Narrative by Kareen E. DelConte
I wasn‘t really sure what to expect with this whole ―interviewing process Judy and I were embarking on. I was concerned that the kids would be shy and closed-off emotionally—and understandably so. They had already been through so much in their young lives. What were they supposed to do—just flip a switch for 15 or 20 minutes and start pouring-out their innermost thoughts and feelings to a couple of complete strangers?

Another obstacle to overcome was the potential language barrier, as English is not what is spoken primarily by Zambian children. My biggest worry, however, was that I wouldn‘t be able to genuinely connect with them—on a heart-level, that is. In my weakness, I found myself utterly dependent on the Lord to accomplish all aspects of the translating that day…and that ended up to be a glorious thing.

We were given two very small rooms in the back of the church building to use for the purpose of meeting privately with each one of our 35 kids. The rooms themselves were anything but bright and cheery. My area was notably cluttered with broken desks and stacks of dilapidated chairs. There weren‘t any lights or even a window—just four cracked walls and a dirty cement floor. From an aesthetic standpoint, there wasn‘t anything warm or inviting about that environment, nothing that one would conceive of as being conducive to intimate conversation. On the contrary, it was sort of like being in a cave.

While the kids remained outside, each one waiting patiently for a turn, I sat inside, anxiously anticipating the entrance of the first of several children I had planned to speak with that day. The moment finally arrived, and Joseph Masumbuko, a diminutive boy with big brown eyes and beautiful cheekbones, came into my room and seated himself right next to me on that little wooden desk. I smiled, introduced myself and asked him to please write down his name for me on my notepad.
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Still feeling kind of nervous, I began by asking him a few easy, non-threatening questions like, ―How old are you? and ―Do you have any brothers and sisters? I could never have anticipated that less than five minutes into our interview, little 10-year-old Joseph would begin to pour out his tender heart to me, without any restraint.
I had asked him, ―How are you'‖, genuinely wanting to know. Looking up, he stared intently—almost pleadingly—into my eyes. His brow became slightly furrowed as he began to shake his head slowly from side to side. He didn‘t seem to be making any attempt to conceal or quell the torrent of emotion, which rushed to the surface like a flood as he thought about his life and how he was. I found myself gripped by both the anguish and the outrage which resounded in his voice as he desperately tried to express himself:
―I am not happy!!! –I am not happy because my father is dead. My dad is dead and my grandmother…she beats me! [still shaking his head] My grandmother, she does not like me…[lowering his head momentarily]…she tells me [raising his voice and Last July, two of our team members spent time interviewing the children in order to gain an understanding of who our kids are as individuals and what their respective lives are like. These kids are more than just statistics - they are real children with hopes and dreams, tragedies and circumstances unique to each one. We hoped that at least some of them would be able to trust us enough to share from the deep recesses of their hearts. The following is the story of one of those encounters.
―...I cry out... ‗Help me, Mighty God!—my God help me!‘ scowling vehemently so as to imitate this woman‘s disdain], You foolish boy! You shut your foolish mouth! [more emphatically] You are a foolish boy! You shut your foolish mouth!‘ ―
I watched the look of fury on his face dissipate into sorrow and bewilderment, as he continued:
―And she beats me! [pause]…and I am crying—every day I am crying because my dad is dead and my grandmother, she beats me. And I cry out, [clenching his fists] ‗Help me, Mighty God!—my God, help me! Help me, Mighty God!—my God, help me!'

I sat there temporarily stunned, absolutely transfixed by what I was hearing and what I was seeing on his face. The agony of this young man‘s soul was almost palpable. I can‘t begin to imagine how rejected—even forsaken—this poor little kid feels on a daily basis. He lives his life in the throws of desperation and fear, and the ones who should be sheltering and protecting him—like his own mother—have all but cast him away. Who will come to this boy‘s rescue?

As we continued talking a little bit more, Joseph told me that he misses his father terribly because, as he explained, his dad “liked” him. He also shared with me that there is a photograph at home of his dad that he likes to look at, but this upsets his other family members a great deal—especially his grandmother. In fact, Joseph has received beatings from more than one adult in his household simply for wanting to look at his father‘s picture!

Because the orphanage at Avila is not fully operational, Joseph, his older brother Osward, and other siblings have no other option available to them other than to live with their mother and maternal grandparents. From Joseph‘s perspective, the only adult in his family who really loves or even cares about him—who ―like him, as he puts it—is his grandfather. When I asked him why he thinks it is that his grandmother gets so mad at him, he said it was because he asks her for food. (He doesn‘t eat at home very often—there isn‘t enough food for everyone, and this little boy is most definitely the low man on the totem pole.) By the grace of God, however, there is a neighbor who gives him food sometimes. He doesn‘t have a bed to sleep on—the older kids get those. Joseph cries himself to sleep on the floor at night when he‘s at his grandparent‘s house…and he cries out to the Lord.

Needless to say, as Joseph passionately recounted some of the traumatic events that constitute his daily life, I was overwhelmed with what I believed to be the Father‘s compassion for this little one of His. I put pen and notebook aside and just grabbed hold of him. I put my head on his and I held him close—and he let me just hold him. I could feel him begin to relax almost instantaneously in my embrace, and I sensed, at that moment, that my arms were the arms of Jesus to that child. I felt like I was operating in the authority of the Lord as I put my hand over his racing heart and boldly declared, ―That is not the truth, Joseph! You are not a foolish boy, you are a wonderful boy! You are a wonderful boy—and the Lord likes you so much! Jesus loves you so much ... and I like you, Joseph. You‘re a wonderful, wonderful boy!

I attempted to intercede for this little lamb of the Lord as the Spirit led. I remember praying fervently that God would intervene in a mighty way on Joseph‘s behalf, protecting him from anyone or anything that would try and harm him. I asked the Lord of Hosts to dismantle the lies that had been perpetrated upon this child and to nullify their effect. I was compelled to pray that Joseph would be given ears to hear the truth about who he really is from the Lord Himself. I asked the Father of Compassion to do what no man can do—to touch and heal his wounded spirit.