During our first day in Nicaragua, we did ministry at a local dump. I’m not sure what I expected that to look like, but I know I didn’t expect what we saw. When we first got there, a young boy, we’ll call him Will*, greeted us. Our hosts obviously knew him, and they explained that he came to the feeding center each day. We gave him a sandwich and some juice, and then he immediately became our tour guide for the dump. He helped us pass out sandwiches, walked with us down pathways of trash that led to more trash, and helped us spot people way in the distance that had missed out on the sandwiches.
I’m still trying to process experiencing the dump. I stood there, in this expansive pile of garbage, and watched as trucks would come in. When the trucks of trash get there, people rush them. See, the goal is to collect plastic, cardboard, and paper. But plastic is the real prize because it’s worth the most. So when a truck comes, people aging from about 8 to 70 run towards the truck, and they all start digging away through the garbage, searching for the plastic bottles that others have thrown away because most people view those bottles as worthless. When in fact, those plastic bottles are what families are living off of. There are dads out there digging through garbage in order to collect about $27 a week, and hope it’s enough to support their family of 4, or 5, or 6, or more. There are dads out there digging with their sons. There are dads out there digging with their dads. There are moms digging with their daughters.
This lifestyle isn’t something they’ve chosen. This lifestyle isn’t something they fell into because of a mistake they made. They’re here because their parents were there. And their grandparents. And probably the generation before that. We went to the dump that first day, and I walked away changed. Returning the week after was worse. Because it was just a reminder: the dump is still here, the people are still here. This is their life. I’ll go to the dump four times, these people will go every day. I see the people living this way, I see how they are doing their best to thrive, and yet I have no idea how to help. What could I possibly do to help the families they are supporting?
How do I help Will? Or his little sister, Katie* who clung to my leg the moment she first met me at the feeding center, and who has greeted me with a big hug and smile every day since then, who I tickle, and call my best friend, and pick her up and carry her everywhere. How do I help when I hear that their dad, who works at the dump, is an alcoholic and beats their mom? How do I help when I hear that Will and Katie lost their one year old sister because their parents gave the baby some unknown pill, hoping it was an antibiotic that would help her, and yet she ended up dying?
Where’s the light in her life? Is it the feeding center? Is it Jesus? Will she grow up being able to see the light through all of the darkness in her life? Will she grow up seeing the majesties of God? Will she grow up wanting more out of life than the dump? Will she grow up wanting more of Jesus? Will she search for the light, or let the darkness overcome her?
I have one month here. Well, at this point I have three weeks. Sure I can love on her. I can continue to tickle her, and give her a reason to laugh and smile. But what happens when I leave? The dump will still be there. Her dad will probably still be an alcoholic. Her mom will still be abused. Who’s gonna call her their best friend? Who’s gonna explain to her that daddys shouldn’t beat mommys? Who’s gonna encourage her, and tell she’s smart, and beautiful, and that she’s worth so much more than she could ever know.
It just leaves me wondering, why am I here? Why am I here, passing out sandwiches in a dump once a week, loving on the kids daily, when at the end of the month, I leave. I leave, and the dump becomes a distant memory? I leave and the kids become a memory, including Katie? I don’t want her to just be a picture in a scrapbook. Because she’s more than that. She’s a child of God. And because of her, I have faced brokenness for the first time. But now that I’ve faced it, how do I turn away? Now that I know the truth about her life, how can I ignore it?
I’m here, face-to-face with this darkness. Face-to-face with Katie. How on earth do I walk away from that? The truth is I won’t. I can’t. Life will forever be divided between the time before I met Katie and the time after I met her. And I’m not sure what life after meeting her will entail. Will it involve me moving to Nicaragua long term? Will it involve me leaving this place, never returning, and just praying for her every day for the rest of my life? I’m not sure. But I know life is different now. Poverty now has a name, and I refuse to ignore it.
*Names have been changed to respect the privacy of those whose stories are being shared
