“Hungry,” the boy whispered pitifully, thrusting a small hand toward me. With his other hand he gripped a plastic bag filled with drugs. He couldn’t have been more than 10 years old.

I met his gaze, shaken by the sheer hardness reflected in those large dark eyes. They were the eyes of a 100-year-old man, a man who had seen more sorrow and despair than any human being should ever have to see. They were the eyes of a child who’d never known love.

He stepped out of the shadows then, two other boys crowding in behind him. Our group walked past the boys without speaking, as we’d been instructed, but they followed us anyway. We snaked our way through a dismal park in the middle of Bucharest, the same park where these boys slept beneath cardboard boxes or crawled into manholes when the weather turned cold.

“Americans,” one boy said with a crooked smile.

Pastor Russell, our missions-trip leader, turned toward them. “Yes, we’re Americans. We’re staying at a Romanian orphanage.”

“Ah,” the first boy said. He lifted the plastic bag to his mouth and sucked in polluted air. “In Mislea. The House in the Forest, da?” He began to sing one of the songs that our group had sung every morning with the 46 children living at the orphanage sponsored by REACH International. A group of around 20 of us was spending two weeks organizing a day camp. Our biggest assignment was simply to give our love and compassion to the children, all of whom had been abused, neglected or rescued from the cruel, unforgiving streets of Bucharest.

Why Did He Leave?
Quick tears sprang to my eyes as I stared at this filthy street kid singing a song of Jesus’ love. It seemed so wrong. This boy used to live at the orphanage. He knew English. He knew the “Mamas” who worked at the orphanage. He knew all the songs and Bible stories. Why had he run away? Why would he leave a home full of warmth and compassion for the streets, which offered nothing but cold, hunger, danger and despair?

“Do you have food?” the second boy asked quietly. “We’re hungry.”

I knew of food that could nourish them for eternity. I knew of a house that offered them compassion and warmth, a place of safety where they might learn of the One who would never desert or abandon them, the One who would gather them in His arms and show them a home and a love that would last forever. But they also knew of this house, they knew of this God, and they had rejected both.

Pastor Russell took the boys to buy some food. The rest of our group waited at the train station. I wrapped my arms around myself and stood a little apart from the others, watching the throngs of people as they rushed by, indifferent to the homeless children in their midst.

They weren’t hard to spot. I saw a boy around 15 curled up on a windowsill, rocking back and forth, murmuring and crying to himself, clutching his filthy plastic bag of drugs. Other kids milled together in front of a statue of a loving family, throwing hungering glances in our direction. Old, young, most without shirts or shoes, all dirty, some missing teeth, others covered with scars. I couldn’t help but wonder if those scars were earned on the streets or if they were the reason the children were driven to the streets in the first place: wounds inflicted by the very family that was supposed to love and protect them.

This was the revolting side of sin. It sickened me. Suddenly, I was disgusted with myself. Back home, I acted as indifferent and selfish as the people I saw walking indifferently past these starving children. I spent my time and money on movies and clothes, while these kids struggled to survive day to day. I’d become so absorbed in myself that I refused to act on the pain and suffering around me. I saw it, but I did nothing. But Romania is not the only place where children are abused, abandoned and left to die.

Through God’s Eyes
Every sin I’d ever committed came glaring back at me. Each time I’d watched a movie that glorified violence, each time I’d laughed at a coarse joke, each time I’d told a white lie, each time I’d indulged in my little secret vices. They were all the same evil, the same ugliness, the same thing: sin. Guilt and sorrow overwhelmed me. Deep in my soul, I began to weep.

Pastor Russell returned with food for the three boys. There were other children following him now, desperate for something to eat. Pastor Russell guided the group into the train station for our safety.

“Wait here. Kyla, Jose, come with me,” he said, beckoning to me and another girl. We followed him out of the train station. “There’s a young girl making her living on the streets. I want to ask her to come to the orphanage with us.”

Jose and I began to pray. We found the girl on the next street. She was small-boned, with long dark hair, a pinched face and icy eyes that held only suspicion and distrust. She was 14.

My little sister was 14. Under different circumstances, my sister might have been the one waiting on that street corner. I imagined my sweet, innocent sister with those hard, challenging eyes jaded by pain and cruelty, just trying to survive.

“Come with us,” Pastor Russell invited the girl.

“No,” she said haughtily. “If you take me, I’ll only run away.”

My heart ached. I saw her pain, saw her soul crying out, but there was nothing I could do. She’d made her choice.

In that moment, I saw a glimpse of God. I saw how much He loves us, how His heart must break with sorrow each time we reject Him. We’re trapped in filth and squalor, our souls slowly dying, and He’s offering us salvation. He knows a wonderful home brimming with hope, mercy, joy and eternal life. He holds something so much greater for us, and yet we choose to die instead.

I saw an amazing God who allows His children the choice, knowing how it’ll hurt Him all over again each time they reject Him. I wanted more than anything to grab that 14-year-old girl and make her come with us. I wanted to make her see what she was doing, what she was giving up, but I couldn’t. I had to walk away.

I left the train station that night changed. For a moment, I saw the other side, what it must be like to be the one holding out hope, knowing the horror of the alternative, yet having the offer scorned by the very ones you loved so dearly and even died for.

God has given me the most precious gift of life. I can do nothing else but use that gift completely for Him. I want to bring more of His children home.