Angel of Mercy by Lurlene McDaniel Page A

food than a place to sit. And the table’s used for many things besides eating. It was a good purchase.”
    “I—I can’t believe they have so little.” She thought of homeless shelters back home— she’d been in a few during her fund-raising efforts. Even though the kids who lived in the shelters were often destitute, they still had a recreation room with TV and toys.
    “They have safety here. That’s the best gift of all.” Ian took her hand. “Come. There’s more.”
    He led her down a corridor with a series of doorways. She stopped at the first one and saw six wooden beds covered with thin, colorful woven blankets. “A dormitory?” she asked.
    “Yes. The kids are separated by age. The older ones stay here.”
    The walls were starkly bare, except for one window covered by aged striped curtains that fluttered in the faint breeze coming from outside. The window had no screen, so Heather knew there was no way to keep out mosquitoes—the main carriers of malaria and other diseases. Over one bed, someone had hung a tattered poster of Michael Jordan. Written on the walls surrounding the poster were threatening words about what would happen to anybody who touched it. On another bed, half stuffed beneath a thin pillow, she saw a ball of aluminum foil.
    “They don’t have much to call their own,” Ian explained, following her glance. “So what they do have, they guard.”
    “But a
foil
ball?” Heather asked incredulously. “How can that be valuable to a kid?”
    “It’s all that’s his,” Ian said. “You have to understand that before coming here, they lived on the streets, begging or stealing food. Possessions, things a child can call his, are valuable indeed.”
    She wanted to slip something under every pillow, but she had brought nothing of value with her. No candy, very little money, and a bottle of water.
    Next Ian took her outside, and Heather was glad to feel the warmth of the sun. The dormitory had depressed her and left her feeling cold.
    “Over here is the garden,” he said, walking her out to a large patch of cultivated land. She recognized rows of corn and cabbages. “They grow what food they can. Mother Harriet scrounges for the rest.”
    “How?”
    “She begs local businesses. She writes letters to church groups in Europe and America. She’s inventive and hard to refuse. But she’s got a big job. It’s not easy feeding twenty-five mouths two meals a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.”
    “She said they were in school. Where do they go to school?”
    “They hold classes at a church in town with volunteers as teachers. They walk there and back every day. It’s about ten kilometers—six miles.”
    “A long walk for a child,” Heather said. She looked off into the distance and saw bedding— sheets and blankets—lying on the ground. “What’s that?”
    “It’s an alternative to doing the laundry. Every few days, the children spread their sleeping things outside to catch the sun and kill the creepy crawlers in their pallets.”
    “Bugs? Ugh—don’t they ever wash their clothes? How do they keep stuff clean?”
    “They have no washing machines, you know. No running water, either. Water must be hand-carried up the hill from a pumping station almost a half mile away. When they do wash clothes, they boil water in pots and throw in the clothes with lye soap to get them clean. Then they hang them in the sun to dry.” He grinned. “Our ancestors did the same thing. Unless, of course, they had servants to do the work.”
    She felt her cheeks flush as she realized that she had sounded judgmental. She must seem like a pampered princess to him. In truth, she could not dispute the impression. She did live a life of privilege. “You make me feel guilty.”
    “Heather, lass, you’re curious. It’s fine to ask questions. And you can’t help where God saw fit to give you birth. He has blessed you, and it’s nothing to feel shame for.” His tone was kind, gentle. He