Episode 7: “…and then we’ll snuggle!”

My dad is a snuggler; an unabashed, hug-you-hard snuggler. One of his favorite Christmas movies is “Elf” simply because Will Ferrell’s character, Buddy the Elf, makes a long list of things to do during Christmas time that ultimately ends with “… and then we’ll snuggle!”

My dad has snuggling on lock, as the saying goes. And growing up, I’ve always known that I could run to him when I was afraid, or hurt, or heartbroken. One of the things I miss most being away from my family is his ability to comfort me, to make me feel safe and assured with a bear hug.

There is a lack of snuggling here in Guatemala. It’s not a pandemic, but it’s pretty apparent in the kids I’ve met at the orphanage. They’re often aggressive as they seek attention from my teammates and I. It’s overwhelming, literally.

But another place I did not expect to find this dire need for attention was the children’s hospital. Granted, I knew there would be a need for medical attention, and for prayer and comfort. But I wasn’t prepared to meet Michael.

I met Michael in the hallway outside of the boys’ ward, sitting on a cot with a bucket next to his bed. “I have food poisoning,” he explained calmly.

He was by himself. Most of the other children that occupied the over-sized beds had someone sitting nearby to hold their hand or stroke their hair. But Michael sat alone, gazing up into my eyes, greedily soaking up the little bits of conversation I managed to communicate through my translator.

As we chatted, I found out that Michael was 11 years old, despite his deceptively small build. He lives with his grandmother as his mother is currently living in America. I never found out why. But he quickly brushed the topic aside so as to talk about his dedication to his favorite soccer team, Barcelona. (Smart, smart boy!) We colored a bit, we talked a little, and we laughed a lot.

Finally I asked if it would be okay for me to pray with him. He agreed. When I asked him if there was anything specific I could pray for, he began to tear up. “My mother,” he whispered through his tears.
Michael hasn’t seen his mother in seven years… Seven years. Michael hasn’t seen his mother since he was 5.

Michael cried softly as we prayed. We prayed that his mother would return. We prayed that Michael would still feel his mother’s love for him, even though she was so far away. We prayed that Michael would be strong in the Lord, despite the breaking within his own heart. And as ridiculous and petty as it seemed, I prayed that Michael would have someone to physically hold him when things got unbearable…

As we said our goodbyes, Michael smiled up at me, wiping away his tears. It was completely disarming, and it was all I could do to not grab him and hug him until it hurt. I wanted this boy to feel the safety and love that I feel every time my dad hugs my tightly.

I've grown up seeing my parents on a daily basis, but Michael doesn’t have that luxury. And I didn’t realize how much I love and need them in my life until I was separated from them for so long. I have been richly blessed. And while I cannot restore Michael to his parents, I hope I was able to pour out a bit of the love my parents (both earthly and Heavenly) have poured into me in those few, brief moments I spent with him.

Praise God, we have a Heavenly Father!

“Father of the fatherless and protector of widows is God in his holy habitation.” – Psalm 68:5 (ESV)