Angel of Mercy by Lurlene McDaniel Page B

pointed to a large metal tank on wooden stilts. “Recognize that?”
    She’d seen one in Kenya. “It catches rainwater.”
    “Right. Good until the dry season comes, then it’s down the hill for water.”
    A call from the building made them turn to Mother Harriet waving them inside. “Tea’s ready!”
    Back in her office, a wooden tray had been set with three cups and a china teapot. There was also a small plate holding three peeled, hardboiled eggs. “Eat. Our hens laid these just this morning,” Mother Harriet said proudly.
    Heather nibbled on her egg, feeling guilty, thinking that this was one less egg an orphan would get to eat. But she knew better than to refuse. Dr. Henry had told them in one of his sessions aboard the ship how insulting it was to refuse African hospitality. She sipped her tea from the chipped china cup and said, “Thank you. It’s delicious.”
    The woman beamed at her. Then she turned to Ian and outlined her efforts to raise money. Heather listened, amazed—not by her efforts, but by the refusals she spoke of and the indifference to all Mother Harriet was trying to do to help children survive. Didn’t the government care? Couldn’t she get help from politicians? Heather wanted to ask a hundred questions but didn’t. Ian was closing the conversation and standing. It was time to leave.
    He reached inside his shirt and pulled out a wallet. “Take this,” he said, and handed Mother Harriet a stack of folded money.
    “Bless you,” Mother Harriet said. “This will help us buy food. And I will be taking the youngest ones into the clinic for shots and medicine next week. The medicine is free, but they are too young to walk so far. Now I can take them by taxi.”
    She shook hands with Ian, and he and Heather walked to the van. The driver folded the newspaper he’d been reading and opened the door. Once they were on their way, Heather asked the questions she’d kept to herself before.
    “The government is overloaded,” Ian answered. “Almost half of the Ugandan population is under fifteen years old. The country is awash in orphans. Only a handful get taken into places like Mother Harriet’s.”
    Heather’s heart ached. She felt overwhelmed by what she’d seen that afternoon, impotent. She turned to Ian. “Why did you bring me here?”
    He clasped his hand over hers and looked deep into her eyes. “We’re going to Lwereo tomorrow, to the Kasana Children’s Home. It’s run by missionaries, with a thought for feeding both body and soul. They do things differently, and to my way of thinking, they do things better. I want you to judge for yourself, lass. I want you to see the children as I see them. Not through the eyes of men, but through the eyes of God.”

12
    The city of Lwereo was little more than a bump in the road. A few buildings, a town square, a soccer field—all clumped together within short walking distance of a village of thatched huts set back in the countryside. A turnoff onto a rutted dirt trail eventually brought the vans into a clearing. On one side was the Kasana mission hospital, on the other a gate with a sign: Children’s Home.
    Two young boys waved and opened the gate, and the vans drove through, stopping in an open area between several thatch-roofed buildings and a cinder-block ranch-style house. A young couple, surrounded by three blond boys, greeted Dr. Henry’s group with hugs and smiles. The woman held a baby.
    “I’m Paul Warring,” the brown-haired man said. “And this is my wife, Jodene, and our sons, Kevin, eight, Dennis, six, and Samuel, four. The baby”—Jodene waggled the baby’s arm at the group—“is our eight-month-old daughter, Amie. Welcome.”
    Heather had not expected to see so young a couple here in the African bush. Paul was tall and trim, his wife petite and dainty, with shoulder-length blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses. The three boys kept jockeying for a position closest to their father’s side, until Samuel fell and began