It’s 5 am. I wake up to the smell and sight of visible smoke billowing into our room. It’s not the smell of any kind of smoke I’ve ever experienced. This kind smells almost acidic, putrid. The kind of smell you know you probably shouldn’t be breathing.
It’s 7 am. The beautiful rolling mountains I usually see every morning off our back porch are completely invisible, covered in a thick haze of smoke.
It’s 9 am. I smell the smoke as I rake leaves.
It’s 11 am. We shut the door to our kitchen as we prepare lunch so the smoke doesn’t get inside.
It’s 1 pm. We wrap up our break and walk back to ministry covering our noses, some of us breathing into our shirts.
It’s 3 pm. I’m now breathing in a mixture of different kinds of smoke. The neighbor is burning leaves.
It’s 5 pm. We take a walk into town to play basketball with the street kids. The smoke is thicker outside the walls of our camp. The massive field of burning trash spews great wafts of smoke every couple of yards. I notice activity amongst the burning piles of waste. Herds of goats. Women. Men. Children.
They are all picking through the trash.
A small child walks up the path adjacent to the dump, heading towards us. He hardly looks 2 years old. In his hands are piles of miscellaneous objects, sticks, scrap metal, string. It’s hard to tell exactly where his skin tone starts and where it ends. He is entirely covered in dirt. His legs and arms are riddled with cuts, sores and scars. His hair is untidy, bits of dirt and grease stick out amidst the tangled mess. He looks at me, a little unsure, but smiles back as I wave to him. We turn the corner and I don’t see him anymore.
This month in the Philippines we are living right next door to the trash dump of the entire city of Manila. 19 million people’s trash gets thrown into the lot next door, and has been for almost 30 years. It is the size of several football fields in length and probably 3 fields in width. In short terms, it is ‘ginormous.’ It is constantly erupting in flame and burning ash, as the chemicals of all sorts of unknown material mix together and bake under the hot island sun.
It is illegal to pick trash here.
Yet every day, hundreds of men, women and children come out of these piles, hands full, hoping to strike it big.
Several years ago, there was a picker who found a gold watch in this trash pit. Needless to say, he had hit the jackpot. Suddenly, huts began sprouting up all around the dump. Families settled down there. People made homes, all of them hoping to find the same happy fate as the man with the gold watch.
No one has.
My heart shattered the day I say that child.
When I saw what kind of lives the children who are born here will live.
My heart aches for these people whose only option to stay alive is to pick through the toxic waste of others’ trash.
It’s hard to imagine a life without a bed, without a home, without an income, let alone a life without fresh air.
Some people back home have asked me how I am doing this, how I’m able to stand living next to an environment like this, breathing in the smoke every day.
I am living in this environment for a short period of time. One month to be exact. One, short, singular month. Yet these people live here every day of their lives. They are born here, they are raised here, they grow up here, and they work here.
Some people die in these explosions of fire and gas. In fact, an entire herd of goats was burned to death the week before we arrived as they tried to cross the dump.
Almost everyone here has chronic coughs, reoccurring bronchitis and pneumonia. Almost every child deals with asthma.
I am here for one month, but they are here for a lifetime. They risk their health and lives to pick trash.
Because it’s their only option.
Yes, it’s hard to be here, but not because of the air or the sickness. It’s hard to see other human beings living this kind of life. It’s difficult to see the hardships of what this life brings and the quality of life they are forced to live. It’s hard to know that there are so many who have yet to meet Jesus, and know that he could forever change their lives.
But that is also why I’m thankful. I’m thankful to have the opportunity to share with these people, with these children, what God has done for me, and what he has done for them. It brings me so much joy to see them understand what God wants for them and understand his love.
My heart is happy that when I walk along the paths of these homes I can share a smile with these beautiful kids. I can play with them and give them hugs. I can share stories of my Jesus and teach them a game. I can bring laughter to their lungs and smiles to their faces, and if only for a brief moment, share with them the love of my King.
And that is what makes it all worth it.
Seeing the Holy Spirit move in these people, and seeing the joy and peace he brings to even the most difficult of lives.
