(Originally posted on Karibu Kenya, May 26, 2009.)

I spent all day today with the children in the Learning Centre: 59 of them, sharing two classrooms that are both tiny by U.S. standards. The youngest child is five years old; the oldest is 11. All of their heads are shaved, as many of the children come to the Learning Centre with ringworm. The Ray of Hope staff treats them when they come in, and then keeps their heads shaved and treated, so that if they contract any such condition again out in the dirt roads of Kawangware, they won't bring it in.

The children have blue uniform shorts and sweaters. The girls in each classroom wear yellow shirts, and the boys wear red ones. I appreciate that the staff distinguishes the girls and boys this way, or I would have had a lot of trouble identifying them by gender, before I got to know them. In fact, I asked one of my teammates last night, "Why do they only teach boys?"

I began the day in the younger children's classroom. They screamed, cheered, and clapped, yelling, "Hello, Katie!" when I entered. They were all smiles, boundlessly excited that a strange-looking guest was spending time with them. (The children here are fascinated - transfixed, really - with my light skin and blonde hair.) I entered and left the room several times throughout the morning, but on one occasion when I walked in, the children began screaming, cheering, and clapping again.

For a few seconds, I could not figure out why they were so ecstatic, since they'd seen me several times already. Then I realized the reason: it was the construction paper in my arms. That's all it takes to light their eyes and bring magic to their day. Their boisterous response to seeing this basic art supply made me simultaneously joyful and sad. 

In both classrooms, I witnessed pure love in the hearts of every child. I don't know how much more of their authentic gratitude I can hold without my heart shattering into pieces.