Fast forward about 2 years...

I am in South Africa, freezing my butt off. Africa actually does get cold, and it is really rough when you are used to +100 degree weather, and only have clothing appropriate for that sort of weather. I have had lice for almost a month, have had near constant diarrhea for almost 3 months, and have so many weird things going on with my body that one of the first things I am doing when I get released to my family is go to a doctor. I've been wearing the same outfit for a week without thinking anything of it. But I am more happy than I have been ever before. Jesus knows me so well.

I was hanging outside of the Khosa house at the orphanage. They have 9 kids, and 1 on the way. I was sitting on the brick wall, after trying to fix some of the toys that were donated here. I saw "Big" Fortunate laughing and waving her hand, expressing that something smelled bad. Immediately I stood up to see what she was trying to tell me. She pointed to France (his name is Nieff, but everyone calls him France, and it's pronounced like Franz) and began laughing. I looked down at him, who was facing a different direction, and noticed something going on. His shorts, which sat way too low on his body, showed his butt crack. Coming up from his butt crack was poop. I don't know how it was defying gravity, but it somehow managed, and was going up and out of his pants! After quieting the other children who were laughing and pointing at this 3 year old, I picked him up and brought him inside the house. I carried him like you see men carry babies in movies (with arms extended all the way out, holding the baby under his or her armpits) until we arrived in the bathroom. I saw Mama Khosa on the way inside, where she mumbled "France, France, France..." while shaking her head in disapproval.

France's big brother, Boy, met me in the bathroom, where we cleaned him up. We took his shorts off, and tried washing them off with the shower attachment, which was really just a metal hose. We began to wash the poop off his body, but as we did this, France transformed. He wasn't the same joyful child I knew and loved. He wasn't the same France that would waddle-run after me yelling "AIY-YEE, AIY-YEE!!!" (That is how all the little ones pronounce my name), while throwing his arms up so I could pick him up and tickle his really weird looking belly button. He was overcome with fear and shame. He was crying, and looked scared out of his mind. I do not know what part of this was him being embarrassed for pooping his pants when he doesn't wear diapers or underwear. There is a part of me that thinks the shame and fear comes from his past. We don't know much about his past, but do know that he is a "House of Safety" kid. Being a "House of Safety" kid means that the police or social services took him out of his house and from his family. I've heard so many distressing stories about these kids. Their parents try to kill them, there is rape, other sexual abuse, physical abuse, border trafficking, and other unmentionable things. I don't know what his story is, but I know that it has to be something completely messed up. I don't think it is a coincidence that he transforms into a seemingly empty shell whenever he is naked.

Washing his scar and sore covered body was special. Comforting, and holding him and hugging and kissing him as he cried was beautiful. Helping to pull his shorts over his Winnie-The-Pooh sized malnourished, and stereotypical starving African child belly was something I will never forget.