LEAP - The journal of a street kid

The Evening Rituals at Miracle House

Every evening at six o'clock sharp, the children at Miracle House would gather in the dining room for the ritual that brought us all together. It was a time when the clamor of the day settled, and we all joined in song and prayer—our hearts lifted, our voices harmonizing as one. It was a ritual that had been established long before we arrived, a rhythm that guided us into the evening with hope and peace.

As the children trickled into the large, warmly lit dining room, the air buzzed with excitement. There was something magical about those moments, something that made the walls of the old building feel alive with laughter and love. The chairs would scrape against the floor as we took our seats, and the long wooden table that stretched the length of the room would soon be filled with eager faces.

It was always the same: the one who had the strongest voice, the one whose talent could make the whole room fall silent with the power of their melody, would stand in front of us, ready to lead the group in song. It wasn't always the same person, but there was one child who stood out—Thando Mthembu.

Thando was around my age, tall and lean, with a voice that could send chills down your spine. He was the kind of boy who could make the smallest, simplest song sound like a grand performance. He had a way of pouring his soul into every note, every word, making the songs come alive in a way I had never heard before.

One evening, as we all settled into our seats, I could already feel the weight of the day lifting, and I knew it was time for the songs to begin. The chatter slowly died down as Thando stood up, his voice booming even before he opened his mouth.

"Alright, everyone! Let's lift our voices and praise the Lord!" Thando called out with his usual energy, his smile infectious. His eyes gleamed as he began humming a soft tune, the children around the table beginning to join in.

The first song was always the same. We started with "Amazing Grace," its melody familiar to all of us, a song that brought comfort to our hearts no matter how hard the day had been.

As the song began, Thando's voice soared above all of ours, carrying us into the chorus. We sang in unison, some voices stronger than others, but all of us striving to follow his lead. It was a beautiful moment—one that felt timeless, like we were all connected by something far greater than ourselves.

But tonight, something felt different. I wasn't sure what it was at first, but the tension in the room was palpable, hanging like a stormcloud over our little gathering. The song ended with the gentle plink of the piano keys, and for a moment, there was a silence that seemed too heavy.

It was then that Simphiwe Zulu, a smaller, more quiet child, stood up. Simphiwe was different from the others; his face always seemed serious, and his eyes always seemed to be searching for something. He wasn't the best singer, but he had an unwavering faith that inspired a certain respect from everyone in the house.

He cleared his throat, and we all turned our attention to him.

"Children," he began, his voice soft yet steady, "Tonight, I want to share a verse with you. It's from the Book of Psalms, chapter 23." Simphiwe paused, allowing his words to settle.

I remember the verse clearly:

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul."

As he recited the words, there was an intensity to his delivery that felt like it was meant just for me. His eyes locked on mine for a brief second, and I felt a jolt of something deep in my chest. A sense of warmth, maybe even an invitation.

I didn't know exactly why, but I felt as if Simphiwe was speaking directly to me. There had been so many moments of doubt in my life—so many moments when I questioned where I belonged and who I was. But as Simphiwe spoke, something inside me started to shift.

The other children listened intently, some nodding their heads, some with eyes closed, as Simphiwe's words reverberated in the room like an anchor, holding us steady. Even Thando, usually the center of attention with his voice, stood in respectful silence, his posture softening.

When Simphiwe finished, the room remained still, suspended in the weight of the moment. But just as the reverence was starting to settle, Dumisani, a boy known for his sharp tongue and rebellious spirit, muttered under his breath.

"Why do we have to listen to him? He's always preaching, always with the Bible. We're not all here for that," Dumisani sneered, his words slicing through the air like a hot knife.

There was a gasp from some of the children, and a few looked to Simphiwe, waiting for him to react. Simphiwe stood frozen, his hands trembling slightly, his face pale. Thando, always quick to protect the quiet ones, turned sharply to Dumisani.

"Shut up, Dumisani! Don't disrespect him. You don't have to like it, but some of us need it!" Thando's voice was sharp, but his eyes were filled with something more—protectiveness, a kind of fierce loyalty.

The tension in the room thickened, and for a moment, I thought it might all explode. But then, to everyone's surprise, Buhle, the smallest girl in our group, stood up. She was no more than seven or eight years old, but her voice, when she spoke, held the power of someone far older.

"Thando is right," she said softly, but her words carried. "We all need something to hold onto, Dumisani. Maybe you don't get it now, but one day you will."

The room fell silent as Dumisani stared at Buhle, his mouth slightly open, as if he had no words to counter her simple yet powerful statement. Slowly, he lowered his gaze, and with a muttered "whatever," he slumped back into his seat.

Simphiwe, still shaken but now visibly relieved, nodded gratefully at Buhle. His voice barely above a whisper, he said, "Thank you."

It was one of those moments where I felt the weight of the place we called home—the bonds we formed not just through song, but through the struggles and the stories we shared. There was love in that room, but also deep pain, and that was what made the songs and prayers feel so important. It was the glue that held us all together.

After Simphiwe closed the Bible, Thando jumped back in, his usual energy returning. "Alright, enough with the drama," he said, grinning at us. "Let's sing again! This time, let's sing a little louder."

We all laughed, the tension of the moment slowly dissolving, and as the first notes of "How Great Thou Art" rang out in the room, we joined in—our voices stronger, more united than ever before. For that one moment, we weren't just orphans or abandoned children—we were a family. And that song was our anthem.

When dinner was served—a hearty stew with potatoes, carrots, and chunks of meat—the mood had shifted completely. The fights, the tension, the pain—all of it seemed to fade, at least for the night. The simple act of eating together, after the songs and the prayer, brought a kind of peace to our hearts.

As I looked around at the faces of the children, my brothers and sisters in this strange new world, I knew one thing for sure. No matter where we came from or what we had endured, Miracle House was the one place where we could always find our way back to each other, back to hope.

And maybe, just maybe, the Lord was guiding us all toward something greater than we could even understand.