The Little Ragamuffins.

For Ragamuffins, God’s name is Mercy. We see our darkness as a prized possession because it drives us into the heart of God. Without mercy our darkness would plunge us into despair – for some, self-destruction. Time alone with God reveals the unfathomable depths of the poverty of the spirit. We are so poor that even our poverty is not our own: It belongs to the mysterium tremendum of a loving God. ~Brennan Manning

I remember the first time I saw them – eyes aquatic blue or bronze, skin like cream or café au lait. Beautiful little Romanian ragdolls in a world of wheat fields and sheep. I was in Europe, but it was unlike any Conde Naste travel journal I had ever seen. The land was dotted with villages forgotten by time, wearing the scars of tyranny. And people caught somewhere between longing for liberty and missing the days when choice was not a choice.

People flock to castles and fortresses standing mightily on hills in someone else’s town. Jobs are more plentiful in someone else’s country. But life carries on here in the forgotten places. The land is tilled and the crops are sold and the prayer is that there will be enough food for another day. And as they play outside, the little ragamuffins wear the scraps of someone else’s life.

Toddlers and teens wear leftover fads and promote vacation destinations they will never have a chance to visit. They wear words they don’t know on clothing that swallows their tiny frames. Their little feet stumble along country roads in shoes made for other feet.

And yet they are beautiful. Yes, so beautiful.

They sit so attentively as the team from America talks to them about faith. Hands raise to the sky when the question is, “Do you worry your family won’t have food to eat?” There are no easy answers, no platitudes to make the fear go away. The little ones try to trust. They try to believe. But it’s not a simple thing. It’s never a simple thing.

I look at the ragamuffins. I look at me. Yes, me with the new and the just for this moment and the every day fresh and clean. Me with the plans and the dreams and the access. Me with the ideas of what life would look like if life were better for them – if their life looked more normal or western or easy. I’ve been here so many times before. And yet, here I am again. Rocked to the core. Crumbling at the thought that my heart would yet be so shallow when it has seen the true depths of pain and divine purpose. My impoverished soul cries out for mercy.

Yet still they are beautiful.

And I am brought to my knees. Because there He is.

The God of the ragamuffins. He’s there in those eyes. He’s wearing those clothes. He’s holding the scraps and leftovers and wheat fields and scars. He’s moved along the unpaved roads to the forgotten places and He’s made Himself at home there. He’s standing in the wretched spaces, and He’s inviting me into the story He’s writing.

“Will you trust Me yet again? Will you trust me with them? Will you trust Me with the little ragdolls?”

I let go of what life here should look like. What life anywhere should look like. Because real life is more. So much more. And I pray.

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I remember looking for any benevolence organization to help fund water wells and humanitarian aid in small villages in western Romania. “We only work in places where there is great need – like Africa,” was the response I heard over and over again. “That’s Europe – it’s different there.” I wish I could bring those minds to Western Romania to see how wrong they are. Thankfully churches like First Baptist of Levelland have answered the call, providing care to the poor in places that rarely show up on travel maps. I pray that more will long to fall in love with the ragamuffins and walk the road of no easy answers. If you’d like to know more, visit Red Page Ministries.