Update from Markus

Dear Friends and Family,
"You have to help me…" I cried out to God that Tuesday afternoon. "I don't even want that kid near me." I found myself kneeling in the entry of an Orthodox Church in Uzhgorod. I needed a place to pray and thought any open church would do. It was our day off, and I was hunting for my heavenly Father, in desperate need of Repair.
I had spoken often to the camp staff about expressing unconditional love to the children. Yes, the kids are dirty, invasive, clingy. Some of them had head lice. But they're precious to God. I had prayed once that God would grant us "x-ray vision" to see through the outside and the obnoxious behaviors. Inside there was a beautiful person, created in the image of God, but it needed so much nurturing.
Now I was facing my own words. Here I was, the supposed spiritual leader of this band of mostly twenty-somethings. I was avoiding Joseph (not his real name) like an infectious disease. I caught myself praying, "God, please don't let him be there" as I left the cafeteria. That's good honest prayer for a kid. But not me, the adult, the kids pastor, the fearless leader.
Joseph might be 12 or 13 years old. When he saw me coming, he would shriek like an animal and hurl his body at me, clutching on to me with at least three appendages. His hand usually had just been in his mouth, or somewhere worse. Traces of all the meals he'd eaten in the last several days were on his purple shirt. Red shorts were pulled high up, giving him the "all-day wedgie." Any attempt toward creating personal space, would result in more noises and more desperate clutching. It was wearing.
Our relationship was my fault. One day, one of our staff was teaching about Zaccheus outdoors. Joseph had a temper tantrum and decided to race a wheelbarrow through the crowd of listening children. I saw it coming and stopped him, and decided it best to leave the group and minister to Joseph personally.
"He probably needs something cast out," I told God as we walked around the building.

"Be gentle," the Voice inside spoke to me. So I walked him with one hand on his back, and I prayed quietly in English that God would give him peace, that he would touch his mind and his heart. Oh, and by the way, if there was any foul spirits, I command you to go in Jesus' name. (I am, after all, a Charismatic)
He did calm down, and right then I think Joseph pegged me as his favorite staff member. From then on, I think he'd be outside waiting for me, to grab me and scream and to chew on my t-shirt. Aarggh! If he saw me on the balcony he'd lift his wet hand out to me, howling to come down and hold it. He used very few actual words, that boy. Not that he didn't have the ability to speak.

On this Tuesday I was praying for grace. I didn't have x-ray vision. I had frustration. Kids laughed at him and beat on him. The orphanage staff avoided him, and I… I was just like everyone else. I needed God to do something.
There was no trumpet sound in the heavens, no angelic visitation. I didn't feel a surge of the Spirit. I just gave God my dirty laundry and he accepted it. He must've washed it, because the next day, I was okay.
Wednesday morning, I opened the door to step outside. Joseph rocketed to me, squealing and grunting.

"Joseph," I said firmly, using my best Russian, "Do you want to be my friend? Or do you want to be my dog?"

"Friend," he looked up at me.

"Then you need to speak to me." There was a pause.
He looked at me and said, "Can we take a picture together?"
Something happened that day, God changed a kid's life. No, not the one in the filthy purple shirt. The other one, the guy holding his soggy hand.
Don't stop praying for me,
Markus