Kisses From Katie: A Story of Relentless Love and Redemption

by Katie J. Davis

  Sumini is tiny for her age but has a huge personality to make up for it. She is ever active. I rarely catch her walking but always running, skipping, jumping, climbing. Sumini is kind and fair. She doesn’t ever want anyone to feel left out or left behind. She shares what she has and makes sure those around her always feel included and important. Sumini loves to create and is always making something new—games, pictures, food, anything. I love watching her heart transform as she learns about Jesus and contributes so much joy to our family.

  As Sumini joined our family, I knew that one of God’s purposes in placing me here was to grow in me, through my children, this heart for adoption. In an effort to be real, I will tell you: It was hard. Being a mother of six at age nineteen was just plain exhausting sometimes. But God continued to show me that adoption is His heart, and it was becoming mine.

  Adoption is wonderful and beautiful and the greatest blessing I have ever experienced. Adoption is also difficult and painful. Adoption is a beautiful picture of redemption. It is the Gospel in my living room. And sometimes, it’s just hard.

  As a parent, it’s hard not to know when your daughter took her first steps or what her first word was or what she looked like in kindergarten. It’s hard not to know where she slept and whose shoulder she cried on and what the scar on her eyebrow is from. It’s hard to know that for ten years yours was not the shoulder she cried on and you were not the mommy she hugged.

  As a child, it’s hard to remember your biological parents’ death, no matter how much you love your new mom. It’s hard to have your mom be a different color than you because inevitably people are going to ask why. It’s hard that your mom wasn’t there for all the times you had no dinner and all the times you were sick and all the times you needed help with your homework. It’s hard when you have to make up your birthday. It’s hard when you can’t understand the concept of being a family forever yet, because your first family wasn’t forever.

  Adoption is a redemptive response to tragedy that happens in this broken world. And every single day, it is worth it, because adoption is God’s heart. His Word says, “In love he predestined us to be adopted as his sons through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will” (Ephesians 1:5). He sets the lonely in families (see Psalm 68:6). The first word that appears when I look up adoption in the dictionary is “acceptance.” God accepts me, adores me even, just as I am. And He wants me to accept those without families into my own. Adoption is the reason I can come before God’s throne and beg Him for mercy, because He predestined me to be adopted as His child through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will—to the praise of His glorious grace.

  My family, adopting these children, it is not optional. It is not my good deed for the day; it is not what I am doing to “help out these poor kids.” I adopt because God commands me to care for the orphans and the widows in their distress. I adopt because Jesus says that to whom much has been given, much will be demanded (see Luke 12:48) and because whoever finds his life will lose it but whoever loses his life for His sake will find it (see Matthew 10:39).

  God was showing me His heart and His Word in new ways right there in the life I was living through the children I was serving. Armed with this new sense of who He is and who I was as His servant, I continued trying to give myself away in every circumstance. I wanted to do God’s work, let Him display Himself through my life, and change my world as much as possible every single day. Most days, that didn’t include anything other people would find impressive. It simply meant being faithful to the people and the responsibilities God had given me.

  I never knew what God was going to do next or whom He was going to bring into my life. I’d learned by now that sometimes people entered my life suddenly, and that just as quickly as they entered, they left. I learned to accept them, adopt them into my heart, no matter the circumstances. Some would become part of my world permanently and others would be in it for only a short season. Some of those people whose lives intersected briefly with mine made an impact that will live forever in my heart. One of those was a little girl named Brenda.

  Brenda was one of the most beautiful children I have ever met. I found her at the main hospital in Jinja where my girls and I went a few times a week to pass out food to patients, pray for them, chat with them, and remind them of the love Jesus has for them. My children loved this time of serving and we always came home thanking God. When we went to the hospital, I was always moved by how great our God is in the midst of more pain than I could imagine. Sometimes a particular case touched a special place in my heart, and I knew God was calling my name, asking me to get involved. Brenda’s situation was one of these.

  She was no ordinary little girl. I would have guessed she, at the age of thirteen, weighed around forty pounds. She carried most of her weight in her stomach, which was hugely distended, as though she were pregnant with twins. The rest of her body was so thin I felt I could snap it in half with just a touch.

  We met her on a Monday, lying limp in her rusty hospital bed, hardly able to breathe because of the pain she was in. Under her bed was a bucket containing at least four liters of blood the hospital staff had drained from her abdomen. Brenda had been to every government hospital in Uganda and no one had been able to say what was wrong, why her stomach kept ballooning as the rest of her body seemed to shrink.

  Not knowing what else to do, I immediately laid my hands on her and began to pray. Within minutes my six little girls were huddled around the bed also lifting their voices to the Lord on behalf of this little girl. Different sizes, different ages, different races, speaking different languages, each of us in our own way pleaded with God for this little girl’s life.

  I could feel her body shaking beneath my hands as I prayed, and when I moved my hand off hers, I could see the outline of where I had touched her. My touch had made her blood come to the surface in the perfect shape of my handprint.

  I returned to the hospital that evening with dinner for Brenda and her mother, who lay on the hospital floor next to her dying daughter. Overwhelmed with a sense of helplessness as soon as I walked in, I again began to pray, exalting God who was Lord in the middle of that room full of dying people, asking Him to heal where it was His will, to at least take away the pain, to wrap us all in His arms, to comfort us in the way that only He can until we come home to Him.

  Over the next few days, I continued visiting Brenda several times a day, taking her food or a blanket (as I mentioned, the hospital doesn’t supply these things), praying for her, and simply being with her. My girls asked about her eagerly each time I came home and each continued to pray for Brenda. Although her baffled physicians had done nothing to help her, I went to see her one day and found her condition remarkably improved. The next day, she was alert and able to have a conversation with me, and her pain seemed much less severe. The next day she was sitting and laughing, her stomach much less distended.

  When I asked the doctors what they had done, they insisted they had done nothing. They believed she was better because we had touched her. I assured them that wasn’t possible, but it was definitely possible that she was better because Jesus had touched her through someone who asked Him to do so! I believe that Jesus told His disciples to heal the sick, and I believe that Jesus works through humans as we open ourselves to Him. I had never prayed with such conviction and faith as I did during those days with Brenda, though I pray with as much fervency more frequently now. I by no means have the power to heal, but I know our Almighty Father does.

  Then the day came when I went to the hospital again and found Brenda’s room empty. Concerned about her, I asked a staff member where she was. The hospital had sent her home, because “her condition had improved significantly.” The little girl I thought would die in my arms had grown steadily better and the doctors hadn’t even touched her. I could believe only that Jesus did.

  I may never see Brenda again. She left my life as quickly as she entered. She changed me; she strengthened my faith. I p
ray that she grows into a woman who loves her Maker. I pray that her sickness as a thirteen-year-old, and the miraculous healing she received, will strengthen her faith for the rest of her life.

  Will Brenda remember me? When she sleeps on the blanket from my bed, will she think of the time we spent together? I don’t know. But I will never forget.

  My life was being filled with unforgettable experiences. Every day something happened, usually something more heartbreaking or appalling than anything I had ever encountered. I was growing accustomed to it, and I knew it was what I was created for. The sense of purpose and fulfillment I felt was nothing short of amazing, and I wanted to immerse myself in this life for the rest of my days.

  ONE DAY . . .

  Friday, February 13, 2009

  I cannot, no matter how hard I try, convince my children not to play with trash. They love it. We have some simple toys at our house, and we certainly have plenty of clothes. They still prefer to play with old pill bottles, margarine containers, and boxes, and they prefer to wear plastic bags and old towels that we use for mopping the floor. I do not know why they do this, and much to my dismay, I can’t get them to quit.

  I recently dewormed all the Amazima children. Much to the delight of my own children, the medicine comes in individual boxes, which are perfect for use in building all sorts of little cities in the backyard.

  Sumini has all kinds of adorable dresses, but she chooses to dress in leaves and a towel I use as a mop. Scovia could have a cute little purse to carry, but she chooses to make one out of an old plastic bag and used dental floss.

  I looked outside a couple days ago and noticed that the biggest bush in our front yard was completely covered in things I had thrown away over the last several days. When I asked Sumini why the bush was covered in trash, she said, “That is my shop. Will you come play?”

  I proceeded to pick up some stones from our gravel driveway to use as currency and bought lots of trash off my tree. For six stones, I got an old pill bottle, a milk carton, a toilet paper roll, and a used calling card. What a deal!

  My children are Ugandan to the core, and I would never seek to change that. At the end of the day, we use a whole lot of soap. But when you have this many children and over a hundred more bathing and eating and hanging out at your house, the phrase “Don’t sweat the small stuff” expands to include letting your children play with trash and sometimes letting the laundry pile into a stack that towers over your head. If today is the only day I am promised, how could I not play Tree Shop?

  My goofy, trash-loving children are constant reminders of God. They look at things that I see as used, broken, and dirty and they see treasure. Can you imagine? God looks at everyone, broken, old, dirty, probably not a whole lot more exciting than an old toilet paper roll, and sees treasure. Something He loves dearly, something He would die for. Wow.

  Thank You, God, for my trash-loving, treasure-seeking children. Thank You for so much laughter in the midst of a difficult week. Thank You that when I feel old and used-up and broken and no more exciting than a cardboard box, You whisper that You love and value me, and that in Your eyes, I am shiny and new.

  7

  DEEP HUNGER, DEEP GLADNESS

  The longer I stayed in Uganda and the more I grew to love being a mom, the less I wanted to return to the United States, ever. While my friends there were thinking about fraternity parties and football games, I was constantly praying about how to feed, clothe, and send to school the six beautiful little girls for whom I’d become responsible.

  Using my personal savings and donations from family and friends in the States, I managed to buy the things we needed most, but finances were in short supply in our household. We didn’t have a car, so we made our way around town on a piki. When the family consisted of Agnes, Mary, Scovia, and me, the four of us piled on one motorcycle, usually with Fred, our favorite driver. Agnes, Mary, and I sat on the back, while Scovia rode in front of Fred, gripping the handlebars. As the family grew, we had to hire more than one piki to carry all of us, so our family could often be seen as lots of happy girls in a small parade of motorcycles.

  Even though I came from America, where everyone I knew had a car and people with several children had vans, I never considered the fact that a van would have been nice. We certainly couldn’t afford one, and in a country where most people walk everywhere, we knew being able to take motorcycles meant we were living the good life!

  While we have a lot more now, we never noticed or thought about the things we didn’t have then. We were rich! We had all our basic needs met, which was more than most of our neighbors could say, and, more important, we had one another. We had laughter and a deep love for God and this new family He had given us.

  What we lacked in funds, we compensated for in an abundance of love and joy. Many nights we ate posho and beans, and when we could afford to splurge, we had a popular meal of “roll eggs” (which is literally a roll of eggs with vegetables, like a thin omelet rolled into the shape of a wrap) and cassava. This luxurious meal cost about sixty cents per person in U.S. currency, but it was still a treat for us. No matter what was on our table, we sat around it chatting happily, laughing (sometimes hysterically), and grateful to be a family. Our life was almost unbelievable, and I felt like the most privileged person in the world to be living it.

  But the amazing life I loved didn’t come without a cost; I mean an actual cost. The work I was doing in Uganda cost money, and I didn’t have much of that. I was learning quickly that running a ministry had at least one particular task I hadn’t anticipated when I first moved to Uganda: fund-raising. For me, fund-raising has always been about more than simply raising money, it’s a means of raising awareness, and in the process hopefully changing people’s hearts. I enjoy being able to share with people the stories of the incredible things God is doing amid the poor in Uganda. I enjoy fund-raising, knowing the funds are going to meet such enormous needs. I feel so blessed that God has given me incredible stories to share with others.

  My only aversion to fund-raising comes when it means being separated from my children. Then and now, I couldn’t raise money in Uganda because money is so very scarce in this country. But it’s abundant in the United States, and in the area where I grew up, people were eager to support and be part of my work in Uganda, so in the spring of 2008, I planned a trip that would serve two purposes: to visit the family I love so much and to do my best to try to raise some money.

  I hadn’t seen my father or my brother in almost a year, and part of me could hardly wait to throw my arms around them and simply be with them. But another part of me was ripped apart by the thought of being separated from my children. I wanted to see my biological family, but I did not want to leave Uganda and the new family God had given me. I wanted to be within only arm’s reach of my beautiful daughters. I had never left Uganda as a mother before, and though I made arrangements for trusted friends to care for the girls, my heart could hardly bear the thought of being separated from them by so much time and distance.

  Brentwood, Tennessee, the place where I was raised, is a suburb of Nashville, which is beautiful from the air. Blue lakes and green rolling hills are visible from the airplane window, and for people who consider that place home, a view of the landscape as the plane approaches is comforting, like a long exhale after a stressful day.

  As I approached the Nashville airport to spend several weeks fund-raising there, I wasn’t one of the people who exhaled. I realized I didn’t really feel I was going home; I was simply returning to the place I’d been raised, going to visit my family and friends.

  Eating dinner at my parents’ table, sleeping in my old bed, and gabbing with my friends seemed almost surreal. I wanted to fit back into that place that I still loved and would forever call home, but it seemed impossible. Part of me was angry that the people around me seemed to take for granted even simple things, like having a meal or running water. Part of me expected at least some of my closest friends to understand what I had se
en, but I found putting my experiences into words so difficult. Because sharing the realities of my new life was so hard to do, people around me found it hard to understand.

  To my surprise, I discovered that I no longer fit in where I used to be so comfortable. I didn’t live in this world anymore; I wasn’t relieved or overjoyed to be in it again; and I wasn’t comfortable there. A tiny part of me was so happy to collapse into the hugs of my mom, dad, and brother, but a bigger part felt so out of place.

  By this time, the ministry was well on its way to becoming a legal entity. In fact, the process was almost complete. The name I’d chosen represented what I longed to see take root in the lives of everyone who came in contact with the ministry: Amazima, which means “truth” in Luganda.

  Our stated goal was to help children experience the truth of a bigger, brighter world available to them through education and, more important, the truth of a God who created them beautifully in His image, a God who loves and values and wants the best for them. The overwhelming majority of the children around me in Uganda have never known that kind of love. What a tragedy, for that kind of love is true.

  On a practical level, Amazima’s way of sharing these truths was first to keep these children alive by providing them with nutritious meals and as much medical attention as possible, and on a deeper level, to teach them of the love of Christ. We wanted to teach them of Jesus who died for them, for all of us. I didn’t believe it was possible to tell a child about the love of Christ without simultaneously showing her that love by feeding her, clothing her, inviting her in. If a child has never known what love is, how can we expect him to accept the love of his Savior until we first make that love tangible? I wanted these children to know life to the fullest in a relationship with Him here on earth, and life everlasting with Him in heaven later.