A few days ago as we walked toward the slum community I was distinctly aware of the tin roof homes with trash lining the river the flowed behind them. Our group wound our way through the narrow passages that linked homes. While I had experienced poverty the prior months, nothing prepared me for the abject poverty that looked me right in the eye; I couldn’t help but stare back.
Families lived in houses the size of most people’s bathrooms in America. The floors were dirt or covered with mats and the beds were merely propped up wooden crates or on the floor with a thin sheet or blanket on top. In one of the homes I peered into I noticed an older man lying down on the floor with a look of hopelessness on his face, how my heart broke.
When you have sung the words “Break my heart for what breaks yours,” be prepared to have your heart broken in a way only Jesus could do it. The further we walked the more my heart broke. Children rushed up to grab our hands; most of them were filthy, but their smiles twinkled beneath eyes full of beautiful dark lashes. One little boy ran around completely naked, he didn’t seem to mind the lack of clothing, running up and down the alley way being bashful.
Our group continued walking further into the slum and that’s when my heart really began to break. Morgan, one of the girls from my squad, and I heard a child crying. A mother up ahead was trying to get her son to move and walk along, but he wasn’t budging. Within the next moment I witnessed as his mother slapped him across the face so hard it was as if I could feel the sting. I wanted to grab him and take him away and I also wanted to yell at her and tell her that’s not how you treat a child! It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever witnessed. Later I found out that Morgan had also seen her kick him very hard in the back to move him along. As we got past them and around another corner Morgan and I were overwhelmed by what we had just witnessed; we prayed that the Father would do what we cannot and protect all these children from any evil they may encounter. This was not the last of the tears to be shed.
We continued onward toward our group and some of the children we had initially met ran up and again grabbed our hands. The little girl who grabbed mine had her head shaved and kept touching my hand to her wet face & cheeks. It was as if the Father was reminding me that He holds these children in His hands and that He does wipe away their tears and my own.
Read the rest of the story on my next blog: The Slum – Part 2
