We turn left off a paved road onto a rocky dirt road leading down, around a bend. As we walk, we announce that we’re bringing food for the children who live here. A lot of food. A lot of hot food. For free.
As we hit the bend, we see the road leads to a dead end. Shacks, shanties and makeshift buildings of tin, plastic and junk line our path. If no one was around, you’d assume this was an abandoned place. A place where only the most desperate come to maybe find partial shelter from a cold night or rainy afternoon. In no way does it seem like a neighborhood.
People begin to appear as they hear our cries. Some are very young, full of life with eyes lighting up like Christmas lights at the prospect of a good meal. Some are very old, wrinkled, weathered and grizzled by years of desolate living, trying to survive poverty. The look in their eyes is resigned. It’s a look of acceptance of what life is: hard.
Regardless of age, everyone is dressed in heavily used clothing, which looks like it hasn’t been washed in…well…awhile. And it doesn’t stop with their clothes. Their faces are dirty, as are their arms and legs. These people need to bathe.
As people begin to emerge from these ramshackle buildings, which are in fact their homes, the neighborhood
begins to unfold, appearing before our eyes. Women appear holding infants. Teenagers show themselves, acting tough, questioning our motives with their eyes, wondering what the catch is. One older man in particular, obviously an addict of some sort, continues to sit off the path, removed, mumbling and waves in our general direction. It’s never clear whether he’s waving to us in greeting, in disgust at our presence, or at a figment of his imagination, not aware of us at all. Children come out, discovering quickly we’ve not only brought food, but a soccer ball, jump ropes, hula-hoops and some other toys. They urge one another to be the first to approach the gringos in hopes of playing with us.
Then, in a blink of an eye, a soccer game has formed in the middle of the rocky, dirty road. Children are jumping rope and hula-hooping. The sound of kids having fun fills the air. The desolate shell of this place begins to fall away as we begin to engage in life with these people.
The food is served. The noise dies down as everyone begins to eat, fully indulging in a full plate of hot food. There’s enough left for the adults to eat. Cups of fresh pineapple juice (with chunks of pineapple floating on the top) are passed around, a delicious way to finish off a great meal.
We stick around. We get to know the kids. We play. They jump on us, wanting piggyback rides, wanting to be spun around, wanting to wrestle and use up their energy on someone who will give them attention and love. They are relentless in their desire for more interaction, more playtime, more fun, more love. Relentless. It wears us out, in the absolute best possible way.
It begins to sink in. They’re relentless because it seems they never get this kind of attention. This
neighborhood is full of adults trying to survive. They don’t have the time, energy or resources to pour into their children. They’re too busy trying to survive. And in this neighborhood, that usually means escaping through drug use, alcohol abuse or prostitution as the only means of income (or the only means they believe they have.) This is a neighborhood run by a drug boss who lives at the end of the road, and who’s outward sign of success is the limited amount of jewelry he wears, along with the used moped he drives. It’s a far cry from the “bling” and pimped out SUVs that represent the same success in America, but he’s trying nonetheless. This guy runs the show. He deals the drugs, calls the shots and most likely gets men and women alike to prostitute themselves, taking most of the money for himself. The little of it there is to take.
We’re told there are girls as young as twelve years old that are prostitutes. Apparently one girl in the area is 15, and has been living with a 45 year-old man. It’s a bad situation all around for these people.
The drug boss told the church we’re working with that he won’t let anyone harm us while we’re there feeding people. He’ll protect us. (My guess is because it makes him look hospitable to the neighborhood, and because at least one or two good, free meals a week frees up cash people could spend on drugs. But that’s just a guess, and I tend to be a bit cynical about this kind of stuff.)
This tiny little neighborhood is in bondage. They are enslaved to drugs and alcohol, sexual abuse, poverty, hopelessness, physical abuse and a lot more. It’s a dark place. The looks on the faces of the adults say it all. The way our spirits react to sensing the spiritual prison these people are in backs up what we see with our eyes. The desperation of the kids looking for love from anyone willing to share it wakes all of us up to the fact that these are the cherished people Jesus came to rescue. These are the sick, the hungry, the needy, the broken. These are our brothers and sisters in despair.
We pray for them. We pray over a baby who seems to have uncontrollable fits. We pray for a woman with arthritis in her knees. Some others pray over a 92 year-old woman with arthritis in her hands, and something happens. Her hands loosen up some, and she says there’s no pain like there usually is. Angie lays her hand on a large scar on the chest of the drug boss’s wife, praying for physical and spiritual healing. Others walk up and down the road, praying for the families, praying for freedom, declaring that Jesus is in this place, that He’s come to bring life, and life to the full. We do what we’re able to, and what we feel led by Holy Spirit to.
But in being here….
…it just got real. These are people…beautiful people…intentional creations of our Heavenly Father…with flesh and blood, and feelings and needs like ours…with smiles that will melt your heart…and here they are. Here they are.
And I’m confronted…would I give up everything….every single thing for one of these people to know Jesus? Would I pour everything I have into this neighborhood, giving up all my hopes and dreams for my life, in order to serve these people? To treat them as greater than myself? Is it worth it? Do I want them to know Jesus that badly?
The question: Do I want them to know and experience Jesus as desperately as they want freedom from this hopeless prison?
This is how Jesus is wrecking my life (in the best possible way.)
(All photos by the one and only and totally fantastic Christina Palmer!)
