The mountains rose on either side
of me. A warm breeze blew over the
barren field I was standing on.
The sand wove its way through my toes. I sidestepped to avoid the cactus. The little girl in my arms grew heavier every second. Her hair stung my face and I wished I
could put my sunglasses on but she wouldn’t let me. I wanted to put her down, but she clung tight to my
neck. A smoking volcano in the
distance set a backdrop for her tiny village. Her house, the size of my bedroom, stood among 200 others,
painted with pride. I couldn’t
talk to her, she spoke Spanish, but I could tell that she needed hope. Her eyes told me it all. Her hug told me it all. I could already feel the tears that I
would cry later that night in the group at the hotel. How could I just have overlooked an entire portion of the
world? How could I have not seen
how much poverty really affects people?
I
heard someone say that we had 10 minutes left, an inevitable fact that ripped
my mind into the harsh reality that I would have to leave. The girl in my arms, Medina I believe
her name was, slipped down from my arms and took off running. The kids sitting on top of the bus scrambled
down from their perch. Our group
gathered around for a photo, fitting in as many extra kids as possible. Then we climbed on the bus for the long
45-minute ride back to the hotel.
Later
I found out that I was right. I
did cry, a lot. I think
that the cause of this culture shock, as the group leader told us was how wrong
and right I was. You see, I
thought that poverty and helplessness wouldn’t get the best of me. Somewhere in me, possibly
subconsciously, I had thought that it wouldn’t be as bad as they say. That only in Africa is there
malnourishment and severe hunger.
One of the hardest things was that you could visibly see it. When you saw a blonde streak on
someone’s hair, it didn’t mean that they got their hair highlighted, it
meant that they didn’t get enough protein in their diet. They only ate rice and beans after all. The shacks that they called home wasn’t
staged for a commercial, it is reality for so many people. The jeans that they wore didn’t come
ripped. The shirts didn’t come
splattered with paint and stained from endless hours on a dirt floor. They didn’t just decide to not wear
shoes, they didn’t have any.
I
can still remember the feeling of sweat pouring down my back and tons of eyes
looking at my white skin. If I
close my eyes long enough, I am blown back, and I can feel the gentle warm
breeze on my skin. I can still
picture the mountains that I only saw twice. Those mountains were my solidity, a constant reminder that
even in a crazy country nothing like my own, God still reigned. I can still hear the Switchfoot song
playing in my head: “This is home, now I am finally where I belong”. Yeah, that was home. Maybe not that village, or city, or
even that country, but I was at home because I was where God wanted me.
No matter what your dreams are, don't forget your Jerusalem and spread His love now to set the world on fire.
