Many of you have asked how the children get to Naomi’s Village.  Here is the story about how the most recent child came to Naomi’s Village by Bob Mendonsa.

As the crowd filtered slowly out of Catholic mass on a warm October Sunday morning in Naivasha, Kenya, a quiet mother found a place on the side lawn to sit and think and grieve.     No one else understood the painful tension that now gripped her loving heart.  She had reached a hard-fought conclusion. The baby in her arms, so dear a possession to her for the last 14 months, would be better raised by others. His thinning hair and underweight body told a story of struggle to anyone who stole a peek whenever she uncovered him briefly. Although she could not bear to face the truth, the finality of a lab test, she somehow knew already that she had passed on her illness to him on that bittersweet day when he came to life.  He would die without proper nutrition and medicine, and her own health was already fading. There was a children’s home called Mji wa Neema (Grace Village) on site at this Catholic church. They would know what to do with him, though they did not take babies normally.

She watched him carefully one last time, studying his small eyes as they flickered like dark emeralds before closing as he settled against her warm chest.  He had become part of her for the moment again, able to coexist in a painful world because she embraced him.  Would he have another mother?  Would he survive the countless difficulties around them without her?  Her questions were mercifully interrupted by the arrival of another mother, also seeking a place to sit outside while her baby napped.  As the two moms struck up a conversation, a kindred spirit developed, and she noticed the relative health of the mother and baby she now shared space with.  A quickening of her senses came next, and she knew it was time.  “I would like to make an offering.” she said, “Will you watch my baby for me?” Receiving a nod of approval, she gently laid her precious one on the grass, turned and entered the church through the front entrance.   According to others still there that day, she left through the back exit to avoid detection and perhaps to keep from ever seeing her boy again, lest she change her mind.

Father Mwangi, the Catholic priest serving this church, handled this unique sadaki (offering) with compassion and provision. The sweet baby boy was bathed, clothed, and given milk, all at the expense of this kind man, who watched over him like a father for 3 days. He notified the police, who contacted Mr. Njagi of the Children’s Dept. in Naivasha, and thus began the process of locating a home. In the interim, Father Mwangi took him to Naivasha General Hospital for HIV screening, and the test confirmed suspicions that he was indeed HIV+. Medications and multivitamins further fortified the baby’s defenses and justified his mother’s selfless decision, one undoubtedly made after grieving and prayer in the priest’s very own sanctuary.

By the third day, Flo and the Naomi’s Village vehicle arrived at the church, having been granted care of the baby boy by Njagi.   Given the name Robbie Amani (first name after me, second name means “peace” in Swahili), he landed in a giant celebration of warmth and affection on a separate lawn 30 minutes away at NV.  Let’s just say his mother’s fearful questions were stilled forever on that day. Robbie belongs with us now.

Halfway around the globe, in a conference room at a Christ-worshipping, servant church in Longview, TX called, of all things, New Beginnings, Julie and I sat telling the stories of NV to pastors and new friends.  My WhatsApp dinged, I looked down, and there were the photos of Robbie’s arrival, sent by one of our staff just afterwards. Next came a video, and all talking stopped for a moment as we just let the world spin and peered at a screen, watching a baby find his new beginnings.  For those who do not know God, He can be so specific sometimes that He leaves His children speechless.  This was one of those moments for me, though its full significance did not come until I arrived back in Kenya a few weeks later to hear the details above. I have now also held Robbie, felt his skin against mine, and I already know something of the sacrifice his mother made to leave.

I hope to see Robbie’s mother on those distant shores one day, all of her troubles gone, and thank her for this offering.  Until then I pledge to help raise her boy with my whole heart, like my own.  She would have done the same, no doubt, if given the chance.

For Robbie’s Mother

By Bob Mendonsa

The post below is written by Bob Mendonsa, he and his wife founded Naomi’s Village.  I want to periodically post stories from Bob and Julie that help to tell the story of Naomi’s Village.  Bob is a doctor by trade but has added orphan advocate to his resume.  They have worked tirelessly to be a voice for the orphans in Kenya.   I have also included a great video that tells their story as well.

We pass through this world but once. Few tragedies can be more extensive than the stunting of life, few injustices deeper than the denial of an opportunity to strive or even to hope, by a limit imposed from without, but falsely identified as lying within. – Stephen Jay Gould

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With 7 billion stories scattered over 7 groaning continents, it seemed likely that Rosemary and Nancy would pass quietly into the ranks of the unnoticed, statistics rather than flowers, two tiny sisters unattached to anyone willing to stand for them. Things had just never gone their way.  At every turn, the wrong thing always happened to them. They had grown to accept this in the deep place where dreams used to bud.

Born in the highway town of Narok, Kenya to Ruth Wanjiru, Rosemary came first in 2007, followed 3 years later by Nancy.  A marital separation happened early and the girls’ father never played a role in raising them.  Close relatives say that by Rosemary’s third birthday, Ruth began to disappear nightly to get drunk, leaving her to care for herself and her baby sister Nancy.  The night the terrible thing happened came soon after, leading to a domino effect of tragic choices by mom that would eventually lead her to take flight three years later.

The hot sufuria (pot) of chai came to a boil, the signal for Rosemary to pour herself a cup.  Since her mom had left for the night and she did not expect her back till morning, the three year old would have to fend for herself again if she wanted some.  Suddenly the pot tipped and the scalding tea splashed out over its edge, finding the tender skin of baby Nancy, age 9 months, lying next to the fire.  It all happened in an instant, and there was no taking it back – the horrible shrieks as the whole right side of Nancy’s trunk and right arm burned deeply.  The sufuria fell with a clatter and Rosemary began to cry herself, but no one came to rescue the two helpless little ones. By morning the baby had spent an agonizing night in pain with third degree burns over one fourth of her body.  Rosemary eventually cried herself to sleep.

Ruth staggered in half-drunk early the next morning to find the two, scarcely able to believe her bloodshot eyes when she saw her second born lying near the overturned sufuria, still whimpering softly and near death.  The skin peeled off of Nancy’s side and arm when she picked her up, frightening Ruth into a panic. She shook Rosemary awake, and within a minute they were running for the nearest road to find a ride to the hospital.

Doctors and nurses smelled her alcohol-laced breath, took one look at the dehydrated baby lying on the examination table, and concluded Ruth was to blame somehow.  Guilt flooded Ruth’s throbbing head as she worried for her precious Nancy, this little one who had depended on her for protection now lying terribly wounded because of her stupid habit.  As the day wore on and treatment began, Nancy perked up and Ruth sobered up.  Reality felt like a monster in the room, and so it was that weakened Ruth ran back to her addiction, finding the nearest bar that night to hide from who she really was.  After her mother followed this pattern in spite of the chastisement of the hospital staff for several nights, the poor victim Nancy was summarily discharged from the hospital.  The staff reasoned that if her own mom didn’t care, they would no longer be responsible for the baby.

Once Nancy returned home, her burn wounds festered as Ruth did not have the understanding, supplies, or maturity to care for them.  As she saw her failures multiplying, she intensified her drinking.  When infection set in, Nancy might have died were it not for a visiting relative, who returned her to the hospital for treatment.  There she was given proper treatment for the infection, but the doctors had seen enough of Ruth’s behavior and the police were called. Ruth found herself quickly arrested, tried in court, then sentenced to 2 years in Lang’ata Prison in Nairobi.

Lang’ata, a maximum security facility, housed women convicted of violent crimes, like murder, assault, and armed robbery from all over Kenya. Rosemary and healing Nancy, by convention, went to prison with their mother to continue to be raised there by her. They would spend over 2 years of their precious childhoods locked inside the walls of Lang’ata, enduring scenes not meant for small children, as they continued to be dragged along by their mother’s choices and the mercilessness of the system.

In April 2013, light flooded the cell and Ruth followed a guard out to an office, where she collected her belongings and signed papers. With her children in tow, she left Lang’ata a “free” woman.  But freedom had always been elusive for her, and she found herself again chained to the bottle within days, a prisoner in her own hell.  This time she determined to hide her nightly pattern of barhopping better, knowing her relatives would not look kindly on a repeat performance.  Having lost all moorings of compassion for Rosemary and Nancy by now, she took to leaving them in half built houses and abandoned buildings all night, ignoring their pleas and cries of fear as she left to drink till sunrise.  The two survivors grew thick emotional skin together as they huddled through cold nights in strange places, wondering if the noises they heard would be their end.  And through it all, Rosemary did not voice to little Nancy her hidden fear that one day Mami (Kikuyu for Mommy) might not come back for them at all.

This frightful pattern went on for 7 long months before a friend found out about Ruth’s secret and threatened to turn her in to the police.  Faced with the choice of keeping her kids or continuing drinking, she abandoned the two at a friend’s house and took flight for good, never to be heard from since.  Rosemary and Nancy adjusted to being motherless, finding new tears out of hardened eyes.  They were herded next to live with an uncle outside of Maai Mahiu, a dusty truckstop town that did not seem to promise new hope.  This uncle was kind, but desperately poor, living in a 7×7 foot shack in total squalor.

Within a short while, he sought help from a nearby Maai Mahiu ministry, who referred him to Naomi’s Village/Cornerstone.  Mary Kuria, the Cornerstone Director, visited first, followed by Julie and Flo.  After hearing their stories and seeing Nancy’s burn contracted hand, they contacted the children’s department and within one week the girls came home to Naomi’s Village in mid-January 2014.

The day they arrived, 45 healthy, happy siblings welcomed them in with cheers and singing and cake.  They seemed to be like fellow members of a heavenly throng would be, if they saw two tired, beaten, exhausted stragglers coming in the distance and they KNEW their suffering was about to be over.  They were rejoicing for Rosemary and Nancy, even if the new ones couldn’t yet understand why, because they were certain good things lay ahead and they remembered themselves what it felt like to be free from the old pain and burdens they used to carry.  The fun carried on for hours as staff and kids showed them new beds, teddy bears, and aunts and uncles.  They got happier with each day, and seem to now believe that at every turn, the right thing will happen to them.

These two will now grow in the soil of a consistent, nurturing, love born out of a desire to see God magnified above all else.  Limits will not be imposed from without, and we are determined to wipe out the ones lying within. Those came from countless hurts caused by circumstances beyond their control, but now by the grace of God, the rest of their story will have a better ending.  May it never be forgotten what these two suffered in those three short years, lest we someday take for granted what they have grown up to achieve.  Our God is in the details, and he stands out best against the bleakest backdrop of broken humanity.