Ba: my little (yet mighty) challenge

I remember the moment I walked into the courtyard at Missionaries of Charity and first saw this little dude.



At the time, he was running toward me like an out of control animal, his arms flailing as he made these crazy, guttural noises, looking like I’d be perfect thing to hit or drool upon. Having no prior experience with special needs children, my heart shot up into my throat and I immediately went into fight-or-flight mode, hands held stiffly away from my body to ward off his swinging little arms.

(Upon further reflection, I am fully confident that Ba could totally have taken me.)

Another traveler out on the playground had worked with a boy that was autistic before and he gave me a few verbal tips while I was trying not to freak out.

“He’s a hitter, so be careful.” Umm…check. The stiff-arm technique was working well.

“Make sure he doesn’t hit his head on the merry-go-round. He likes to push and he gets a little close.” Ok. I can do that…even though this little boy has the strength of an adult and is practically superglued to spot on the ground he likes.

After ten minutes or so of intense playtime, it was time to go. As the van pulled away I relaxed every muscle that had been on guard. The tension flooded out and exhaustion seeped in. I’d been trying intensely to watch out for myself, for Ba, and to disregard the smell of the drool he’d left on my hand. Gross.

I felt completely uncomfortable and every ounce of my being never wanted to set foot in the special needs room again. I even contemplated asking Julius and Sarah if I could just stay at the orphanage in Dandora tomorrow.

That night was busy with reflection (and the breakdown I mentioned in last week's post), so I didn't have time to talk with them.

When we returned on Wednesday, I avoided the special needs room at first. I was unsure that I was capable of a repeat performance. Still, after reading with Grace and dancing with the ladies, I was exhausted and decided to tread back into their room.

I saw Ba across the playground, and without any hesitation, he ran up to me again.

He didn’t remember my discomfort. He recognized me as a friend and clamped on to my wrist, dragging me over to play on the swings with him.

We spent the next week together, and by the end of it, we were good buds. My discomfort was minimized (although still present) and I loved to see him smile. On the last day he followed me all over the playground, trying to steal my balloons.




Remembering back, I’m so proud that I overcame this discomfort. I wasn’t afraid to be loving with children that were different, I just had no prior knowledge of how to do it.

If I hadn’t jumped in to work out my discomfort I would have missed out on this precious time and two precious little habits of his that I loved:

The victory cheer: He’d sit on the ground, pick up a clump of dirt, hold it up to his mouth, reach out his little paw for you to take said grass, then he’d clap his hands together emphatically and giggle. Rip grass, attempt to eat, hold out, clap, repeat. The game could go on for an hour if you’d let it.

The namesake: Obviously his name wasn’t Ba, but the other women and volunteers had named him that after his repetitious behavior. He’d hold his hand up to his ear or face (like he was pretending to be a motorboat), while saying excitedly, “bbbbbaaaaa!” “bbbbbbbbaah!”

Sitting here in America today, I wonder what the next test to my discomfort will be. I pray I’ll confront it head on. Otherwise, I might miss out on some joy that is as pure as this little boy.

Today’s Soundtrack: Fight Test – Flaming Lips – Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots