Carvings on the Heart

A Weekend at a Volunteer Girls' Unit - Gallop, New Mexico

"See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands"

Isaiah 49:16

I press the coffee into the heavy portafilter and screw it into the espresso machine. I select a mug, all strange, these mugs, from an unfamiliar cupboard. Behind me, as my coffee brews, I hear the sounds of a large household coming to life: distant and muffled voices, a young lady quietly setting the table, another cracking eggs into a skillet. Muffled voices of children and soft and scattered crying come from down the long hall. Outside, the rising sun is lighting the tawny rocks that rise steeply skyward from the backyard. I add hot water and sugar-free vanilla syrup and take a sip.

I look around. I am here at a magical place. Located two hours west of the city of Albuquerque, one mile north, as the crow flies, just off Interstate 40. It is nestled into foothills of striated sandstone stained the color of espresso and rust, ochre, and beige. It is a place of trial and triumph, a place where fires burn and diamonds are polished. It is a place of pathos and prayer, laughter and play, hello and heartbreak.

This place is known as the Christian Childcare Home, Gallup, New Mexico. My wife and I are here to see our daughter Emese Mei, who left us two months ago to volunteer for six months; and she is here now. In the kitchen. Dressed and Birkenstocked, with a two-way radio pinned to her blouse, and ready for another day of ... well, of what appears to be a million tasks and responsibilities.

We arrived yesterday for lunch, and within minutes of arrival were seated at a long table surrounded by young ladies—who the children call teachers—and 10 or 11 children of various ages, ranging from 5 to 10 years. Turns out there is no orientation, time to observe, or training. The girls all look at me, and I find myself now in charge of the lunch prayer. All eyes look on expectantly, and so I bow my head and get into it. I'm only "heavenly Father, we want to thank..." far in, and I'm interrupted by a shocked little girl at the other end of the table who says in high decibels and no uncertain terms: "Hey, you gotta hold hands!" Sure enough, everyone is holding hands for prayer except me. These kiddos miss nothing.

It is difficult to fathom the energy here at this childcare home. The energy that has been a part of this community for almost 70 years. The constant hello and goodbye, both of young ladies and papas, and the revolving door of children, all vibrant, precious souls, that steadily come and go. The constant turning of moments into memories and the forging of bonds that grow stronger with each passing crisis—you gotta have each other's back or the place falls apart.

Emese is on playground duty (they have their jargon and terminology, so there is probably a more official term for this) in the afternoon, so we join her. She and Brooke are in charge of eight or more children once the school bus arrives. It's organized chaos.

Rose and I start out by sitting on the porch swing, but within moments are joined by no less than 2 or 3, maybe 4, excited little ones, including one little fellow who is busy biting my shoes, alternating from left foot to right; he seems to have a taste for leather. Soon a soccer game breaks out, and I am joined here and there by other kids, all enthusiastically kicking the ball, screaming to beat the band, and handing out trophies for every goal in the form of wildflowers, twigs, and branches. Auriella makes everyone pinkie promise to never tell anyone the score, even though she's told everyone by the end. Franny jumps up on my lap and looks at me very closely for a long minute. Then she asks: Why are your glasses round? She follows this difficult question with another astute observation: You have old eyes. Yes, young lady, they are certainly getting there.

Meanwhile, out on the racing trikes, Bubba and Oliver discover a mud puddle and end up with runny red rock derivative literally from head to toe as they skid through the muck and then ditch the machines for a full-on mud wrestle. They both end up in trouble, not to mention early baths. Oliver adjusts. The other mud wrestler ends up in the chapel with one teacher to cool the spirit, and later I see him busy working outside with Papa, cleaning the driveway. I am thoroughly impressed with their way of dealing with behavioral challenges considering the constraints and parameters they must follow according to state law.

Speaking of state law. They must have mealtime for exactly 30 minutes, so often they sit and wait until that slow-moving minute hand reaches the half-hour mark. Well, on Saturday everyone is itching to move and becoming impatient, so Holly jumps up and moves the hand on the wall clock half a minute forward, and lunch is finally over! By then Emese is eager to hand in her pager, and we are off to the open road and her two days of vacation.

Our days together were relaxing, delightful, and too short. We hiked the Grand Canyon and Canyon de Chelley and watched the sunset light up Humphrey’s Peak. We ate Mexican one night and Indian food the next and, of course, had In-N-Out burgers with extra sauce. We drove through the Petrified Forest, the Painted Desert, and stopped to say hi to the missionaries in Wide Ruins. Not exactly in that order, but you get the picture: good times.

And then… Emese suddenly says from the back seat: You know, I’m really looking forward to seeing the girls, and papas, and the kids.

Turns out we were too. Turns out being with Emese at the unit house with all that commotion was the highlight of the trip.

I am struck by the melancholy of this place. Imagine falling in love with utterly loveable little children, their fragile hearts burdened by trauma, grief, and woes we cannot imagine, only to say goodbye, often forever, 2 or 3 weeks later. Then: every three weeks you say another goodbye to a fellow unit sister, a sister who's become a confidant, back-up, supporter, fellow warrior, partner in crime, ally, frenemy, and bestie; not to mention a hiking, shopping, and coffee partner. This is all akin to a Shakespearean tragedy at its finest, and I don't know how they do it. I do know they cry when those little ones leave and rejoice when little ones come. Even the difficult ones. And kids from hard places and ‘difficult’ seem to go together. They love them just the same, maybe more. Inevitably, when the girls have a bad day, the most common reason is that a child or two, or three, have left.

And the good days and things that bring joy? Finding out that they’re getting more children. Finding out that Airana is finally off oxygen and coming home from the hospital. Or a day where there’ve been no food fights, and no one has poured milk on someone else’s head or thrown their salad across the room.

Supper is early. By then the kids are bathed and ready for bed. After supper everyone gathers in the exercise room, and the teachers and kids clap and sway to an exercise video; a great idea in my opinion. Burn off the last of the energy. Meanwhile, oblivious to the clapping and swaying, Frannie is circling the room counting papas—and she comes and whispers incredulously to Rose: There are three Papas! (The real Papa, the CPS board member, and me). One Papa is precious, but three at the same time!

Then they sit and sing—Bubba picks his favorite: Nothing but the Blood. Oliver follows with Rainbow Over My Head. Franny wants an action song, and Phoenix is sobbing for no apparent reason. One of the teachers ends the time in group prayer—“Now I lay me down to sleep…”—and the kiddos are off to bed, after hugs and goodnights.

Then from the bedroom hallway, pitiful cries are heard from behind closed doors, memories come haunting as darkness falls, and the girls in charge stay to pray and hum quietly to them till all have nodded off. Then the girls are finally free, although there are always those who have some little task to fulfill, prep for tomorrow, the last cleaning that needs doing. In the end, most are in the living room, telling stories, laughing about the day, reminiscing about past tragedy and sorrow, good times and bad.

And I sit there, kind of dazed. And amazed. And my mind goes to those rocks rising above the unit house where unit girls have carved their names for the last 67 years. Hundreds of names representing countless memories, memories carved into the hearts of the girls who served. Such a precious time of life when they are free to give themselves one hundred percent to the wounded of this world.

And for the children who find themselves at the care home… heartbroken, lonely, traumatized children; they are also carving their names into the hearts of the girls. These kids will never be forgotten. For a moment they are together, borrowing joy from each other, sharing sadness and tears. And in all that sorrow, all that pain, there is a ray of sunshine in the form of love and grace and security that cannot help but leave an impression.

Speaking of that impression: After we leave, a city worker comes to dig a ditch to prevent future mud puddles on the playground. He tells Emese he was once one of the children at the care home. He remembers his time there. Another local man, so the story goes, came back and asked if he could go stand in the hall to see if he could still feel that same love he felt back then when he was there as a boy ...

The time has come to say goodbye. We leave Emese standing outside, receiving a tight and empathetic hug from a fellow sister, and we smile through our tears. She is in good hands, and we feel blessed beyond words. What a magical place this is, one mile north of I-40, two hours west of Albuquerque.

BF