God’s family has got a lot of primos

I’ve struggled a lot trying to think of what to write about my time in Colombia. I was intentioned to be there three months and then meet my family on a mission trip in Bolivia,  but I ended up extending my time in Colombia another month. So much happened during that time, incredible, horrible, neutral. I was at a loss of how to start writing about it, but I believe the stories of those I encountered deserve to be shared and can be encouraging.

Let me start with why I extended. I have loved Colombia and the ministry I served in, Ciudad Refugio, since I first went there on the world race, almost two years ago. Leading up to going this time, I had huge trepidation and didn’t want to once again uproot my whole life and start afresh in a new country. I was constantly attacked by fear and knew there must be something incredible for the devil to be hard so hard to block me from it.

Getting there and in the swing of things, nothing was out of the ordinary, but I noticed during our ministry in the Bronx that there was a huge influx of children.

The Bronx is an area in Medellin that extends a few blocks in each direction, taken over by drug dealers, addicts, and prostitutes. It’s a dark place, where ciudad refugio has been spreading the light of Jesus every week for decades. It’s not a place you would ever want to see a child growing up in.

The first child I encountered was Maria*. She was hiding under the cart her mom was using to sell candy and cigarettes watching tik tok. We brought her the sugar water and bread we were serving that day and talked to the mother, inviting them to the foundation for our Saturday kids and parents program. The next week we saw them again, this time with more little girl friends around Maria. The same with the next week and the next. Each time she warmed up to us a little more and by the third week she was running to give us hugs and tell us about her week. Her friends all started to do the same and we met many more kids on the street.

Another child was 8yrs old, named James*. His mother also sold candy and cigarettes and he was one of the sweetest most devoted sons I’ve ever seen. His smile lit up the street and meeting him week after week as well as his friends he’d introduce us to was heartbreaking. I felt hopeless seeing these kids playing amongst trash, drugs, and other things on the street. One week the 8 yr old had found a single roller blade and was trying to learn to skate in the middle  street while avoiding the loads of traffic that race down, to get out of the area quickly.

We had to do something for these kids, we invited them every week to come to our children’s program where they could receive Bible lessons, a real meal,  a community that loves them, and a chance to just be kids for a few hours, but because their mothers worked continually, they didn’t have a way to get to the foundation. We had a meeting about it and that’s when the ministry started sending down a car to pick up the kids and take them back after the kids program.

A team of volunteers serving at the foundation wanted to visit the Bronx in the day one day, so those of us working with the ministry went to accompany them. We said hello to all the mothers and children we knew, as well as our other friends on the street we continually witnessed to. James* lit up seeing us on a day extra during the week, and begged us to come say hi to all his friends. Their sweet little faces were precious, begging us to come talk to their mothers so they would be allowed to come to the foundation and hear the Bible with us.

Before we knew it we were ushered into one of the inquilinatos in the Bronx. Inquilinatos are tenement housing where up to 40 families can be crammed into one large house. They pay per room, and usually the payment starts very cheap. If the landlord has ulterior motives it’s not uncommon for them to steadily raise the rent until the family can’t pay and then offer the option of either being turned out onto the street or selling their children into trafficking. I’ve been in several inquilinatos before and none of them are fantastic, but this blew my mind and broke my heart for how horrible it was.

They took us to the central courtyard which looked like a mechanic shop/junkyard with beams and nails and various things lying around. No one checked us at the door to see who was coming in and out. Looking up to the balcony you would see nothing but children everywhere. Cooking, mopping, taking care of the siblings. It was like a scene from Annie or Matilda but without the uniforms or anyone supervising. I chatted with the mothers who came out and invited them to the foundation, I spoke with some of the kids, and then we were on our way. They locked the gate behind us to stop the baby from crawling out into the street, I couldn’t tell you who its mother was, no one was watching over the baby.

I was devastated. I’ve seen poverty, I’ve lived with children in the slums, I’ve been on that street countless times and seen the darkness, but something about the injustice of those kids being stuck in this situation crushed me.

We started pushing our invites to the foundation more, we upgraded from the car to taking the truck to load more kids, we started texting the mothers more often, whatever was needed for these kids to have the word of God and the assuredness that they were loved by Him and others.

I didn’t like the term Bronx kids, as some children could us it derogatorily so I was searching for a name to call this group of kids. One of them the first day had been joking with me about how we must be siblings we looked so similar (we couldn’t have looked more opposite in reality) so we started telling people he was my cousin, or “primo”. Before long the name stuck and we were calling all the kids my primos, for several weeks they didn’t know my name and simply asked for “la prima” hahaha.

After that, started a roller coaster of up and downs. Sometimes the kids would come, sometimes they wouldn’t. Sometimes they were wily, but in the truck on the way back we talked about what they had learned and they always remembered the lessons and the Bible verses.

There were extreme highs with these kids, and there were extreme lows too. The mothers also were a mixed bag. One day I saw one of the mothers I had the closest relationship to and trusted drugged up for the first time; she wouldn’t look me in the eyes the whole time we spoke. The next week she was in the tents selling drugs. Once again I was devastated for her kids growing up in this place with dealers and cartel members now running in their mother’s circle, but I was also devastated for the mother and for the desperation that led her to this place.

My last night in the Bronx before coming home was eventful to say the least, but was almost a kind bow that the Lord had put on my time and ministry there. The mother was not selling drugs that day, but her regular candy and cigarettes. I screamed and ran to the other vans to tell my friends who were also thrilled. We looked ridiculous jumping and rejoicing in such a dark and desperate place. In such heavy work, you learn to celebrate the little wins. I got to talk with her and she seemed so much happier and like life had been breathed back into her, I don’t know all that happened or if she’s still using/selling, but I know the seeds planted with her and her kids will continue to be watered by the people at the foundation and that God is working miracles in her life.

Shortly after seeing her, dozens of police cars and swat team in riot gear rolled in to sweep the street. This isn’t uncommon, but it is a bit spooky. They usually tip off their favorite dealers that they’re coming so they know to vacate and also will tell their clients to be sober by the time the police arrive. When this happens, the children all run for their homes as fast as they can, or they hide, afraid the cops will deem their situation unsafe and put them in an orphanage. The problem with this being that since they have living parents, they’re not up for adoption. So they’re simply relegated to being stuck in the orphanage until they age out.

If there ever was a people group who really needed the comfort of Jesus, these kids definitely did.

We walked the street telling people to go to the corner to receive food like normal and inviting them to come to the foundation to change their lives. I saw Maria* hiding under her mother’s cart, covering herself entirely with a blanket. In the darkness you wouldn’t have even guessed it was a child down there. She peaked her head out, eyes sparkling and told me to be quiet as she shimmied out enough to give me a hug.

That night I was even more grateful for the ministry we had been doing with my primos. Thinking about them hiding in their homes was horrible,  but knowing they had knowledge of a God who loved them, how to pray to Him, and memorized scriptures to hold on to was a huge comfort.

Leaving my primos was one of the hardest goodbyes. I introduced them to the others in the foundation who would be continuing the ministry with them, but seeing their precious faces as they waved goodbye for the last time hit me. I’m not sure if I’ll ever see them again, but I trust that I planted seeds that someone else will water and that God will be the one to give the growth in their lives.

*All names changed for privacy and protection*