The September Edition

We met Mario at 7:00 am, before the day got too hot.  Mario worked as the community liaison for the squatter slum of Old Balara.  Each Barangay (neighborhood) has an official organization responsible for administrative leadership, even if the community was not a legal one.  Hazel’s Aunt, Anji, grew up in a nearby city and had worked in this neighborhood for 30 years, starting a school for the children and hiring teachers from the neighborhood.  Still, she wouldn’t go into the slum without an official escort.

Mario was friendly and informed.  He wore a badge that designated his official position.  We met a few blocks from the slum area, and he led us up over a pedestrian bridge, crossing the new highway that had bisected the squatter community and directly dislocated about 100 families.  The highway was changing the neighborhood rapidly.  Sections were being razed for commercial projects and prices for food and essentials in the area continued to increase, as the new traffic access made the land more valuable.

Old Balara had about 30,000 people registered in the Barangay, and 25,000 of those were squatters, or illegally occupying land owned by others.  Half of the squatters had already moved out and the neighborhood was rapidly shrinking.  The government is trying to re-grid the area and promises the residents they can apply to stay once the new development is planned.  Mario tells us that most residents know those promises can change at any moment, or whenever a new person comes into that position.

The Old Balara slum had been built on the Payatas garbage dump for Quezon City, a wealthy area just outside of Manila.  In 2006, some of the enormous garbage pile slid into the slum community and burst into flame, killing 31 people and injuring scores more.  The government tried to move those living there several times, but the residents couldn’t afford the new areas offered, or didn’t have a way to make a living there.  So they stayed, and continued to build their lives as best they could.

As we walked through the narrow streets and pathways, curious faces popped out to watch us.  At this time of the morning, it’s mostly the very young and the very old.  The neighborhood was wide awake, and there’s a vibrant hum of commercial activity going.  There’s a local corner store with sundries, SIM cards, and Avon products.  We passed a snack shop, with packages artfully arranged at eye-level.  You can purchase a breakfast of rice and two side dishes for about .40 cents.  A man walked by carrying a fake Christmas tree.

Houses here rent for about $20 a month.  You can rent a room for $10.

Anji sees a mom of two of the students from her school.   Hazel interviews her for a video she’s making, and the woman answers before the questions can be translated into Tagalog.  Her sons are 11 and 7.  She wanted them in the Old Balara Christian Community School because of its reputation for high standards in academics and teaching the kids character.  She was very happy with the education her boys were receiving at OBCCS.

As Mario shows us basketball courts, the metered water system, and drainage canals that run under the precariously perched houses, Anji answers my questions about the political standoff surrounding many squatter communities.

True squatters are often freshly arrived from the province, looking for work in the city.  Others that live there are professional squatters.  They’ll move into an area until the government offers housing to the impoverished in the slum.  They’ll take the house, rent it out, and then do it again.  It’s called syndicated squatting.  It’s illegal, but they have police on their payroll.  Those who may want to enforce the law are helpless because the syndicate is so entrenched in the community and have an effective protection system.   It’s possible to become a registered resident in the Barangays, but it’s an involved and expensive process, requiring a local sponsor and witnesses that can testify to your history there.

I asked Anji why she started the school here in the slums.  She had been a researcher and a trainer at the university for entrepreneur development.  During her research in the area, she saw that children had trouble getting 1 peso a day for a snack (about one penny).  She noticed that entrepreneurship training begins in childhood.  Children of store owners were more likely to be store owners too, because they had grown up seeing how it’s done.  Anji wanted the kids in the neighborhood to develop an enterprising mindset, by showing them how it can be done.

Anji started OBCCS in 1987 with 17 students.

In addition to an accredited K-12 curriculum, the school focuses on entrepreneurship training for every age.  They invite guest speakers into the school regularly and teach the students to ask questions, helping the kids create a meaningful narrative from the stories and examples they hear by connecting a distant vocation to their current reality.  Anji encourages her students to see every job as an entrepreneurial one.  If they wanted to be a doctor, they should focus on finding new treatments and processes.  Policemen should find fresh approaches to connect with the community and build relationships.  She wanted to highlight examples of successes, show them that it could be done and that there were people doing it.

They also teach financial responsibility, and how important it is to give and save, no matter how small your income.  Anji started a Piso Piso group for parents, teaching savings starting with just one peso a day – just a penny.  They could do that.  And by the end of a year, they had a small bit of savings.  The next year, they had a little more.  It helped them change their mindset from what they didn’t have to what they did have.  They couldn’t save hundreds of dollars, but they could save a penny.

Mario ended the tour at a beautiful basketball court that serves the larger community.  Kids came every afternoon to play in a safe area, and it often served as a meeting hall in the evenings.

We asked Mario about some of the biggest misconceptions about squatters.  “There are different kinds of poor,” he told us.  “Some are lazy, but not all.  Some people are able to make good use of their resources.  Some squatters are illiterate, and others have finished their studies and are industrious.  You can’t categorize based on classifications.”  He went on to explain his frustration when people put all squatters in a negative light.  He wanted to highlight how resourceful people can be, how they find a way to support themselves and create their own livelihood, despite their limitations and scarce resources.  The community helps each other.  He was very proud of that.

We thanked Mario and went back to the OBCCS school a few blocks away. We were greeted by children in bright yellow uniforms.  They were energetic and studious, playing games to learn math and singing songs to remember lessons.  The school building was small and very old.  They were trying to raise money for a new building, the cost being far beyond what could be supported from the slum community they served.  But their biggest investment was in the lives of children who were learning that their life could be different.  This investment was priceless.

I just left Bangladesh, my 10th country on this trip and my 50th country altogether.  It’s hard to believe it’s been almost six months since I began this crazy adventure.  My days and nights have been full of people and stories and laughter and connections—and work! as I’m learning and growing, and making many new friends.  Next week, I’ll head to Kenya to begin my next six months in Africa.

I do have so many stories from each place, and I promise to write them!  In each place, I’m acutely aware that the people I meet, the conversations I have, the stories I hear, and the time that I share will only happen once.  I am trying to say yes to as many things as I can.

I’ve worked with organizations that run orphanages, support development in rural villages, work with kids living in slums, create jobs, bring communities together, restore abused women, rescue trafficked children, and share love and hope with hurting people.

I’ve met incredible people who see a need and just say, “Yes.”  They aren’t the most experienced or educated in that topic, they don’t have all the right training or connections, but they see a need that no one is meeting, and they say, “Yes.”  And through grace and grit, they make a difference.  They ask questions, the google furiously, they learn, make mistakes, fix them, and keep going, because someone needed to say, “Yes.”  I’ve met true heroes, who give and give and give.  They get discouraged.  They feel isolated.  They wonder if they’re really making a difference at all – there’s still so much need.  And then I see the people they’ve touched, the lives transformed, the changes, even if they’re small at first.  I remind them that they’re doing a good job.  Change is happening.  They are making a difference.  And sometimes, they just need to hear that.

I’ve met life-long friends, experienced the kindness of strangers, and have been overwhelmed by the generosity I’ve received.  Over and over again, I am invited into people’s lives with the phrase, “Come stay with me!”  Out of the 17 cities I’ve visited, I’ve been hosted in 11, and these are people I had only met briefly (or not at all!) before they offered their home.  It reminds me of growing up.  My parents often opened our home to people coming through, many times missionaries they had met (or not!), who needed a place to stay for a few nights.  I loved hearing their stories of far off places and interesting people.  I think that’s what first opened my eyes to the big, wide, wonderful world.  I doubt the kids I’ve met will remember me, but I hope they will continue the cycle of kindness and generosity through another generation, and maybe the stories of all these strangers will inspire them to answer a giant need somewhere in the world as well.

Asia has been fascinating.  I’ve hiked mountains, waded in waterfalls, fed elephants, and enjoyed the slow boat down the river.  I’ve stayed in cheap backpacker hostels, taken many cold showers, and have learned to always carry my own toilet paper.  I still like rice and noodles and rather enjoy that my 5’2 height is not short here.  I’ve learned all the different ways to cross the road (Cambodia: just go – traffic adjusts to the consistent and predictable; Vietnam: one giant game of Frogger – expert level; Bangladesh:  use The Force – step into the street and put out one hand … the cars magically stop for you), and rated countries by the aggressiveness of their mosquitos (Myanmar and Bangladesh tie for first place).

I’ve been privileged to train organizations, teach at Universities, preach (barefoot!), and share with groups, students, and children in almost every country where I’ve worked.  I’ve helped NGOs with strategic planning, organizational structures, policies and procedures, and creative growth.  I’ve passed along best practices and made connections between the groups where I’ve worked to continue helping each other as they learn and develop.  My days run together, and I often forget to do important things like buy tickets to my next destination.  Somehow, things always seem to work out.

This has been the most amazing adventure and I can’t describe the joy I feel every day.  Some days have been stressful, uncertain, challenging, and I’ve cried four times.  But I have learned so much, grown immensely, and most surprisingly, become punctual.  Miracles do happen! I am incredibly happy I get to do this.

Even though I haven’t been good at posting, I’ve been so grateful for the encouragement I’ve received from all of you.  Emails, texts, FB posts, and the many, many reminders that so many people are thinking about me, cheering me on, and praying for my safety and success.  I am truly so grateful for your love and support!

More stories and adventures to be written – and the best is yet to come!

The ferry ride from the Bataan peninsula was beautiful.  In just a few hours, we were in the heart of downtown Manila.  We had taken the ferry over once before when Hazel needed to get a camera battery that we could only find there.  We were surprised when we got to the dock that there was one ferry, one way, once a day.  That was interesting.  We hadn’t planned on staying the night, but the boat was leaving in a few minutes and we needed to decide.  So with a shrug and a laugh Vanessa, Hazel and I decided to hop on and see what happened.  When we landed, Vanessa surveyed all the boat captains, anyone wearing a uniform, and a few people who looked like they might know whether there were any private boats we could hire to get us back across.  Apparently, there were not.  Yachts?  No.  Blow-up rafts?  Nada.  Hm.  We decided we would decide later.  After a fun day of exploring and nary a private yacht offering us a return ride, we ended up hiring an off-meter taxi driver to take us the 5-hour trip home.  He agreed, but I don’t think he realized exactly how far it was… he seemed a little annoyed as we kept driving further and further into the province.  But the adventure was worth it, at least for us!

This time, the one-way ferry was fine, as we were staying in the city.  The capital of the Philippines is the densest city in the world, with over 1.6 million people calling Manila home.  It’s has one of the biggest malls in the world, multinational companies, and colossal traffic.  Driving here is an art form, requiring uses of sight, sound, gestures, and understanding the dance of the road.  Sometimes it’s a death-defying dance, but it has its own sense of rhythm and flow.  Marked lanes are fun ideas, but if there’s space, there’s a car.  The car horn is as useful as the turn-signal and is employed often.  Motorbikes weave throughout all the lanes and giving them preference would break the flow.  Their expectation of traffic keeps them safe.  On roads where there is no stoplight, cars just make their way through in a sort of automotive lattice pattern, pausing and going as they work their way to the other side.  Pedestrians do NOT have the right-of-way, but sometimes will slow a bit if you give a good glare and gesture wildly.

The Philippines is developing quickly, but it’s still a transitional economy with 30% of the workforce in the agricultural sector and more than half the country living in rural areas.  Remittances from overseas workers make up 8%-10% of the national GDP, with Filipino Americans sending 43%, or $10.6 billion USD.  These statistics are easy to look at as numbers, but often represent a broken family, with one or two family members living overseas while relatives care for children.  Nurses, nannies, construction workers, engineers, and teachers are all global jobs done well by Filipino people.

Those without a good job might end up in one of the massive slum communities that house an estimated 4 million people.  The economy has been growing, but 10% still live on less than $1.25 a day and 21.6% live in poverty. 

Poverty in the Philippines isn’t just lack of money.  Corruption in government is rampant, and everything from jobs to justice is based on whom you know.  Those with powerful connections have no restrictions or repercussions.  Those without are left with little recourse except to take justice into their own hands.  Neighborhoods will organize their own enforcement codes and ally with fraternal orders that are a cross between the Elks and the MS13.  Personal retribution is the fear that keeps poor societies in line.  Riding-in-tandem shootings are the ultimate enforcement – two masked people are on a motorbike, one drives, one assassinates.  Usually violent crime isn’t random, it’s targeted revenge with no due process.  Between October and May, there were 880 of these mobile murders.

The justice system is broken, as well as the political system.  One family I met won’t travel to a vacation island during election season, after a relative was held hostage during a political exchange.  It isn’t usually violent, but being associated with the losing political party can be unrecoverable for businesses or civic involvement.  Politicians quite literally buy votes.  They’ll go into poor neighborhoods and hand out $10-$20 each in exchange for being put in power.  When there’s no hope of justice regardless of which party wins, the logical calculus is money today is better than broken promises tomorrow.  So they vote and pocket the cash.

The government will often try to separate themselves from the people they’re there to serve.  One woman was trying to get governmental approval for a project and had to make repeated visits to the official’s office.  She was surprised to observe that the official would only communicate in English, refusing to speak Tagalog, the local language.   English is an official language of the Philippines and is taught in school, but not everyone is easily fluent, especially those from poorer communities.  The lack of English fluency meant they struggled to navigate the government bureaucracy, or just failed and left. Lack of justice, again.

The slums collect people who exist on the margins.  Usually they are squatters, living on land that belongs to others.  Sometimes it’s a dump, or a former dump, or beside a dump.  Sometimes it’s by a river, or over a drainage ditch.  Sometimes it’s on empty land, or in an empty building.  There’s always a tension between the owners and the squatters, and how justice is defined.  These communities are full of bright children, tired parents, and the usual daily living you would see anywhere.  There are good people and bad people, all tied together by severe lack.

The Philippines is a large country with beautiful traditions, people, culture, and landscape.  I don’t mean to paint a despairing picture.  You should visit!  You’ll love it!  Most of my time there was not spent on the gorgeous beaches or enjoying great shopping, however.  My experiences were with a group that tourists don’t usually see.  And even in the slums, there’s beauty to be seen.

*If you receive my updates by newsletter, my last blog post didn’t go out!  You can read it here.

It’s hard to believe three weeks can go by so quickly.  I met so many people and heard so many stories. King’s Garden Children’s Home is a special place.  There’s a deep peace among all the noise and chaos of 50 children and 25 staff.  There’s a fierce love of fighters and survivors who have overcome unimaginable things, and still smile.  There’s a serenity in the 12 acres of wild greenery that surround the home.  There’s a calm to spotty wifi and a stifling heat that seems to slow down any activity. Things happen at a different pace. There’s more time for conversations and connections.  And the children steal a place in your heart before you even notice.

There’s little three-year old Belle* who loves to smile but also knows how to throw a punch when needed. She has a raspy voice and is a happy singer, using an old racket as a pretend guitar.  Her older brother is 10, and grins non-stop.  He rarely speaks, preferring hand gestures, but is highly intelligent.  Little Ally is almost 4.  She has an oversized laugh and makes the most expressive faces.  She has a mothering instinct and will tend to kids who are younger, even if they already tower over her petite frame.  Michael is 8.  He always wants to thumb wrestle.  Ethan will stop everything if you start singing and join in.  He loves to sing.  Adam, who is 3, just wanted to be picked up and carried all day, every day.  And my little friend Brent-who knows the name of every tree and fruit, but can’t yet read.  He loves to play outside.  He’s so happy there.

It was my last day and I had just finished the projects I was working on for the home.  Hazel and I put together several products focused on strategy, processes, communications, and an advocacy campaign.  Some of our work was immediately practical, like a visitor’s manual and a fundraising letter.  Others would probably need more people to come in and see the projects through. We were most excited about a campaign to help the Philippines encourage local adoption and foster care, pressure the government to streamline paperwork requirements, and raise awareness of neglected and abused children in the country.  But campaigns like that take sustained dedication.  We prayed that the right people would come to King’s Garden to help.

We went downstairs for our last dinner with the staff and kids.  I stopped by all the tables to say hi to the children.  I didn’t want to exasperate the house parents who were each trying to get 10-12 kids fed and off to bed by distracting them, so I quickly made my way through and then went to the kitchen to eat with the evening staff.

As I looked at the people gathered around the table, a reel of memories started replaying, almost like my mind was trying to remember each person, each interaction.  My friend who shared with me her story of a hard childhood, where she just wanted to be loved.  It gave her compassion for these kids she worked with.  A staff member who had miscarried just a few days before, and another who was expecting her third child, worried about how they were going to make ends meet.  A single parent and her journey through war zones that brought her to her job at King’s Garden.  A university student who had just started working at the home, but knew it well. He had grown up there since he was 5 years old.  He worked odd jobs to pay for school. One summer he assembled luggage for Patagonia. The work was hard.  His fingers bled as he tried to twist together the parts at the rapid speed expected.  Being back at King’s Garden doing maintenance allowed him time to study for his degree in mechanical engineering.  And another dear friend, who also grew up at the home and was now working there, who had gone through some horrific experiences,and was one of the most grounded, intelligent, loving people I had met.

The relationship between the staff and the children was special.  I had long conversations with one of the social workers about a troubled 10-year-old boy.  He was constantly in fights, struggled in school, and had no friends because he was a bully.  She agonized about what more she could do to help him.  She tried explaining to him that she had to document every time something happened, and it went into his adoption file.  She pleaded with him that his behavior was making it hard to find a family who would take him.  He didn’t say anything, but there were tears were streaming down his face as he looked at his feet.  A few hours later, he was fighting again.  But she hadn’t given up.  These kids were her life.

King’s Garden has a way of getting into your soul.  When I first reached out to the directors about coming, they warned me that I might want to make it my last stop, because it’s a hard place to leave.  Jonathan and Vanessa Capone became the directors at King’s Garden just a few months ago.  Their passion and love for the kids is breathing new life and vision into the home. Jonathan is a loving father figure that so many of these kids have never seen, and Vanessa is the happy mother to 50 who fiercely loves each and every child.  Their own four children, ages 8-14, are just as dedicated to the home as their parents. They were right.  It’s a hard place to leave.

After we finished dinner, some of the older girls gathered in the lobby to finish up a homework project. They had a laptop out, although it wasn’t connected to the internet.  Someone produced a USB with dance videos –not like MTV dance videos, though.  Just videos of 4-8 people who put together simple choreography to popular songs.  They looked more like exercise videos.  I don’t know how they became so popular, but the girls had memorized dozens of dances.  The little ones joined in, some just jumping around and others surprisingly rhythmic.  One of the older boys tried dancing.  He soon was just laughing at his efforts, but kept trying.  A few kids gathered on the stairs to be near the buzz of activity. 

Aeron, one of the staff members, started pretending to lead a work-out routine.  The girls loved it, and did their best to follow.   It quickly developed into a back-bending contest, more dance numbers, and a hushing reminder from a slightly irritated house parent trying to put the little kids to sleep.  I showed the girls the basic steps to salsa and Hazel busted out her dance team moves from high school.  When we were all hot and tired and collapsed into the lobby chairs, Alice sat down next to us.  “You’re a beautiful dancer!”

She smiled shyly.  “I can sing too!”

“Really?  Will you sing something for us?”

She sat up straight and cleared her throat.  She sang a pop song, with perfect tone and rhythm.  It was beautiful.  She sang another song, and everyone cheered.  After that, they started trickling off to bed, but Alice stayed and we chatted about her life, her home, her parents, her dreams.  She’s 14, too old to be adopted and her parents haven’t relinquished their rights anyway.  She keeps hoping they’ll come, at least for a visit.  She is smart, gifted, sweet, and shy.  I look at her face and wonder what her life will be like.  I pray she continues to find the love and support she needs to make it.

The morning was a scramble to get everything packed and ready.  Hazel and I were leaving on the 9:30 ferry across the bay to Manila.  We downed a quick breakfast and then marveled at how everything you pack seems to expand from the time you arrive to the time you leave. After shoving and stuffing and sitting on suitcases to get the zipper together, we were finally ready.  We went downstairs to join the staff for morning devotions one last time before catching a ride to the docks.  As we descended the staircase, Rona, one of the house parents, beckoned us into the dining room.  We rounded the corner to see all the kids assembled in a group, waiting for us. As soon as we walked in, they counted, “One-two-three” and started singing.  It was in Tagalog, but someone whispered it was a thank you song.  They were singing with their whole hearts, smiling. I realized I had tears streaming down my face.  When they were done, the kids rushed us, nearly knocking us over with a gigantic group hug.  I tried to hug everyone, look them in the eye, and remember each face.  They are so special, each one.  They all have their own story.  And for a small snapshot in time, I got to be part of it.

We went into devotions with the staff.   I was still so emotional.  They had become such precious friends.  Regy and his wife Christine who had been at the home since my great-aunt started it. Luz and Michelle who always made sure we were well fed.  Vanie and Divina who were the social workers, each covering 25 children.  The educators, the house parents, the maintenance workers, Rona and Aeron, who we had taken out for ice-cream a few nights before, the other office staff who worked hard to make sure the home was successful.  Such beautiful people.  After devotions, the staff prayed for us, for protection and blessing on our journey, that we would be effective and successful.  They sent us out with a grace and a spiritual covering that was deeply moving and powerful. I was so grateful for their prayers and their love.  It felt like family.

They gave us some gifts to take, a t-shirt, a mug, somesnacks, and cards that everyone had signed. Their notes were so sweet and loving. I saw the note from Alice, “…I wish you’re my mom coz I always see the love in you – thank you for always making us happy…”  Oh my, that got me right in the heart.

We had to rush to make our ferry.  We gave final hugs and loaded our stuff in the truck.  The kids were already in school, but the staff gathered and waived us off as the truck left the gate to King’s Garden Children’s Home.

Hazel and I were both still wiping tears from our eyes.  She asked, “You’re going to be saying goodbye’s like this for a whole year.  Do you think it will always be this hard?”

I thought for a minute. 

“I hope so.”

*The names of the children have been changed to protect their privacy

To make a tax-deductible gift to King’s Garden Children’s Home, please click here.  

The eyes were staring straight at me, unblinking.  I stared back, unsure of what to do.  I wasn’t used to making eye contact with my food, but here we were, in an epic showdown.  The fact that I blinked first was reassuring.  I’m stretching my adventurous eating, but still need to work up to some things.  It was a sauce with small, whole fish chopped up and stirred in.  It was delicious, but certainly a new experience to feel like you’re being watched by your food.  And probably judged.  You can’t take everything personally.

“Let’s eat!”

This is one of the most common phrases I hear as I walk through the orphanage.  Meal time is sacred.  The home gathers together around four groupings of large tables, the littlest kids propped up on double stacked chairs so their chin has a few inches of clearance.  House Parents oversee each group.  They ensure the kids eat their food, mind their manners, and clean up afterwards.  The kids say grace, and then quickly dig into the fresh food served family style.

“Let’s eat!”

Eleven-year-old Daisy* looks at me with a stern urgency, and mimics eating with both hands.  Without fail, this is how she greets me every day just before dinner.  Daisy has a large smile with one dimple that gives her a distinctive sparkle.  She has been at King’s Garden for several years and was transferred to us from another institution.  Her father was abusive and her mother worked endlessly, but couldn’t bring in enough money to keep them fed.  Her older sister Annie started caring for the family when she was eight years old, watching after the younger kids, cooking the meals, and sometimes doing cleaning and laundry for the neighbors when her mother couldn’t work.  When they didn’t have enough money, they would eat one meal a day – rice, maybe mixed with some milk, or oil, or sugar.  Annie was proud that she could care for the family.  She dreams of being a chef someday.

Daisy is very serious about her food.  She recently went on a hunger strike, skipping dinner and breakfast because her snack had been taken away for misbehavior.  Her stubbornness is legendary.  She is intelligent and enjoys laughing, but has a strong personality and knows what she wants.  She finally relented and started joining mealtime again, but still reminds the staff of the snack she missed.

Snack time happens twice a day, at ten and three.  The merienda can be sweet or savory, and pasta or noodles is not uncommon.  Turon is a banana in a spring roll wrapper and deep fried into deliciousness.  Maiz con Hielo is canned corn mixed with sugar and condensed milk over chipped ice, a refreshing snack on an oppressively humid day.

Fish is the most common protein and you haven’t had a real meal unless you’ve eaten rice, breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  I was out on a shopping trip and was given a large portion of spaghetti as a snack.  When I returned to the home 30 minutes later, I declined lunch because I was still full.  “But don’t you want some rice?” I was asked, incredulously.  A snack is a snack and a meal isn’t a meal without rice.  But I was still full.

Michelle and Luz are our cooks, and Lea helps out weekly.  They make preparing food for 70 people look easy, which I think is nothing short of pure magic.  Sweet potatoes, onions, okra, eggplant, chayote, and tomatoes are staples. Every meal is delicious, with well-balanced flavors and sauces to soak into the rice.  I joke with our cook, “Michelle, I’m going to get fat here!”  She looks at me very seriously and nods.  “Yes.”  Then she cracks a smile, “Good thing you don’t have a husband.”  We both laughed as she handed me another treat.

The table is set with a large spoon and a fork at each plate.  A bit of rice is mixed with the main dish and scooped into the spoon.  I’m generally more of a fork person, and it took a few weeks for me to appreciate the efficiency of the large spoon when eating saucy rice.  Meats are cooked tender enough to be broken up by the fork and spoon, or picked at with fingers.  The staff teased me that eating with your hands makes the food much more flavorful, as they showed me how it was properly done, with the right proportion of rice to flavor.

When the meal is finished, all the children clear their dishes and each grouping has 1-2 people assigned to wash up.  Children as young as 5 or 6 will stand on their tip toes, helping the older kids rinse and dry the dishes to be ready for the next meal.  Other children wipe down the tables, and sweep and mop the floor in the dining room.  They finish up their chores and scatter to enjoy some free time before bed.

After dinner we sit around the kitchen prep table with some of the staff, talking about life in the Philippines, life in America, sharing laughter and good conversation.  Nine-year-old Brent, who has trouble in school and doesn’t connect with people deeply, comes in to the kitchen and gives Michelle a big hug.  “Did you study in school today?” she asks him.

“No!” he responds, with a big smile.

“What did you do?”

“I played!”

“Ay, what am I going to do with you?  You need to study!”  She gives him a big hug back, and you can see the bond they have.

Brent goes over to the garlic basket and starts peeling off the papery shell with a small knife.  Garlic is used in most dishes, and there is a constant need to prep the cloves for the next day’s meal.  Mike, another 9-year-old boy with some behavior challenges, soon joins Brent peeling the garlic.  Mike used to visit his family over Christmas, but doesn’t want to go anymore.  They never had enough food at home and he had to sleep with the pigs.  Mike and Brent don’t always get along, but something about being in a warm kitchen in the early evening is calming.

The conversation turns to Tagalog language tongue twisters, as Hazel and I try to rapidly repeat the sentences we hear.  The collapsing laughter echoes through the hallways, and one by one, we’re joined by some of the older boys.

Ethan is 13 and often instigates fights.  Gabe is also troubled, picks on others, and doesn’t show any emotion.  Kenneth is the oldest, quiet and shy.  He’s tormented at school for being an orphan. They sit on the bench behind the table, ignoring our invitations to join us, but still wanting to be there.  To belong.  Luz beckons Ethan to the other end of the table. She hands him a cutting board and pulls out 3-foot long green beans.  She shows him how to trim the ends and cut them into one-inch pieces for the next day’s adobo dish.  “He likes to cook,” she tells us.  “He often helps me fry the fish and prepare the vegetables.”    He works carefully, focused on perfect beans, while occasionally cracking a smile from our overheard conversation.

“Let’s eat!”

It’s a phrase that means so much more than food.  It’s connection.  It’s sharing life.  It’s family.  If home is where the heart is, and the way to your heart is through your stomach, then the kitchen is the heartbeat of the home.  Let’s eat.

*All names of the children and some details have been changed for their privacy.

Hazel and I had escaped to our room to get some work done.  Being with the children was a joyful cacophony of laughter and attention seeking.  It always made me smile, but it was exhausting.  The kids had so much love and they gave it with wild abandon.  They wanted to play, take pictures, be tossed in the air, be held, be held upside-down, be held with their friend – two kids upside-down at the same time, songs, spinning, games, sticky fingers, insect pets, dust, and dirt, and discovery.  If you wanted to focus, you had to hide away for a bit.

I was finishing up the first draft of a document for the home when there was a small knock o n the door.  Hazel opened it, and a tousled head peaked in.  It was a small child, about five or six years old.  His hair stood straight up, and his almond shaped, deep brown eyes glanced around the room.

“Hi!  What’s your name?”

English is an official language in the Philippines, but not all the children understand it well, especially the very young ones.

He didn’t answer, but marched into our room.  He looked at my notebook laying on the bed and thumbed through the pages.  He looked up at me.  “Do you want a pen?”  He nodded.  I handed him one and he started writing his name, carefully working on each letter.  He could write his first name, and the beginning of his last name, but those final few letters were a challenge.  He kept practicing and practicing.

We tried asking a few more questions, but he just kept his head down, intently focused on the task at hand.

I knew he was being reunited with his parents the next day.  He had been in King’s Garden Children’s Home since he was a baby, while his parents were in jail on drug charges.  He was so excited about going home.  Every child there dreams about parents, and he was finally going to be with his very own.  His parents.  Where he belonged.  He had been on exceptionally good behavior the past few days.  I wondered if he was afraid he wouldn’t get to go home if he got in trouble.

Today he was quiet.  I sensed he wanted to get away from the other children to think.  I’m sure he was nervous and had no idea what to expect.

I picked up my Bible lying next to him and flipped through to find a story to read.  A piece of paper slipped out from a conference I had attended a few months ago.  On one side was printed Psalm 46.  The other side was lined for notes, with much better spacing

for practicing letters.  He grabbed the page and started practicing letters he saw on papers close by.  While I read the story of Joshua and the battle of Jericho, he wrote his name over and over.  Kyle Rodriguez.*  Kyle Rodriguez.  The ”z” was sideways, like an “N”.  It was almost like he was practicing his identity.

After he got tired of writing, he started looking around the room.  There’s a basket on the table between our two beds, and our hosts had graciously filled it with toiletries and snacks.  He recognized a packet of cookies and grabbed them.

Hazel gently put them back.  “No, there aren’t enough to share with everyone.  I’m sorry.”

He pouted.

“I think it’s time to go downstairs and find the other kids.  Come on!”

“Ayaw.”  I don’t want.

“Come on, let’s go!”

“Ayaw.”

We could see a battle of the wills was on the horizon.  “Should we start to leave?”

Hazel and I got up and went to the door.

“Ayaw.”  He wasn’t upset, but determined.

We stepped outside, waited 10 seconds, and peeked back in to see he had gone for the cookies again.

“No, I’m sorry, it’s time to go!”  I laughed as I gently pulled the cookie package from his hands and put them back.

“Ayaw.”

I picked him up off the bed, not sure if it would trigger a tantrum, but he let me carry him out of the room and was very excited to use our key to lock the door.  I set him down and he gave me a quick smile as he scampered off to play.

The next day was the reunification.  It was one o’clock the next afternoon when we left with Kyle, our social worker, his house parent, and Jonathan, the Home’s director, to meet Kyle’s parents at the Department of Social Welfare and Development.  Kyle had a new backpack, filled with his things and a few treats.  He didn’t smile or wave to his friends as he got into the car.  It took us 45 minutes to get to the town center where the government offices were located.  The adults were talking, but Kyle just stared straight ahead.  He finally laid his head down on his house parent’s lap and took a nap.

We finally got to the right part of town and parked, which is never an easy task.

As soon as we got out, Kyle reached for Jonathan’s hand.  Kyle had a history of behavior challenges, and had been sent to Jonathan’s office nearly every day since he took over as director of the home two months before.  Jonathan looked at Kyle with loving concern and hugged him as they slowly walked towards the DSWD office.

We all felt the change as soon as we passed through the doors.  It was actually happening.  Kyle belonged with his parents, but everyone in the home loved him deeply and it was hard to think of him leaving.  King’s Garden is the only home he has ever known.  We were quiet as the DSWD staff ushered us to a small office with two couches.

We had arrived a few minutes early.  Jonathan sat on the big couch, with Kyle next to him in the middle.  Right at 3:00, which was snack time at the home, Kyle opened up his backpack and pulled out a bag of chips.  It was 3:10, and his parents still weren’t there.  Kyle leaned against Jonathan, who put a reassuring arm around him.  Finally, at 3:15, his parents came.  Even though Kyle had met them a few times before, there was no greeting, no spark of recognition.  Kyle stared straight ahead.

The dad sat down next to Kyle, with the mother on the end of the couch.  Their clothes were clean and neat.  The father wore a purple and yellow striped polo shirt, and the mother was wearing a white t-shirt and stylishly-ripped jeans, with her hair up in a clip.  Their skin was dark and thickened.  They looked nervous.  The dad tried to greet Kyle, but there was no response from him.  It felt awkward.

The government social worker began the formal proceedings.  It was all in Tagalog, but I understood the gist of the conversation.  We are giving you custody of your son.  You are responsible to care for his well-being.  We will check in with you every few months to make sure Kyle is doing well.  If we find he is not being cared for, we will remove him from your custody again.  Do you understand?  Do you agree?

The dad nodded yes, yes, he understood.  The mother looked dazed.

Our social worker signed some papers relinquishing King’s Garden from custodial care of Kyle.  The DSWD signed several papers, and then his parents signed. The father turned to Jonathan and thanked him for all the care the home had provided his son. It was about 3:20.

Kyle had been resting on Jonathan during the entire proceeding, seemingly unaware of what was happening.  After the papers were finished, the government social worker turned to the parents and told them they could take Kyle.

Instantly, Kyle started screaming, tears streaming down his face.

“AYAW!”

I don’t want.

“AYAWWWW!”

He was sobbing.

The dad tried to give him a side hug.  He looked embarrassed and lost.  The mother just sat there, looking at him.  They had never been parents.  Kyle was their only child and had been taken away as a baby.  I desperately wanted to go over to the mother and encourage her, show her how to get on his level, speak to him in a reassuring voice, how to hold him close. But the language barrier and the chaos of the moment made it impossible.

“AYAWWWWWW!!!!”

Kyle’s parents stood up.  His dad picked him up, and he started kicking.  Kyle reached for Jonathan.  Jonathan had to let him go.  He was with his parents.  It was the best thing for him.  This was his family.  We heard his crying down the hall as they carried him out.  “AYAW!”

Hazel and I looked at each other.  We both had tears streaming down our cheeks.  I had no idea how heart wrenching it would be.  Would Kyle be ok?  Would his parents really care for him?  Would he have enough to eat?  Would he get his 3:00 snack?  Honestly, the thought of him at 3:00 the next day, looking for his snack, was just too much.  I wiped away more tears.

He would be ok.  This was good.  This was the goal of King’s Garden, to see children reunited with their parents, or placed with adoptive families.  He would be ok.  And I knew I would too.  It just takes time.

*Names have been changed to protect the child’s identity.

“Tembeeeeeeeee!”

I looked up from my laptop.  I had finally found a few minutes to sneak away from the kids and work.  The orphanage buzzed with activity from morning until night, with 49 active children of all ages.

“Come, come, come!”

Brent* motioned his hands with an urgent smile.  I closed my laptop.  The work could wait.  He grabbed my hand and started pulling me outside.  Brent is 9 years old.  He and his two siblings have been at King’s Garden Children’s home for several years.  His mother had mental challenges.  When I asked what happened to his mom, he just shook his head.  “She is dead.”  When I asked what happened to his dad, he got a mischievous grin on his face, “Eaten by a shark!”  I’m still not sure what happened to his dad.  Brent has severe ADHD and is probably borderline autistic.  He also has a heart of gold and is always looking for was to help.

“Over here!”  We rounded the corner to the play area and I could see all the children were out under the covered courtyard, playing basketball, volleyball, and other made-up games.

“Sit, you sit here.”  Brent found a plastic chair and brought it over to me.

“Ok, bye-bye!”  He scurried back inside.  I smiled, and felt a pang in my heart.  Brent just wanted to make sure I wasn’t alone.  He brought me to where I was surrounded by people.  I wasn’t alone.  And within seconds, I was mobbed by laughing, loving kids, ready to play.

The Philippines has 1.9 million orphans.  King’s Garden Children’s Home cares for children who have been abandoned, neglected, abused, or whose parents simply can’t care for them due to poverty, illness, or prison.  Legally, there is a foster care system that was legislated in 2012, but it isn’t part of the culture yet.  Most children are placed in institutions until their parents can care for them again, or they can be adopted, or they age out of the system.

I grew up hearing about King’s Garden.  My great-Aunt, Lois Prater, started the home in 1994 at the age of 78. A man desperate to provide for his 6 children, offered to sell Lois his baby for the

equivalent of $40.  It broke her heart.  She returned to the U.S., sold her home and all her possessions, and came back to the Philippines with $20,000 to buy property and build a children’s home.  It wasn’t enough, but as more people heard her story, they generously contributed their time, money, and connections help the home get started.  Today, King’s Garden has 35 bedrooms, a commercial kitchen, dining and gathering areas, play rooms, and a few offices.  Outside, hundreds of coconut, banana, and mango trees fill out the 12-acre property, along with some dogs, goats, cows, and a few snakes!

When I arrived 10 days ago, there were 49 children.  Since then, two have been reunited with their families.  Twenty-five staff members care for the children and run the administration side.  They all have a love for the children here and embrace their work as a ministry.  Aunt Lois left when she was nearly 90 (!) – although she still traveled back a few times before her death in 2013 at the age of 100.  Since then, there have been three directors of King’s Garden.  Pastors Jonathan and Vanessa Capone, from Lake Stevens, WA, were asked to lead the home this summer, and have an incredible love and passion for these kids.  Jonathan is gifted in business, and Vanessa taught special education.  They moved to the Philippines with their four children and immediately put their skills to work, loving kids, organizing finances, and sharing the story of precious children who need families.

The Philippines doesn’t have a strong history of domestic adoption.  Our social worker here says she’s never processed one.  Most adoptions come from the U.S. or Europe.  The process is long.  Finding paperwork, proving births, establishing surrender or abandonment, medical checks, visas, and lots and lots of stamps on every page.  The goal is that children won’t be in the home for more than two years, but some live here their whole childhood.   The government oversight agency is understaffed and under resourced, so it can take years to push through approvals.  The children just wait.

The orphanage is supported almost entirely by private donations.  The Filipino government has no funding or grants available for institutions that care for needy children.  There are a few large donors, but the majority of support for King’s Garden comes from small donations, amounts that you know were given sacrificially.  The needs are huge, especially once you consider the options that open up with funding.  Brent, my 9-year-old friend, can’t read.  The schools here aren’t equipped to educate special needs children.  He needs a tutor and some therapy.  Many of these children have come from horrific backgrounds.  They need more attention, more counseling, more resources.

The goal of King’s Garden is to see their children thrive physically, spiritually, mentally, and emotionally.  Hearing the stories of some of these children makes me wonder how they can possibly overcome what they’ve been through.  Alice* came to King’s Garden several years ago, covered in scars and deformities.  Her mother had been murdered, and she was sent to live with relatives who brutally abused her.  Her life is still in danger. When she arrived, she was quiet and withdrawn, and particularly wary of men.  She was embarrassed by her disfigurements, trying to cover them as much as she could.

Alice led the morning Bible study last week.  She smiled as she spoke from her carefully prepared, handwritten notes.  She is in her early teens, but radiated confidence as she shared her teaching with a room full of nearly 50 children and about 15 adults.  She spoke of a loving God who is a father to the orphaned.  She spoke of the hope she has because of her faith.  She spoke directly to the younger children, “Don’t cry.  You are loved.”  She started crying herself when she said this.  There wasn’t a dry eye in the room.

Alice will have more challenges to overcome, but she is not a victim.  The care and love she experienced here has allowed her to become a young woman full of grace and beauty.  She is why this home exists.

Every life here is a story.  The children, the staff, the neighborhood, the community.  I’ve been here 10 days and am just in love with everyone I’ve met.  There’s been laughter, tears, great food, good friendships, and one giant python.  I feel so blessed, and I’m just getting started.  More to come!

*Children’s names and some details have been changed to protect their identity.

Learn more about King’s Garden Children’s Home here.

If you would like to make a tax-deductible donation, you can do so here.