Private Calvarys

The attack came like the horrifying pounce of a lion, splintering families as they ran for their lives. Children fled in the dark. Mothers wept in confusion, and fathers raged in anger. Torn from each other, their agony mirrored the slave-trade tragedy of long ago. The government-sponsored army from the north wanted all the boys from the south.

That is, they wanted them dead.

Those boys had been happy children, tending cows and goats. Life offered them the warm embrace of family, culture, and faith in a loving God. But tranquility was ripped away in a moment of terror.

So began the great migration of the Sudanese Lost Boys.

27,000 boys—many very young—traveled over a thousand miles to Ethiopia for refuge. Unwanted there, they continued south to Kenya. Along the way, half died from starvation, predators, and their own government’s bombs.

Unimaginable, unthinkable, appalling—no single word fully captures a story of persecution against children.

Soon the rest of the world woke up and responded to their plight. Relief organizations brought food, clothing, and medicine, but those things met only their basic needs.

The boys formed family units, older ones caring for several younger ones. Natural leaders created a sense of community. Together they sang again and sometimes danced. They held “parliament” on the days when their food supply ran out, telling stories to distract each other from the hunger pains. And amazingly, no Lord-of-the-Flies chaos mounted in their makeshift village. You see, they knew the Lord of the universe.

Ten years passed and some of the twenty-something Lost Boys were given a chance to go to America. Leaving their Boys’ Town was incredibly painful, but the opportunity offered hope beyond subsistence.

The boys, now men, boarded aircrafts for the first time. Pats of butter looked like small bars of soap. They drank packets of salad dressing straight up. Airplane food seemed very strange. In western airports, they were wary of moving escalators. In American sponsored apartments, they flicked light switches on and off repeatedly, and discovered the wonder of ice cubes.

Yet, for its varied “blessings,” America over-stimulated and exhausted them. The culture change was too great a leap, and the ache for familiarity became a new kind of anguish.

Some of the boys got lost in our jungles, pulled into the decadence of bling, gangs, drugs, and immorality. Yet others followed Jesus and persevered without kin or the kindness of home.

They could’ve been indoctrinated in the spirit of victimization. Self-pity is a contagious thing in wealthier countries. After all, life had handed them a bruising blow. But like Joseph of old who landed in an Egyptian prison, they believed what humans meant for evil, God could turn to good. They felt a duty, (though I’d call it love) to use their new life in America to rescue other Lost Boys. Through Internet searches and relief agency networks, some found their families. Others worked three jobs at a time and even pursued an education, though nothing came easily.

In time, some sort of peace returned. You could see it on their faces. No more darting glances or twisted brows. Their long tall torsos remained straight with resolve. A quiet trust anchored them to a sovereign God and formed something of His glory in their lives, something that ordinary circumstances wouldn’t have produced in the same way.

The beauty in their sacrifice for each other surpassed their tragedy.

I’d been watching a documentary on the Lost Boys called, God Grew Tired of Us. Near the end, I had to look away from the screen. Tears blurred my vision, because that type of love is so rare.

God has allowed our glorious blue planet to also be the scene of great suffering. One day for each person, that time of earthly torment will be over. God has new territory for those who believe—a place without tears, sorrow, pain or death. And, we will be restored to our loved ones, because He has the happy ending in hand.

In the meantime, His eyes search throughout the earth to find that rare beauty, that fragrant remnant of His son’s life on earth.

We don’t know what will happen to us here. But we have a choice in how to respond. We can yell, stomp, and even shake our fists at God. Or like some of the Lost Boys, we can be fruitful in the land of our suffering, overcoming with faith in the circumstances of our private Calvarys.

What will you do with your private Calvary?