As you know, we recently announced our millionth sponsored child. Now, I won’t tell you a lot of random facts about 1 million.

Like how long it would take you to count to 1 million (14 days).

Or how much 1 million dollar bills weigh (2,204 pounds).

Because as important as 1 million is, and as huge of a milestone as 1 million sponsored children is, it’s really just about one child.

And a few weeks ago, I got to meet that one child — Fellow Blewussi Kpodo. He lives in a dusty community just outside of Lomé, Togo.

Fellow’s whole family had come out for our meeting. His father stood proudly, his arm on the shoulder of his oldest son. Fellow’s two older sisters darted in and out of the house, covering their faces and giggling at the sight of my pale skin. His younger brother made himself at home in my lap.

All the while, Fellow watched the commotion with his solemn brown eyes.

I stared at his eyes when he wasn’t looking. Fringed with dark eyelashes, I wondered at what they had seen.

They had watched his father battered by grief when Fellow’s mother died five years ago.

They had filled with tears when the headmaster sent him home from school because he didn’t have his school fees — again.

They had stung with smoke as he bent over the small fire he prepared every evening for his sisters to cook cassava and dried fish for dinner.

And now, those same eyes sought out mine.

“He has a question for you,” explained the interpreter. I nodded. “He wants to know if you know his sponsor.”

I grinned at Fellow, and for the first time a smile reached his eyes.

“I don’t know her,” I explained. “But I know that you are very special to her.”

And in that moment, everything else faded away. Fellow wasn’t one of a million children. He was just one.

One child.

One sponsor.

One more step toward changing the world.

“The child must know that he is a miracle, that since the beginning of the world there hasn’t been, and until the end of the world there will not be, another child like him.” – Pablo Casals

She didn’t eat yesterday.

The little girl told me that as we sat with her and her mother under a mango tree. The fruit was not ripe yet, and still sat high and green and out of her reach.

Just behind the house, a few rows of corn grew. But they didn’t belong to her family. She could see them every day. But they were out of her reach.

I feel like every week I write about children who “went to bed hungry.” And they did. But right then, I sat before a little girl who literally went to bed less than 24 hours ago with nothing to eat.

I tried to imagine the tiny bit of hunger I’ve felt in my life, magnified. That small ache after missing a meal turned into deep pain after missing one, two, three meals. The slight ache when I take my lunch late turned into a pounding, relentless headache when late turns into never.

I couldn’t imagine it. But this little girl doesn’t have to imagine it. She lives it.

She is hungry when she walks past the market, her pockets empty.

She is hungry when her neighbors light up their braziers at night while her family’s remains cold.

She is hungry while fresh fruits and vegetables are in her sight, but not on her table.

As we left that night, we hauled a bag of rice out of the back of our van. Her mother bowed her head, thanking us over and over. And I knew that when this little girl visited the child development center, she would receive a meal. And that the center workers would watch her carefully, and at the first sign of malnutrition, she would be treated.

Those things are not out of her reach.

Merci

She walked slowly out of her classroom, her face turned towards the ground. Her shoulders hunched up around her ears, the ragged sleeves of her dress nearly reaching her elbows.

“What’s wrong with her?” I asked the group around me. They stopped the girl, and French phrases passed much too quickly for me to keep up. Finally, someone translated for me.

“She can’t pay her school fees, so they’re sending her home.”

That’s when I noticed the headmaster, moving from class to class, a list in his hands. Those were the children who hadn’t paid their fees. He was calling them to the front of their class and asking for the school’s money. And if they didn’t have it, they were sent home.

Read the rest of the entry at I’m Just Sayin’

I’m currently on a story-gathering trip in Lome, Togo, our newest country, which is where I met Afi.

Afi stood shyly inside her home as we hauled in our gear — cameras, video equipment, tripods and microphones. Her dusty yard was shaded by heavy papaya trees, offering a bit of relief from the hot sun that had beat down on us for the past few hours.

I sat on a small wooden stool, worn smooth.

Afi’s brothers crowded onto a splintered bench that leaned against a tree trunk. Afi and her mother sat close together, a microphone just a few inches from their heads.

The interview went smoothly. But my mind is one of a journalist. So I sat there, gnawing on my pen cap, wondering what my “angle” would be.

My thoughts were interrupted when one of the child development center workers leaned close and began whispering to me.

She told me that 8-year-old Afi had been to school for only three months in her entire life. Yet, just a few weeks ago she had tested eighth out of the 50 children in her class.

This quiet little girl in front of me, the one who swept the dirt yard of her family’s compound at this very moment, was brilliant. And it hit me.

Afi wasn’t a rebellious child who had been reformed by Compassion. She was relatively healthy. Her parents loved her and had never abused her.

But if not for the support of Compassion, Afi would have slipped through the cracks. She would have spent entire days on the futile task of sweeping that very dirt yard.

I don’t know if she would have found some other way to further her education. I don’t know if God would have provided some other way for her to overcome.

But I don’t have to wonder about those things. Afi is in school now. She is learning and growing every day.

I know that she has opportunities that didn’t exist for her a year ago. And I know that she has not slipped through the cracks.

I believe Afi’s world has been changed.

But I also believe that Afi will change the world.

That is Afi’s angle.

199

“How many children are at the project we’re going to?” I asked the Compassion worker as we finished up lunch.

“One hundred ninety-nine,” she answered. What an odd number. She must have noticed my confused look.

“They lost a child last month.”

I wished with everything that “lost a child” literally meant lost a child. As in just misplaced for a few days. She would be back soon. But I knew that wasn’t the case.

“What happened to her?” someone else at the table asked. I couldn’t bring myself to say it. I couldn’t acknowledge what “lost” really meant.

Read the rest of the entry at I’m Just Sayin’

I’ve discovered that the older I get, the more amazing my mother gets. For a few years, my mother raised me as a single mom. I was too young to remember that time, and she never talked about it much. Whenever I would ask her questions about those years, she would just shrug her shoulders. In her mind, she just did what she had to do. Eventually we moved in with my aunt, and later my mom remarried.

A few months ago, I was visiting with my aunt. We were reminiscing about my childhood when my aunt suddenly became very quiet. She turned to me, her eyes brimming with tears, and took my hands in hers.

“Your mother made so many sacrifices for you,” she said quietly. I nodded, but said nothing. I knew she wasn’t finished. “We knew things were hard for her, but we didn’t know how hard. Brandy — she would not eat so she could buy you food. She would do anything for you.”

I sat on my aunt’s porch, unable to speak. So many of my childhood memories involve food. Of my mother tearing up pieces of chicken on a bright pink plastic plate. Blowing on a bowl of steaming potatoes dotted with butter and pepper. Stirring a bubbling pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove.

I was too young to notice that sometimes her own plate was empty.

I know that my mother’s story is not an isolated experience. I know that too well. I’ve read dozens of stories and reports about families literally starving to death. Of mothers sacrificing for their children day after day. To the point of death.

I’m not a mother yet. I don’t know what it’s like to love a child that completely — that sacrificially. But I do know that my mother had family who stepped in when things were bad. Sadly, mothers in poverty-stricken communities often don’t have that same kind of support.

I will never be able to repay my mother for the sacrifices she made for me. But I can learn from her sacrifice. I can skip eating out and donate to a local food pantry. I can forgo my coffee shop visits and give to mothers desperate to feed their children.

I can give food to those who are hungry. Just like my mother did.