When I’m in Haiti, I’m constantly faced with deep poverty. It’s impossible to ignore. It can feel consuming. Anything I do feels like a drop in an ocean of hopelessness.
But God is writing a bigger story. He doesn’t see things the way I see them. There is hope because there is Jesus.
I return home and I see with new eyes. America may look different than Haiti, but there is poverty here, too. Everywhere I look, I’m reminded not to forget.
He is there.
He is here.
He is at work.
He loves deeply.
How can we cultivate a heart to see the marginalized right here in our little corner of the world?
She shyly brushes up against me, touching my freckled arms. My light skin intrigues her. I pull her close into a hug, welcoming her with a “bonjou”, the Creole way of saying “Good morning”. But it’s afternoon, so she giggles and corrects me with a, “Bon Swa”. The ends of her hair are red, which tells me that she is severely malnourished and doesn’t get nearly enough to eat.
There are lots of red haired children in the village of Nanbayan, Haiti. They run barefoot, the babies without any clothing at all. The doors to the houses flap in the wind and dogs ravage through piles of trash for a little food.
We watch an old man struggle under the weight of his wheelbarrow, loaded with jerrycans full of water. He takes a few steps, stops to rest, then starts again. Every day he makes trips back and forth from the river, delivering dirty water to customers. All day long. I’ve never seen ankles as skinny as his.
Thirteen year old Joanna hears we are in town, so she walks two hours in the blistering heat to see us. We give her a granola bar and a glass of water, which she devours in record time, licking the wrapper. We know she is hungry because typically Haitians politely put the snacks in their pockets until after they leave. We spend $10 to feed her family for a week: a bag of rice, some beans, a jug of oil. We have a little money left over so we throw in 3 cans of sardines. She freaks out when she pulls those cans of sardines out of the bag.
When I’m in Haiti, I’m constantly faced with deep poverty. It’s impossible to ignore. It can feel consuming. Anything I do feels like a drop in an ocean of hopelessness.
But God is writing a bigger story. He doesn’t see things the way I see them. There is hope because there is Jesus.
I return home and I see with new eyes. America may look different than Haiti, but there is poverty here, too. Everywhere I look, I’m reminded not to forget.
He is there.
He is here.
He is at work.
He loves deeply.
How can we cultivate a heart to see the marginalized right here in our little corner of the world?
