My best friend and team mate from my trip wrote this poem while in Africa.
His words reflect the heart of my heart and all my friends hearts.
This is the best way I can describe for my American friends what my transition home is like.
If you long to know your brothers and sisters around the world: to hold them, cry with them, hurt with them and rejoice with them, then please Come.
Come to Africa, Asia and the forgotten corners of our lives.
Find the forgotten.
Search for the lost.
Taste and see that the Lord is working around the world.
Taste and see that God is calling you to be a messenger of life and hope.
Please come.
Please Come: (Don’t Let Tragedies Become Statistics)
I am no saint. In fact I am a mess; I fail to live up to the Gospel I preach each and
every day. In the words of Dorothy Day, “Don’t call us saints; we don’t want to be
dismissed that easily.” I promise I am no different from any one of you hearing this.
I just now have family all over the world. And so I have to tell you this:
You have to come. You just have to.
I don’t know how to say that more urgently. As you listen to this, my soul is damp
from the tears pouring from my heart. The world, our world, is a mess. It is a
terrible place. We are a wretched species. In the ‘developed’ nations I watched
people destroy their minds with narcotics, believing they are escaping from the
troubles of this world. I watched beautiful young men and women drink themselves
into such a stupor it was disgraceful. In the east, I’ve seen girls that could be no
older than 8 years old who are slaves sent out on the streets to beg and perform for
money, and they are the lucky ones. The ones who are lucky enough not to become
the sexual slaves of ‘richer’ men demanding disgusting perversions and obscene
actions from a child.
…from a child.
In Africa, a man was burned alive outside the house I was sleeping in because he
had tried to steal food (and I believe it’s safe to say he did it because he was hungry.)
I’ve tried to talk to kids who’ve chosen to huff glue rather than deal with the hunger
pains. Who were too high to remember the question I had just asked them. Who no
longer had any consciousness left to connect to this world.
Whose eyes were glazed over like the glue in the bottle at their lips. This world is a
terrible place. You have to come.
You have to do something, but please…please don’t just give money. I’ve seen
charity and charity just simply falls short. I’ve seen the clothes donated by well-
intentioned middle-class Americans end up in markets being sold for a few dollars
here or there. I’ve seen the money do both good and bad things. Money doesn’t
create relationships; money doesn’t make you family. I just think we are capable of
more. Meet these people. It will make all the difference.
So I plead with you come.
You see, when I think of a deformed child, he is no longer a nameless picture, he’s
Jason. Jason is a boy in the Philippines who was born with such a cleft lip that he
cannot nurse from his own mother’s breast and as a result is malnourished and half
the weight he should be. When I hear statistics about slums, I no longer feel pity but
I am reminded of my friend Reagan who despite living in Kibera has devoted his life
to returning boys living on the streets of Nairobi back to their homes. When I hear
of starving children on the streets, its no longer a child on the television being used
by someone to ask me for money; it’s now Kevin, a 10 year old boy who lives on the
streets and who more often than not was too high on glue to remember my name.
When I hear about prostitution, the faces of Playing and Urn and Pim, beautiful Thai
girls, flash before my eyes. Young Girls who by the grace of God were rescued before
being sold by their families to brothels as slaves and prostitutes.
You have to come. Please, come.
We cannot let tragedies remain statistics, we must make them family. If you are a
Christian, Jason is your child, Reagan is your brother, and Playing and Urn are your
nieces. If you are not a Christian, these are living breathing people…they are not
numbers, they are not data, they are my family members. Please, please just come.
Meet these ‘numbers’; make them your friends; make them your family. I don’t
want this world to be like this any longer. Please come my brothers and sisters, my
mothers and fathers…please, please come!
Please Come
I am no saint
In fact I’m less
I fail to live up to the gospel I preach each and every day
in the words of Dorothy Day “don’t call us saints”
We don’t want to de dismissed that easily
I promise I am no different from any one of you hearing this
I just now have family all over the world
So I have to tell you this
You have to come
You just have to
I don’t know how to say this more urgently
As you listen to this my should is damp for the tears poured from my heart
This world, our world, is a mess
It’s a terrible place
We are a wretched species
In developed nations I watched people destroy their minds with narcotics
Believing that they are escaping from the troubles of this world
I’ve watched beautiful young men and women drink themselves into such a stopper it is disgraceful
In the east I’ve seen girls who can be no older than eight years old who are slaves out on the streets begging and performing for money
And they are the lucky ones
The ones who are lucky enough not to become the sexual slaves of richer men demanding disgusting perversions and obscene actions from a child
From a child
In africa a man was burned alive outside the house I was sleeping in because he had tried to steal food
I believe it is safe to say he did it because he was hungry
I tried to talk to kids who have chosen to huff glue rather than deal with the hunger pains
They were too high to remember the questions I had just asked them
No longer had any consciousness left to connect to this world
Whose eyes were glazed over like the glue in the bottle of their lips
This world is a terrible place
You have to come
You have to do something
But please, please don’t just give money
I’ve seen charity and charity just seems to fall short
I’ve seen clothes get donated by well-intentioned middle-class Americans end up in markets being sold for a few dollars here or there
I’ve seen the money do both good and bad things
Money doesn’t create relationships
Money doesn’t make you family
I just think we are capable of more
Meet these people
It will make all the difference
So I plead with you, come
You see when I think of a deformed child he is no longer a nameless picture
He is Jason
Jason is a boy in the Philippines who was born with such a cleft lip he could not nurse from his own mother’s breast, and as a result is malnourished and half the weight he should be
When I hear statistics about slums I no longer feel pity
But I’m reminded of my friend Reagan, who despite living in Kabera has devoted his life to returning boys living on the streets of Nairobi back to their homes
When I hear about starving children on the streets it is no longer a child on the television used by someone to ask me for money
It is now Kevin, a ten year old boy who lives on the streets and who is more often than not too high on glue to remember my name
When I hear about prostitution the faces of Plang, and Urn, and Pin–beautiful Thai Girls flash before my eyes
Young girls who by the grace of God were rescued before being sold by their families to brothels as salves and prostitutes
You have to come
Please come
We cannot let tragedies remain statistics
We must make them family
If you are a Christian, Jason is your child, Reagan is your brother, and Plang and Urn are your nieces
If you are not a Christian, these are living breathing people
They are not numbers
they are not data
they are my family members
Please, please just come
Meet these numbers
Make them your friends
Make them your family
I don’t want this world to be like this any longer
Please come my brothers and sisters, my mothers and fathers
Please, please come
