In my hands I carried black, plastic bags full of dry beans and uncooked pasta. I may have appeared tipsy, as I tried to balance the 10-pound sack of rice on the top of my head (or I was just not doing a good job of looking like a local). We were delivering food to a few different homes in the impoverished area of Haiti that I get to call home this month. As we walked up to the home of the triplets who attend ‘Soccer Saturday’ with us, the three babies waddled out of the door with worn and ripped t-shirts hanging off their shoulders. Though only 3 years old, they know what food is packaged in. Smiles were wiped across their faces as one of their dirty, wet hands grabbed mine and the others tried to help me carry the bags of food. The triplets helped me place the bags on the dirt floor of their tin home. We circled around this precious family and began to pray for them. While praying, I looked up at their mother and saw nothing but joy on her face as she shed a tear and held the hands of her sweet babies.
Why me?
The tires of our bus were spinning in the mud, and we knew we would have to pile out and start the 9-mile hike earlier than anticipated. The lush, mountainous landscape seemed like a scene off of a movie – breathtaking. Children yelled, “Blan Blan!” (which means, “White White!” haha). As we climbed hills and attempted to maintain our balance through slippery mud patches, the poverty became worse. Children came up to me asking for bread, water or money. I had nothing to give them and continued walking. We made it to “Eden” and I sat back and wondered if some of these children will ever have the opportunity to go to town. We were so far up the mountain, where no cars would be able to go. Was this all they would see in their life?
Why me?
Four of us girls followed our host, Gary, like little chicks as he led us to an area of our village where some babies lived. These babies couldn’t have been more than 9 months old, though they were about the size of 6-month olds. The mothers came from a house about 20 feet away carrying their little ones. The bright sun glistened off their beautiful, dark skin and forced them to squint. “Their hair is beautiful!” I exclaimed. “Are you talking about how it kind of looks blonde-ish? That is a sign of extreme malnourishment. Their mothers may only eat once a day, which means the children are lucky to eat once a day.”
Why me?
She motioned for us to come into her concrete home. She pulled back the sheet which was the make-shift door and I laid eyes on her son. A boy about 8 years old sat on a bed with his legs straight out. He had dirty white casts from the top of his thighs all the way down to his ankles. A few months ago, he had come home from school and complained of extreme pain in his legs when he stood up. His mother asked him to come to her and he couldn’t. She tried standing him up and he began crying and fell. His mother said that it is some form of bone disease, but they haven’t been able to go to the doctor because it is too expensive and far away. We gathered around this boy and prayed over him. He and his mother smiled and thanked us. Sounds of tin cans being used as soccer balls and his friends laughing dance in his mind as he is confined to his bed all day, every day – between four concrete walls.
Why me?
This month I seemed to have asked the question, “Why me?” quite often. The question isn’t so much, “Why am I in Haiti getting to serve these beautiful people” but “Why was I born in America?”
I grew up in a home where it was not a problem to make sure that I was fed at least 3 times a day. I got excited when I helped unload the groceries and Mom had bought Toaster Strudels, not beans and rice. If I was sick or injured, there was a doctor close by that my parents could take me to. I grew up with so many things that were easily accessible for me. I went on my first mission trip and my heart broke for those that didn’t have what I had. Just the basics – meals, clean water, soap, shelter.
The more I travel, the more I realize that poverty is everywhere. Different degrees of it in different places, obviously. The constant from country to country are the questions, “Why? Why was I chosen to be born in America? Why was I chosen to travel and serve different parts of this world?” I never want to arrive at a point in life where I become numb to poverty and the needs of others. I want God to continue to break my heart and allow me to see people as just who they are… His sons and daughters with needs and dreams just like you and me.
So, “Why me?”… He has given me the opportunity to experience so much and a heart to really see it. But what’s next? How do I keep the smells, the feel, the look… the reality of the needs of others fresh in my mind and heart when I return to America? People everywhere laugh, weep, sing, dance, and love. We all have needs… food, clean water, soap, shelter. We all desire hope despite our circumstances. Now that I know this, what will I do with it?
Maybe God has never broken your heart for poverty. But I know that we are carriers of His Light and Love. What will we do with this extreme treasure and provision? How open are your eyes and heart to the needs of others? What do we do with with the Light, the Love, the Provision we’ve been given?
Love more. Give more. Light more.
