In the late afternoon dusk the city is settling down under a cloud of dust. A few blocks away the image of dreary stone coloured houses is broken by a blue and green kite that sweeps over and through the buildings. Yells of delight are carried on the early evening breeze toward where I am sitting.
Sarah sits on the steps outside her house, crying. Her brother has passed away today. The image of a broken girl is a far cry from the one I met this morning before school. Laughing when she introduced herself, screeching as she ran after a soccer ball with the rest of her friends, hugging me as the school bell rang. A few hours later she "had a feeling" that her brother has died and asked if she can go home, only to have it confirmed later. Sitting in a small bundle in the midday sun she is a picture of grief and hopelessness. The ebb and flow of joy in a Syrian child
The dust from the last game of the morning has settled on little feet and on my skirt. At the sight of the guitar the group of Syrian children excitedly run closer, wanting to touch and hear and play. La la la (no no no), I say, trying to use my teacher voice with the few Arabic words I know. We're teaching you a song from our country. Jabulani Afrika. After the initial excitement and even trying out the moves I ask whether we are in Africa. Nooo. Where are we? Jordan. Can we then try to sing Jordan? Suria!, exclaims a big eyed girl in her mismatched green and pink outfit. Syria. Sure lets sing it over Syria! Jabulani Syria. Jabulani. In the midst of trouble makers trying to play on the guitar and little ones looking lost I am so overwhelmed in the moment that I almost stop playing. Over the chaos the sound of little voices tonelessly proclaim a bigger truth that tugs on my heart. Jabulani Syria, so extremely powerful and beautiful. River of life to your thirsty land. Jabulani Syria. Jabulani. Rejoice. Laugh. Hope.
Reports from Egypt after the recent slaughter of the martyrs stir something in my spirit. Apparently it has created waves in the hearts of Muslims. Not because of the cold blood or brutality of the terrorists. Not because of the renewed focus on difference of religion in this tumultous country. No, the thing that is touching Egyptians and causing them to ask questions is the visible JOY of those that were executed. Puzzled they ask, how does this work? Joy in the midst of great tribulation and persecution; that is a testimony.
We are on distribution. The man in charge is arguing with the women after it became evident that some of them were lying to us. I'm oblivious to the commotion and the insults being thrown around. Surrounding me are ten children, different shapes and sizes, laughing at me, laughing with me. We do not need a language - we share joy as I pull faces and pick one or two up. I'm trying to count to 10 in Arabic and they laugh at me. I take a picture and they laugh at me. I try to remember their names and they laugh with me. The joy of a child. Completely unaware of what is happening a few yards away in the desperation of their mothers, worry spilling over into pleading and fighting for more. Completely unaware of what is happening to their home country. Or maybe just choosing to have joy and move on.
We are on a visit and 7-year-old Doha sits on my lap, showing me her school books and teaching me arabic words out of her coloring books. Although shy at first she has warmed up to me, creeping closer and now allowing me to look at her book. She is suffering from severe trauma after having seen her brother killed, or so I am told. The little girl sitting next to me looks just like the next girl, concentrating on her colouring book with her tongue absentmindedly tugging at the corner of her small mouth. Doha's joy is hidden but it is there. As the visit progresses she starts laughing and smiling and there is even the glimmer of a twinkle in her eye. I cannot imagine what she has been through, how haunted she must be by images and memories of the brutal war. And yet there is something so brave in the way that she is willing, almost eager to offer a smile, trying to regain that which was stolen from her. Joy.
It is a few weeks later and again my eyes find a lone kite that is being flown in the distance. Soaring over the town as if saying, we choose to raise up joy over our hearts. There are no flags hanging half-mast, no silent vigils held. For the Syrians life goes on. Distorted, yes. I meet men who were carpenters, bakers, shop-owners, sweet-makers, teachers who are prohibited to work. Talented men, equipped and sitting around, waiting for better days, hanging on to the last threads of hope. Men who were created to provide and take care of their families, sitting with hands tied. But in some ways life goes on. Being a refugee doesn't mean you stop celebrating birthdays, weddings or new babies. We deliver mattresses to a young man who is getting married in three days. The apartment is bare and the mattresses and gas stove that we bring will be what his wife sees when he carries her over the threshold. Life goes on.
It is in the children where the joy is most evident. Maybe this is what Jesus meant when He said to have faith like children. To have joy in all circumstances, not because of our circumstances. To raise a kite of colours over our hearts, over our lives. To look towards it and have joy because we know that we are not from this world. To raise Him up over our lives and have faith that He will give us fullness of joy as we keep our eyes fixed on Him, as we excitedly run after Him, as we expectantly wait to see what He will do next.
I have learned a great lesson from these refugees - our biggest weapon in the darkness that is pressing in from all sides is joy. And its a joy that is FULL. It does not dissipate like the joy of the Syrians; fleeting, there for a moment and then lost in the reality of life. The joy of having a hope and a future and of knowing Him, that is everlasting joy. I am challenged by this myself, by how easily I allow things to steal my joy while I am living in the promise of a Spirit of joy. May this encourage you to look for a deep-seated joy in whatever darkness you are experiencing. May you allow Jesus and the hope you have in Him to fly like a kite over your life. He is more than able and when we look to Him we cannot help but be filled with joy and delight.
Sing for joy, for the Lord your God has risen upon you.
Jabulani!
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