Two weeks ago, I found him in his room curled up with a picture book, quietly reading to the 3 year old little boy that lives in our house. The one that always wanted to be alone.
He faced his fears and gathered his confidence and he prayed in English last night, in front of the entire family and guests. The one who hasn’t had the confidence to speak what he knows how to say.
He came and volunteered in the clinic. The one who has HIV.
And after the meal, this one, he brought our Grandma a basin and he washed her hands. The one who has always excelled at everything he does, humbling himself.
I walked into the living room to see another one sitting among books, patiently working with his friend on his reading. Two years ago he didn’t know his alphabet.
He led worship for our house a few weeks back. The one who used to sit through prayer times like we were pulling out his teeth.
He was able to help out with a program for street kids last weekend, helping the kids do their work and they called him ‘uncle.’ The one who used to be the biggest disturbance.
When Aunt Katie took the boys on a run, this one stayed by her side the entire time while the others ran off. The one who used to attack, now defending.
That’s not a street kid.
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