I was working on some Burmese homework on Saturday, and I heard two kids come to the door. The younger boy called my name and started to open the door; his cousin and caretaker shut the door and snapped at him–we were working and shouldn’t be bothered. He ran away crying. She sighed.
I heard them return within ten minutes or so with a whole group of kids. They were playing together outside when the same young boy started crying, loudly. It was a real cry, so I went outside to make sure he was okay and saw his cousin lifting him onto the bench. She wiped his tears as she snapped at him, angrily.
I went over to both of them and asked what had happened. Was he okay? And she started to cry.
Now they were both crying, and the rest of the crew were staring.
And for whatever reason, I could just see it so clearly: all their needs. They had reached their breaking points.
They were tired and hungry, because they spend most days tired and hungry. And it’s raining, again, because right now it is raining every day. She is watching him, again, because that is her job. And he’s crying, again, because life is hard being raised by your grandmother and cousin in a shack.
He just wanted to play with her; and when he fell, he wanted to be comforted. He’s just 4.
She just wanted to play and be with her friends, and for him to stop following her, stop crying for her, and stop needing to be comforted. She’s just 11, and doesn’t really want to be a mother. But meanwhile, she really loves him, and has a momma’s heart. I could instantly see that she felt bad for yelling at him, but didn’t really know how not to.
Because she’s 11. And he’s 4. And they were reaching their breaking points.
I can’t make it all go away, but I can be a buffer. So I pulled out some tortilla chips, crackers, and a bowl of salsa. We all sat around our table outside and munched on some snacks while the tension eased away.
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This week has found me reaching my breaking point a few times over, too. It was simply a number of circumstances piling together in just a precise way and pushing me over my capacity. It sometimes led to tears, sometimes to frustrated words to Stephen, and sometimes to silence.
And I’m 28. I still struggle at my breaking points to not yell at the wrong person or break down in failure. Some days the little things get to me, too, and I can’t remember how to love the people I love most.
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Fast forward a few hours. Our house is open for the community center: there are two kids on the computers and about twenty on the floor, playing games and reading books and building train tracks. He’s asking me for a snack.
I tell him no; partially because I think he’s getting into a habit of asking and I think the mouse-and-cookie routine could go on forever; partially because there are thirty kids in my house and I’m confident I don’t have twenty snacks in my kitchen.
He asks me again, and again. I ask him if he’s eaten rice, and he says no.
I’m worried now, so I go to talk to to his cousin. Here’s the trick: the phrase used is, Have you eaten cooked rice?, and this is if you have had a “meal”–which is only a meal if you’ve had rice. A snack is different; and sometimes the line is confusing for those of us who don’t base our meals or lives around “rice” itself.
I ask her, Have you eaten rice today? Has he eaten rice today?
She says no; it ran out at lunch.
Do you have rice? Is there rice in your house?
No, no [cooked] rice.
So there is no rice? Will anyone cook rice for dinner? Will someone cook in an hour or so?
Yes, someone will cook. There will be cooked rice tonight.
I’m still unsure. I tell her to please tell us if they don’t have rice. If they ever do not have rice, please come tell us. And then I chat with Stephen, and we decide we should risk it. We give the little boy a snack in the kitchen, he eats a cucumber and Burmese salad.
While he’s sitting on the counter scarfing it down, another little girl comes in to use the bathroom. She eyes it, and I know instantly she’s hungry, too. I know her family; I know even a little bit of their story–I know she’s hungry. So I tell her she can eat, too.
So they share a snack together and then came to sit down for bible study.
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We have been to the hospital or clinic every day from Tuesday to Sunday. Friday alone we went three times–that’s thirty minutes each way–and I made Flour & Flower deliveries for four hours. Seven hours of driving is quite a bit to end up right back at your own house.
Today I told Stephen through tears I just couldn’t take it any more: I can’t handle hungry kids and broken families and parents asking for loans. I can’t handle more trips to the hospital. I can’t buy another $60 worth of medicine to counteract living in dirt and trash.
Because this is my breaking point.
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I don’t even have a happy ending, other than tomorrow is our Sabbath day and I’m thankful. I need rest; and really I’m just hoping for a day free from the clinic.
There is the happy ending that my husband is kind and gracious. He has been good to me this week in all my breaking; he took me out to a beautiful view and play worship songs on his guitar. He made many of the trips to the hospital. He ate half-meals at 9pm and didn’t complain at all.
Really, I don’t write for happy endings. I write because I want the whole story to be known. God is a good, good Father, but sometimes in very dark places. Behind the many people going to church with us, there is a chance they are all going for the free meal, because they are hungry. Behind the success of Flour & Flowers, there are also loans and learning savings and trying to teach budgeting. Behind the beautiful faces of kids on a computer and learning math, there are hungry bellies. Behind the many things growing and growing here, there are tears, too. There’s a couple holding each other while they cry for kids that aren’t theirs.
And behind that couple, there is a good, good Father, whispering in their ears that He is good and He is God.