I still remember the first day I arrived at the orphanage. Dusty, sooty smells mingled with the fresh scent of warm baked bread. I was six at the time, when my mother died and my father abandoned me. I used to think that it was just because he couldn’t take care of me, but sometimes I would wonder; What was wrong with me? Why did he do what he did? And then this small voice inside my head would always say; You weren’t good enough. I had wanted to storm at him, to hurt him for hurting me. Now, years later, I look back on that day and regret that I ever thought that. It was the wrong story. Definitely the wrong story.
I had been out in the cold for so long, ever since they kicked me out of my mom’s apartment. Stealing from shops and running away seemed to be what my whole life was about. Long ago were the days when I used to sit in front of the apartment and listen to my mom read stories to me, stories about brave knights saving damsels in distress, but I still kept those memories close to my heart, after all, they were everything I had left.
The orphanage was crowded, much too crowded for me and my claustrophobic ways. The head mistress was a kind old lady, although she could get rather snappish at times. When I still went to school the kids laughed at my small frame, but at the orphanage, everyone was scrawny, so there was nothing to laugh at. The nurses would be frantically running around, chasing little 3 year olds with blankets, and no one noticed the boy in the corner, who had found something in the broom closet that last night. It was a book with a soiled cover, a cover which once shimmered with the words: Bible.
It was amazing. Even under the sooty cover and the tiny print, stories of prophecies and adventures danced through my head. I didn’t exactly know what it meant, but I held it high above anything else. It became mine, and it was the greatest thing of my life. My mind kept on telling me that there was no way a whole city could have fallen because of trumpets, there was no way that seas could possibly be parted, but somewhere in my mind, I knew that these weren’t like the fairy tales of my childhood. They were real.
And so the years passed, and children came and went. By then I had read the book whole three times over, and I had an idea. There was so much life bursting in my body, and I had to let it out. So one night, after the nurses had left, I brought close a few of the children and started to tell them the stories of how a girl killed a giant, how a mere girl saved lives, how they could do it all as long as they had one simple thing. God. The kids didn’t believe me. They laughed, and I was horrified. Why didn’t they understand? This was real. Being 12 years old, I didn’t know what to do, until a little girl, about my age, uttered 4 words. I believe you, Jacob.
That event changed my life. I prayed and prayed, and the girl, Anna was her name, prayed with me. We spoke to the children, the maids, anyone, and slowly they began to believe too. Then one day, when I was 14, someone arrived at the door. Someone I thought I would never see again. Dad.
I expected from myself to rage, to scream out; Why did you leave? What did I possibly do? But instead of hate, a strange calmness flooded my body. I would heal, not destroy. I had stared for a few minutes, but finally, as I was about to speak, my father choked out the words I’m sorry.
Now it’s Christmastime, once again, and I’m enjoying a peaceful night with my family, me, my father, and Anna, whom we have ‘adopted’. I’m at peace, thankfully knowing that it was God who had helped me then. He had brought back one of the most important parts of my life, and He had taught me how to love.
