Italia: A Transformation in Progress.

It’s an epic battle of wills.

She stands there, breathing hard, barefoot on the cold tile floor. Her hair is coming out of its ponytail, and little strands hang around her face. She trembles with withheld emotion as tears gather in her eyes.

“I love you,” I say.

“No!” she shouts. “You hate me! You’ve always hated me! You only love everyone else!”

“I love you. You’re worth it. I love you.” I say again, tears slipping down my face.

“No you don’t! I’m not! I’m not worth it, and no one loves me, and no one will ever love me. I’m not worth it!” She closes her eyes as she starts to cry in earnest, big, heaving sobs making her chest shudder.

Risking the danger of getting clawed in the face, I grab her, putting my arms around her and not moving as she begins to pull away. After a token struggle she gives in, and relaxes in my arms as she sobs. “Why? Why am I here? Why wasn’t I enough? Why couldn’t we stay with Mommy?

“Why did all this happen to us?”

Italia a few days after she arrived in July

Italia and her siblings came to us in July. Theirs is a story of abuse and struggle, and their earliest memories are of the horrific violence they were born into. By the time they arrived at Esperanza Viva, Italia and her older brother, Azul, both had a jaded look in their eyes that said they had seen far more than any seven and eight year olds should even have seen. They jealously guarded and watched over their younger siblings, five-year-old twins Jenny and Iran. On her first day with us, Italia informed me that she and her siblings would not be staying long. “Just until Mom gets us a place to live, and a job. And a school, too, I guess.” No matter what happened, she wasn’t getting attached to anyone or anything, because in her mind, she and her siblings were already gone.

Generally, when children first arrive in our dorm, they have attitudes like this and plans to leave or even to run away that get forgotten in the daily grind of life at Esperanza Viva. They acclimate, they adapt, and they find they like their new home. Jenny, Iran, and Azul adapted. Italia did not.

The more time I spent with Italia, the more it became obvious that she was not going to simply “settle in.” This was a little girl who was hurting, and who could not or would not let anyone in easily. She cried herself to sleep, but if a supervisor came to check on her, she would pretend to be asleep. She resented any implication that she could not take care of herself, although she was happy to relinquish care of Jenny (who is a bit of a stinker) to us. She didn’t want or need our help, and when things did not go her way she lashed out verbally, spewing words that stung in all the right places.

What do you do with a seven year old who has been so damaged? How do you help her? We spent months trying to crack the nut that was Italia, trying to get her to open up and failing, trying to regulate her behavior and being repaid with screams so loud people asked if she was okay. Nothing worked, because in cases like hers, there are no quick fixes.

Italia's first grade class: she's in
the back row, third from the right

Little by little, Italia came to grudgingly trust us, all the while waiting to be mistreated. It all came to a head a few weeks ago, when I held a sobbing Italia in my arms for an hour. This little girl, who had shouldered responsibility that should never have been hers, who had witnessed things no one should ever have to see, who had held all of it inside, finally cracked. All of the evil and darkness she had seen came pouring out as she screamed at me that no one could ever love her, because she was unlovable.

Unlovable. That’s how she saw herself. Used, abused, and unlovable.

 I have no control over her past, and I can’t fix her. I can’t make any of it go away. I can’t give her a father who loved her. I can’t bring her mother to her. There’s nothing I can do to change her past or her current situation.

But I can tell that little girl every day, every day, that I love her. I can hug her for no reason. I can remind her that there is some who knows her, who created her, who counts the hairs on her head. Who is taking care of her, and her siblings, and her mother, so she doesn’t have to. Who will never leave her, because she belongs to him. I can speak truth into her life, and surround her with words that describe someone worthy of love, that describe her: beautiful, honest, talented, intelligent, amazing, and kind. I can show that little girl the kind of love that has been hard to come by so far in her short life.

My dorm (sans Evelyn) at Christmas.
Italia and sister, Jenny, back right

Italia’s not a success story; none of my kids are. We’re struggling through this life, and one of the hardest parts of my job is putting their past into context for these children who just can’t process all of the things that have happened to them. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to lock myself in the bathroom for a few minutes because of a story of absolute filth and degradation that has come out of the mouths of one of my precious little girls like it was nothing. Like it was normal. That breaks me.

But watching God put them back together? Watching families get restored in love? Seeing Italia hug her sister and tell her that she loves her instead of pushing her out of the way? The slightest change in any of them is cause for celebration for me, because I know how far they’ve come. That’s what I’m in this for, and that’s what makes this all worth it for me-watching little lives get restored by a God who loves and cares for them.

Italia is just a transformation in the making.