipment of old tires, splintered wood and rusty rebar.

The children, covered in dirt and dust, looked every bit the orphan, although they were officially part of the rescued statistics. Scabs and sores bore further evidence to ongoing lack and need.

And then there was the little boy, the one without a name.

He was purple. He has a heart problem that prevents his extremities from getting adequate oxygenation. Is he still alive even today, a week after our visit? He’s just another boy in institutional care with an issue that his caretakers are poorly equipped or resourced to solve.

The thing that struck me is that this boy, discarded for being damaged or incomplete, is worth much more than any regal manor or stately home. The things of greatest value are already occupying this prime piece of property. They are the land’s greatest heritage, its greatest legacy.

Instead of investing hundreds of thousands of dollars to develop the property with an architectural statement for the generations, isn’t it worth a couple of thousand dollars to leave a more lasting generational impact...to fix one little boy’s heart?

The Chain (part two)

Jullio was brought to his current home by a woman claiming to be his mother. She signed a document asserting that she was abandoning him to their care due to extreme poverty and an inability to care for an impaired child. The home soon figured out that the woman was not who she claimed to be and that Julio was, in effect, dumped into their care as a result of a trafficking deal gone bad.

Born for cash, Julio now inhabits this world as a child struggling for identity and answers. This apparently triggers anger to well up in him, causing difficulty for the home and for the other children who are now part of his family. Those children receive less attention and care as the family devotes additional time and energy to address Julio’s special needs.

It is indeed a chain – a wicked one where every link tugs and pulls at others. Despite much love and counseling Julio may never feel whole. And the home’s other children, rightly or wrongly, may never feel that they got the attention they deserved because of his presence.

Lives are not things to be tinkered with. And they’re certainly not to be initiated for trade. Perhaps Julio’s mother rationalized her actions by believing that he would be raised in a wealthy American home. Maybe she figured that he would cast an unseen legacy, as a child that would find knowledge and prosperity that greatly surpasses her own.

She got it wrong...to a degree.

If not for the church, Julio might have been sold as a slave laborer or, far worse, as a sex toy for a rich Guatemalan pedophile. He could have just as easily been left on the pavement, like other children we have encountered throughout Central America. As a street child with a disability, Julio would have left a far worse legacy that his mother could have ever imagined. Her baby boy, the fruit of her womb, would have suffered abuse upon abuse...while the money in her pocket had long since vanished.

The Chain (part one)

Although we were told he has violent tendencies, Julio presented himself as a jovial and pleasant young boy. He stroked and tugged at my arm while continuously begging to have his picture taken. His broad smile was comprised of a mouthful of crooked teeth framed by parenthetical dimples. Just eight years old, he lives with fourteen other children at a church home we funded a few years ago near Guatemala City.

Julio was bred for a business transaction. His mother received money to get pregnant on the condition that she would turn over the newborn to a crime ring that specialized in sourcing children for international adoption. Sometimes these women collaborated with their boyfriends or husbands. Sometimes they were prostitutes that used unprotected sex to score a bigger payday. And sometimes they were conveniently impregnated by members of the crime syndicates. In all cases, poverty drove their decision to turn womb from incubator to factory.

As agreed, Julio’s mother relinquished her infant to an intermediary that would temporarily raise him before his sale to a home for ‘orphaned and abandoned’ children. There he would stay until a lucrative adoption could be arranged.

Julio’s intermediary owners soon began to suspect that he might have some sort of disability. Once confirmed, they were unable to pass him down the supply chain. The final organization wouldn’t take him. He was damaged goods with a no-return policy.

Child Soldier (Longing for Death)

The year I was numbered eight years old, they began to teach me to be tough, to hate, to have a heart to kill my enemies. This was easy. My only family was the army and I hated them too. I couldn't run away, though. There was nowhere to hide. A few years before, many of my friends ran away. I thought I heard the guns barking in the distance but I don't know. Only a few returned out of many ten's of fingers of children that fled.

I began to train with weapons when my instructors decided I was near my tenth year. This was good because I spent less times quarrying rock and my back and legs did not ache as much. Because so many of my friends died, there is a void in my heart.

Some of my friends would go to bed with the older soldiers at night. They escaped the sound of the rope in the morning and, afterwards, there was money in their pockets to buy small things. It frightened me, though, because many of them wept in the days that followed. Some became very sick and if we are sick in that place we most likely die. There is no help and no hope for the sick there. The dark spirits are very powerful.

What is death like? Do I wander around like a ghost or can I just forget that I am alive and sleep a very deep sleep? These are the questions I asked myself sometimes, but most days were too difficult for the lips of my thoughts to speak to me.

View part one of this story here
View part two of this story here

To be continued...

McCain's Adopted Daughter from Asia

Many people might be surprised to learn that US Presidential hopeful, John McCain, has an adopted daughter from Bangladesh. Below is an interview excerpt from Dadmag.com that was conducted during Senator McCain’s pursuit of the Republican presidential nomination in 2000:

Interview with John McCain

Senator John McCain waged a vigorous high-profile campaign for the 2000 Republican Presidential nomination. Among many compelling facts, we were interested to learn that one of his children is adopted. We asked Morgan Strong, a veteran interviewer and consultant to CBS' Sixty Minutes and The Early Show, to get some details. Strong talked to McCain shortly after the Senator's recent trip to Vietnam.

Dadmag: What are the up and downs of fatherhood?

McCain: There are too many joys to name the ups. The only sad part about it is that children grow up. I watch my daughter turn fifteen and my son turn fourteen and I see them getting ready to leave the nest, and I see their interest in me diminishing rather dramatically. (Laughs).

Dadmag: Your youngest daughter Bridget is adopted. Why did you decide to adopt Bridget?

McCain: Well it was primarily my wife's Cindy's idea. She was in Bangladesh and she and some of the medical personnel visited Mother Theresa's orphanage to try and help the children there. There were two little baby girls there. One had a heart problem the other a severe cleft palate. Cindy was very concerned about their ability to survive and their need for medical treatment, so she decided to bring them here for medical treatment. She fell in love with both of them. We decided to adopt Bridget. Two close friends of ours, adopted Mickey, the other child.

Dadmag: You knew about your wife's decision before hand?

McCain: (laughs) No. She arrived and said "Say hello to your new little daughter."

Dadmag: A bit of a shock?

McCain: Yes indeed.

Dadmag: And how has it worked out? Are you happy with the decision to adopt Bridget?

McCain: Oh yes! She has enriched our lives. She's a wonderful child, a complete part of our family and we love her.

Dadmag: Your other children accepted her well?

McCain: Oh yeah sure. She's the toughest of the four. The youngest always has to be the toughest.

Dadmag: During your campaign for the Republican Presidential nomination Bridget became something of an issue in South Carolina didn't she?

McCain: Yeah. There were some pretty vile and hurtful things said during the South Carolina primary. It's a really nasty side of politics. We tried to ignore it and I think we shielded her from it. It's just unfortunate that that sort of thing still exists As you know she's Bengali, and very dark skinned. A lot of phone calls were made by people who said we should be very ashamed about her, about the color of her skin. Thousands and thousands of calls from people to voters saying "You know the McCains have a black baby" I believe that there is a special place in hell for people like those.

Dadmag: That must have made you pretty angry?

McCain: Yes, except that you have to consider the kind of people who do it. Getting angry doesn't serve any useful purpose. But the calls increased my zeal for winning. (laughs)

Dadmag: There are an awful lot of African American children who could be adopted, but there are those who object, including African American organizations which have a policy against interracial adoption.

McCain: I see that barrier more and more breaking down. I think we are making great progress. We just need to make a lot more progress.

Dadmag: You had to go through an extraordinary process to adopt Bridget. A very intrusive process by the bureaucrats. They came to your home and rifled through your drawers. According to what I've read, adoption agency officials even asked about your sex life.

McCain: They were very intrusive. Unfortunately it is a disincentive to some parents because it's so much easier to go overseas. And that leaves us, in this country, with thousands of children who want parents and thousands of parents who want children. One of the goals I've had for a long time is to try to encourage a much less convoluted process in order for parents to adopt a child.

Dadmag: Is this necessary or is it just the bureaucracy gone a little mad?

McCain: A little of both. They want to make sure that those who want to adopt are fit to do so. I think sometimes bureaucrats stretch it out for fear of getting in trouble or getting something wrong. And I also think that there are state laws, probably the result of some bad things having taken place, that are legislative overreactions. I just wish that every state would review their laws concerning the process of adoption, to expedite it but at the same time protect the child.

Dadmag: Would the abortion issue be made less troublesome if the adoption process were made easier.

McCain: Absolutely. Since our own story has been publicized we hear a lot from many many parents who have experienced the same frustrations.

Dadmag: You have co-sponsored legislation in the Senate to streamline the process.

McCain: Yes, but it is largely a state responsibility. We have tried to encourage the states to review their adoption procedures. We can not do much at the federal level.

Dadmag: Political life at any level exposes the children to any number of potential calamities. As a candidate for President the scrutiny and curiosity is even more oppressive. Was it hard to protect them?

McCain: That's one of the reasons we decided to raise our children in Arizona. Because we felt it would be a much healthier life style for them. And that's been the case.

Dadmag: Any final words?

McCain: There is nothing in life like a child that you can nurture and love. The reciprocation of that love and nurturing is a thousand times more beneficial to you than it is to the child.

Child Soldier (The Rhythm of the Rope)

My first morning I still remember. I woke that day to the rhythm of the rope upon my body. The song of the rope I know well now. It woke us very early every morning, before the great light had risen in the sky. It struck the flesh of all who were not rising from sleep quickly enough. Most of us did not wake unless we had to. Our bodies ached fearfully and in sleep we could forget. The rope that bit our flesh seldom causes us to bleed but there are times, oh yes, there are times.

We would gather to attention in the courtyard. There we stood and drilled. Every day was the same.

The rope was our companion as we marched out to the fields to work. All of us had to labor in the fields. We also worked in rock quarries, we built roads, we carried the burdens of the soldiers, sometimes many days by foot. If we had ridden on a truck to work, we would be like pigs going to market. And who would want to do that? They would be going to market to be slaughtered. Yes, we learned that we were animals. The difference is we speak and other beasts are dumb.

After a stretch of work in the morning, we would get a break. We were given food in dirty, cracked bowls: rice with some vegetable broth. It gurgled painfully into the knot that lived and twisted in my stomach. I think it was an angry spirit that came to steal what little food I got. At night I was given maybe half a bowl of the same food...if I was fortunate. If we tried to take more, the rope slithered across our shoulders.

The rope's only comfort is that it is familiar.

View part one of this story here.

To be continued...

Child Soldier (Abandoned to the Army)

The story that follows is a compilation that was crafted using the real lives and circumstances of children rescued by our partner who visited us last week. The individual story details are merged together in order to protect the identities and lives of the children involved, but the compilation is an accurate representation of real world scenarios involving non-combatant child soldiers in Southeast Asia:

Abandoned to the Army

When I was six my parents gave me to the army. Early in the morning my father pulled me out of sleep. It was still dark. He packed me on his back down the mountain trail from the village. His long black hair tickled my nose all the way. After we came to the main road I had to walk. We walked most of the day. I had no water and my throat was chalky dry because it was the time of no rain. We walked between the rocks in the red powder of the earth as the red sun beat upon my head.

Finally we came to a cluster of houses. At the side of the road was a tin roofed lean-to. Men with guns sat in the shade of the slanted roof and also some stood in the shadow of a great tree that spread its frog-like limb’s over the road. They looked mean and I was scared but my father walked over to them. He left me near the base of the tree and went to talk with some of the men near a truck. I played with a dung beetle in the dirt.

Father turned away from the men and began walking down the road. He never even looked at me. I thought he had forgotten me. I cried out, "Papa," but he did not turn back. I began to run after him but one of the men in green caught me by the arm and cuffed me. "You stay here," he slurred at me. I was shocked. I tried to lunge away but he struck me again.

That evening they threw me on the supplies that awkwardly filled the truck and told me to hold on or die. We drove all night till my arms ached and my skin stung sore from the dust and wind. In the morning we arrived at a town and drove up to a cement and metal fence. This was to be my prison. I did not know what a prison was. I did not even know what an army was. But now I know because I have lived in this place of no escape. I later found out my parents had offered me for nothing, I was not even worth a few coins!

Some of my friends came here because they were orphans. Some of them were conscripted. Others were abandoned. I was one of the most unfortunate –so I thought. My parents disowned me. I don’t know why. Maybe, as I learn more about my world, I will figure it out. I think there was not enough food and my mother’s stomach was taut with a coming child. Another still nursed at her breast. My two brothers, both older than me, worked hard on the farm. They could help father better than I could –I heard them say it.

To be continued...

My Tears Will Speak for Me

Last week, the founder of one of our partner organizations was in town for a visit. He and his family came over for dinner and shared their hearts concerning their ministry’s rescue of child soldiers in Southeast Asia, especially in the wake of the cyclone that caused so many more vulnerable orphans in the region. Southeast Asia boasts approximately 100,000 child soldiers, with the majority being sold, stolen or tricked into conscription in Burma.

Here is one of the stories that they share, from a young girl who managed to escape the clutches of a militaristic regime:

"Please excuse my tears...they must fall because there are many things I cannot say. My tears must speak for me.

My parents were drug traffickers, but they were addicts, too. I think some of you have seen what drugs can do. They make you a slave to their hunger, and eventually a thief and a beggar...that is what happened to my father. Last I knew, he was begging on the streets. I have been a thief, too, but I am not begging yet.

Having no good place to go as a teenager, I was recruited into the army when I was 15 years old. There were about 200 of us. We lived on a tall hill with gray walls that stretched high over our heads. The barracks were very close to the capital city and a long way from home. There were soldiers that stood guard along those walls. The guards were not there to protect us. They were there to keep us in.

Every day we built guns. At 5:00 AM every day, we did our morning run. By 8:00 AM, we were constructing guns. My job was to clean them. We were a munitions factory. But we were also soldiers. Some of us were very young, very small, even 3 years old. Others had lived there so long that they were over 30 years old. Many of us were girls. "Obey!" our bosses said. We had many bosses. Obedience: that was the motto. If we tried to escape, well, the guards would shoot.

Everybody rotated through guard duty at different intervals through the night. Every night the drill signal sounded and we had to hustle out of bed, rush into our uniform and be in parade formation within 30 seconds. How easy is that? Those who were late were beaten. We hit them too, because if they got there in time, we didn’t have to drill that next day. But that happened about as often as a chicken goes a day without pecking the dust for food. Almost every night we were drilled, so we slept lightly. Sometimes we had to run to a village in the dark of night with guns or crawl through trenches in the mud and rain...everybody 13 and older that is. The littlest kids were our gophers. They ran errands for everybody during the day.

Everybody was under tight security. We were not even allowed to smile or the stick would come down on us. Of course, you learned quickly not to smile. Some felt the stick for other things. I watched people beaten for escaping to make love in the field. I watched others beaten till they bled and died in front of my eyes.

One day I ran away. I was scared, but I did not die. Now I can’t go back to my people. I am so troubled because of the things I have seen and done. 

I can speak no words that shield me from the pain...so I will not speak. My many tears will speak for me."

The Sum of the Parts

...In part, a portal that whisks you to exotic worlds and immerses you into the real cultures behind the curtains – the byways of life and the gritty existence of people struggling to survive against pitiful odds. Along the journey, children are found left in the wake, abandoned and orphaned by powers and principalities that seek to destroy them, to destroy communities and nations.

...In part, an exposition of the Biblical mandates of caution, judgment, justice, care and blessing regarding the "least of these." An intimate look at God’s truth and what it means for us today in the midst of millions upon millions of children that simply desire to be loved.

...In part, an acknowledgement and exploration of the mega-issues of our time and how they are all interrelated, interconnected – and addressed – through the rescue and care of parentless and discarded children. In short, a unified view of the greatest outreach opportunity of our time, an approach to shatter vicious cycles that ensnare humanity and to mobilize masses to attack the core issue of spiritual separation.

...In part, a plea to realize and engage the amazing front-line force that God has placed and mobilized for the most significant global task before us. A rebuke and encouragement to put aside personal motivations and to instead join the bride in all her radiance - to support her, cherish her and strengthen her – by "letting the little children come" to her.

...In part, a synergistic, synchronized framework of action to help bodies of believers - both near and far - to reach out in an organized holistic approach that will change the very course of history...by changing the children’s lives that will immediately and ultimately impact it.

...In part, a consideration that the One who became incarnate in poverty, thrust out immediately as a refugee, and adopted in love and obedience, would use such as these for the completion of the wondrous commission we have been given.

...In part, a treatise that puts forth the absurd idea that we, in affluence, need those, in physical and spiritual depravity, for our own sanctification...that the orphan, widow and stranger are indeed precious gifts to us.

The sum of the parts?

A literary adventure that I’m presently embarking on: a book that reflects upon my exposure to over two-hundred care contexts for the fatherless in over sixty developing-world nations; a book that draws upon lessons learned in leading a ministry that has helped to provide five hundred homes to orphaned and abandoned children; a book of transparent admission of the many mistakes along the way; a book to inform, engage and mobilize for the most powerful world evangelization and church growth strategy of our generation.

Stay tuned!

Continuum of Care (hand in hand)

An attention to the child continuum of care goes hand in hand with an attention to holism.

An indigenous church that is engaged in all aspects of the continuum is inherently taking a holistic approach that seeks the integrated physical, mental, emotional and spiritual well-being of the child.

Jonathon’s parents, David and Sarah, are dying of AIDS in the Kibera slum of Nairobi. A local church has been visiting them for months, providing antiretroviral drugs (ARV’s), other medications and meals, as well as school fees and tutoring sessions for eight year-old Jonathon. Various church volunteers help to bathe, feed and pray for the ailing family with regular visits each week. David and Sarah really look forward to the company since the members of the church are now the only people that come by to visit. Others in the community have long since stayed away, scared by the evil ‘stigma and spirits’ of HIV/AIDS.

David and Sarah’s fragile bodies were far too damaged during a prolonged period without access to ARV’s and proper care and nutrition. Their deaths are imminent.

The church is working to preserve family stories and memories for Jonathon. A book has been compiled with narratives on how David and Sarah met, fell in love and got married. Other pages chronicle broader family and clan history and give an account of their move from the village ten years ago. Additional entries tell of how Jonathon was given his name and of a younger sister that died when he was four years old. Jonathon’s young life is described in detail and his parents include letters to him, imparting blessings and giving him instructions for a life worthy of the family name and heritage. Interspersed between the pages are the few fading photos that the family possesses.

The book is placed into a keepsake box, along with what meager items the family treasures – a small wood carving of an elephant that Jonathon chose on a visit to the Rift Valley, his first t-shirt emblazoned with Tweety Bird, Sarah’s heart-shaped locket (the only piece of precious-metal jewelry she has ever owned), and the broken spectacles of their daughter who had also succumbed to the ravages of AIDS.

As a result of all their home visits, and the thorough process of establishing a memory book for Jonathon, the church has an intimate knowledge of his past and potential. They know his parents well; know their hopes and dreams for him.

Jonathon has no extended family in the slum. Relatives in their village of origin either scattered long ago or have no desire to welcome the son of AIDS victims into their families.

For Jonathon, the church’s family-style home is his only hope.

But he knows these people, has played with them, prayed with them. They are his friends. The family that is taking him in has visited his parents on many occasions and helped him with his homework. He is comfortable with them. He watched them nurture his parents. He will watch them give his parents a decent and dignified burial.

The pain will still be initially unbearable. But most of the deep and long psychological scars will be averted.

Jonathon will never have to wonder about who his parents were and struggle with being a person without a history, dropped off on the doorstep on an institutional orphanage.

He will be more whole.

...Because the church engaged him and his family at the entry point of the continuum of care.