Ever since I was a teenager I’ve dreamed of going to Africa. U2’s “Where the Streets Have No Name” was my personal Africa anthem, and I planned on serving the Lord as a missionary in Africa.

But life has a way of not turning out as we think it will. I’m not a missionary. I’m a social media “maven,” and that’s how I finally got to Africa. To Rwanda, specifically, on a Compassion tour.

Since I’ve been back home, I’ve wanted to share my experiences, write profound blog posts, and stir the world to sponsor the 266 of the 280 kids at the Rurenge Student Center who need sponsors (hint, hint).

But at the same time I want to guard what I saw, felt and experienced. It was sacred and special and I don’t want to share it.

I’ve read many staff and sponsor accounts of visiting the developing world, and in all of them it seems they were affected in a way I wasn’t. What is wrong with me?

I didn’t cry when I was there and I wasn’t overwhelmed by anything I saw or experienced. My heart was stirred, though. Deeply.

Like at one of the churches we visited.

A woman stood and shared that she would be going to the U.S. to study. Then a proud father stood and said that his son had received a full scholarship to a university in the U.S. Everyone was happy for them. They clapped and cheered at this good news.

I felt sad, though, as I heard them share. Sad because, as great as these opportunities are, I longed to experience this same congregation cheering about full scholarships to Kigali University.

I want an education offered in Rwanda to be seen as just as valuable – if not more valuable – than an education offered in the U.S.

Then there were the beggars.

One afternoon we went to the market to get a gift for the family we were visiting. I didn’t even know that the people who came up to us outside the market were beggars until we drove away from them.

At first, I felt guilty about that. Was I so wrapped up buying stuff at the market that I didn’t see the need right in front of me?

As I’ve thought about that moment, I’ve asked myself: Was it perhaps a good thing that I didn’t recognize these people as beggars? Because maybe that means I saw these men and women as Christ does. He doesn’t see them as beggars and neither did I.

Lastly, there was Ritah, the Leadership Development Program student.

At one of the child development centers we visited I was asked to address 250+ kids with some encouraging words. I panicked and my brain shut off.

There I was, this “distinguished visitor,” and I stumbled over a few words about love and blah, blah, blah.

Then Ritah stood up to speak.

Ritah’s love for the children we visited was evident in everything she did. The room became electric as she told the little ones,

“I used to sit were you are now. I was one of you and look where I am now. You can do this, too.”

The children ate up every word that came out of Ritah’s mouth. It was amazing.

So, while I didn’t break out in tears at the poverty I saw in Rwanda, in each of these scenarios I believe I experienced a reflection of God’s heart for the people there.

And it was His heart for my Rwandan brothers and sisters that deeply stirred mine.

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It hurts. Not a sharp pain, more of a dull ache. A haunting that you slowly notice as the numbness fades away. A haunting of those desperate souls one tries so very hard to ignore when they are there before you.

Dirty, gnarled, even missing hands that press against the window of the van. Dark and insistent, sometimes pleading, sometimes indignant eyes staring right into you, deep into you, as you wait for the traffic to move on so they will give up on you.

I sit in a heavy traffic jam in a roundabout in Dhaka, Bangladesh. And once more the van is surrounded by beggars.

A mother with a naked baby, a woman who looks very old but probably isn’t. A boy holding up another who has a huge growth on his abdomen. And others, all looking so desperate, so far from the image of God that they were created to be. And I want so hard to ignore them.

I just want them to go away.

But I’ve just read a friend’s book about Matthew 25, the sheep and the goats, the day before arriving in Bangladesh. As it turns out, it’s a rather convicting combination – the words of Jesus and a face-to-face encounter with the desperate poor. And so I have to do something.

I know it will bring even more desperate souls to our very stuck van, but I look to Thomas, the driver. He lowers the window a bit and I start to hand out Takas – 100 here, 10 there.

It doesn’t really add up to much and I wonder why I haven’t done this before. Perhaps because, before, I didn’t have the image in my heart of Jesus saying,

“This is me. I am the hungry, I am the sick, I am the least of these. What will you do?”

I was also just so weary, returning to the hotel each night with images of the poor, of people robbed of health and hope and dignity. I was tired of feeling numb to it during the day, and haunted by it at night as I lay in bed wondering if I should have done something. It was eating away at me.

People weren’t meant to live like this. And that, I think, is what Jesus was trying to get us to not only understand, but to feel and to feel deeply.

So the next day, here I am again. And like the day before, there are more heartbreaking scenes.

A young boy pushes a man who is not much more than a skeleton in a wheel chair. A woman with hollow, sunken eyes taps on my window, hoping for a moment of charity.

A man too sick to beg is sprawled face down in the dirt by the side of the road as streams of commuters walk around him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t move at all.

And I find myself trying to be numb again. Somehow the fear has returned: If I help this one then the line will never stop.

Five thousand will line up and the loaves and fish will run out and I’ll be left with nothing and still they will come. I don’t know what to do with this. I don’t know how to respond.

One day they are the image of Jesus. The next day His image slips away. And I realize the horror of those who will one day ask Jesus, “When did we see you hungry?”

There is great beauty, too, in Bangladesh. Beauty that contrasts so starkly with the sorrow. It highlights the injustice of poverty, the inequality of it all that conspires to destroy the lives of people created and loved by God.

That such sorrow continues to destroy so many lives is an affront to the One who created us all.

So how do we respond to such entrenched need? Such injustice? Because regardless of our politics or our theology, it is injustice that a child is born into extreme poverty.

It is injustice that he becomes sick and cannot afford to be treated. That his sickness leads to a disfigurement and his disfigurement leads to rejection. That he is doomed to a life of begging in the dust. And that nothing he can do can change that.

No matter what we might believe, this is not right. This is not fair.

And man, it all just aches inside – especially in the alone and quiet moments.

But if the choice is between the heartache or the numbness, we must choose the heartache. We must trust that it will lead us to a godly response and to the God who chose solidarity with “the least of these.”

Because to protect ourselves with numbness is to surrender a vital part of our souls that a Christian cannot afford to forfeit. And to feel the ache compels us to ask some very hard questions.

Questions about how much we believe. Because, in the end, we should want our faith to be alive – and so the words of James haunt us through time: “Faith without works is dead” (see James 2:14-26).

It is so easy to argue away the theology when we are safe and comfortable in the pews of suburbia, but so much different on the streets of Dhaka – a place that cries out for the pure religion that God accepts.

I still wrestle with how I did not change the lives of so many of the people I came across in Bangladesh. How easy it is to judge the priest and the Levite until you are the one who comes across the man lying in the street (or tapping on the window).

And then, then it is so much easier to look away or to cross the street to the other side.

So while we may wish, in the moment, that these poor souls would just move on, that they would see us in our hurry and give up on us for someone more charitable, in the end it would be so very tragic if they — these souls who are so close to God’s own heart – were to give up on us.

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From the African Church Ilemela in Tanzania (TZ955).

Our journey to Amos’ house consisted of climbing the longest, winding, rocky, hilly, mountain-like trail up to his home. It was like an intense stair climber, elliptical workout.

About halfway up the hill, we paused to catch our breath take some pictures of the amazing view.

Once we arrived at the top of the hill, we were welcomed into Amos’ home by his mother Leonia. She was very friendly, gracious and really happy to see us.

She stated that we were the first visitors ever to her home from outside of their community. There were 3 other children at the home and the father worked as a day laborer in the community.

As we were talking and hearing Leonia tell her story about a rough season in their lives we witnessed one of those “Then God Showed Up” moments.

The phrase “Then God Showed Up” seems to always be preceded by some troubles or a bleak situation… “Then God Showed Up.”

I understand the context behind the phrase; however it’s one of those phrases that in my opinion reduces the Almighty Creator of Heaven and Earth to a merely situational God.

I like to remember the “3GO’s of God”:

• God’s Omniscience- God knows everything.
• God’s Omnipresence- God is everywhere.
• God’s Omnipotence- God is almighty, all-powerful and can do anything.

Then God Showed Up! Not so much, “God was already there!”

God knows everything, God is everywhere and God can do anything, we have to acknowledge that fact. Some situations it may appear too difficult to acknowledge the “3-GO’s.”

The harsh reality is no situation is too difficult or too great to recognize that God was already there.

Now let’s get back to Amos’ mother Leonia’s story.

She explained how they were having rough times and she decided to start a business with the help of some funding from some ladies in the church.

Her business consisted of selling fish and it was started with the equivalent of maybe $20 in the U.S. She would get fish from the people at the lake and then sell them at market.

Once Leonia’s modest business got up and rolling she trusted a local guy in the community to go and sell her fish; unfortunately one day the guy never returned. At this time in her life, her situation appeared bleak and then something happened… many would say “Then God Showed Up!”

Leonia says it this way, “I lost my business, my income and I knew God was there and would take care of me.” That’s exactly what God did, the next week she found out that Amos had received a Compassion Sponsor. (insert applause, ahh’s, halleluja’s and amens)

The support that Leonia received for Amos via the Compassion Sponsor was just enough to compensate for her lost business.

God continues to bless their family and she now has a little business of selling little buckets of coal in which people use for cooking.

I love Leonia’s spirit and I love the fact that she doesn’t embrace the mentality of “Then God Showed Up!” but rather acknowledges that He was already there.

Read the entire post by Scott Williams.

Visit compassionbloggers.com to experience the highlights of the Tanzania blog trip through the words, pictures and videos of the team.

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I can get passionate about most things.

Very quickly.

And be all in.

I’m notorious for trying everything and if I’m not good at it right away, I give it up. Likewise with causes. I’m an emotional appeal kind of girl.

Tell me statistics of there being more people currently enslaved than the entire trans-atlantic slave trade combined and I’ll advocate on behalf of anti-slavery movements until I’m blue in the face.

At least, for a while.

But where I am weak is in follow through and sustainability. I’m not an executor beyond the short term. So when the LORD really started changing my heart and I saw the things that break His heart, my heart stayed broken, for a long time.

The brokenness began through many of the causes I participated in throughout various years. And there was always a theme – injustice. Be it child soldiers or slave labor, I walked the line of whatever was happening in current culture.

But I always came back to injustice. Especially against children.

When I began working for the ministry, my heart came alive at fighting for the cause of children in poverty. I knew that in order to truly end the horrors of injustice, it must begin at the root of the problem – poverty.

Poverty is enslavement in and of itself. To break the cycles  of vulnerable children, child soldiers, child brides, sex slaves, etc, we must give these children a chance at life outside of poverty.

I saw this firsthand in India.

Our final day in Kolkata we went to a child development center visit. Before this, I had never seen the ministry’s work in action. I was excited and a little nervous about the experience.

As soon as we disembarked in an unfamiliar urban setting, the eager children shyly put their flower garlands around our neck.

I was one of the last people off the bus, so somehow I ended up with three.

We were taken on a tour of the facilities and saw teachers trying to gently control wriggling children who were so excited about the foreigners they could hardly contain themselves. We played games in the courtyard and got to experience the registration process.

It was a mock registration but insightful and interesting nevertheless.

During some downtime, the center facilitator explained that when they actually register children, it becomes a mad house.

Though children are preselected, when word gets out in the community that the ministry is registering new children, people in the urban slums storm the gate.

Literally.

He explained that the people will shove against the gate of the development center, jump over the walls, and sometimes get violent. Because they know their child’s only chance at escaping poverty is to be registered with us. I curiously asked,

“Well, why can’t you take more children? Are you at capacity? Could more children come?”

The facilitator shared,

“No, no, we could take many more children. We have room, we just don’t have anyone to sponsor them.”

Indignation rose in my chest.

Not on my watch. Not while there is breath in my body.

I vowed right then to tell this story. Because that is the story of this ministry. There is room – there is just no one to sponsor them. It’s really easy to sell sponsorship by making people feel guilty, but that’s not what we do here.

What I learned during my time in India is that what we do works. We are used by God to bring hope and a future to kids who might not otherwise have a chance.

For example, this child.

I got to meet this boy and his family during our home visit.

He’s a sponsored child who lives in a tiny little shack with eleven other people.

But I didn’t see poverty or despair while I was balancing precariously on their bamboo floor; I saw joy and gratitude on the faces of his family.

This family knows their son has a chance at life because of what the tireless staff and volunteers are doing in his community.

That is what I walked away with – we get the privilege to participate in changing the lives of these precious kids. That is the real reason to sponsor a child.

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Our team of Compassion Bloggers will be in Tanzania next week (May 6-11, 2012).

Whether you sponsor a child in Tanzania or not, whether you are a brand new or long-time sponsor, you’ll want to follow the team as they share their adventures in Africa:

• Amy Lupold Bair
• Kelli Stuart
• Scott Williams
• Jolanthe
• Maggie Whitley
• The Nester
• Keely Scott
• Shaun Groves

Guaranteed they will make you laugh, cry and everything in between!

And, as we share about this trip, we welcome any questions you may have. So be sure to check in often to read firsthand what God is doing to eradicate poverty in Tanzania.

Do you tweet? Follow the team on Twitter.

Don’t have a Twitter account? Not a worry — you can always follow the latest news about this trip here or at compassionbloggers.com.

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We weave through a maze of debris, shops and homes on non-existent roads. I’m in Kibera, Kenya, in the front seat of a car with 9-year-old James.

As we bounce over piles of trash and splash through rivers of raw sewage, I hold James’ hand. I tell myself the gesture is to cheer him. Later I will realize I needed his hand to steel me and keep me brave.

I feel suffocated in this despicable, prison-like slum. The stench of burning trash, feces, and far too many people in far-too-little spaces threatens to overwhelm me.

Colleagues had cautioned me that it would be difficult to go into one of Africa’s largest slums. But no one could have prepared me for this.

Leaving the car, I step tentatively over mounds of trash. A bucket of sewage is splashed onto the street in front of me, the same street where barefooted children run by me.

We arrive at James’ humble home. Two of his lively brothers and his sweet young mother meet me at the door. His mother smiles and we embrace — not as strangers, but as if we are long-lost sisters.

In the tiny home I sit across from James, our knees nearly touching. I ask him if he’s received letters from his sponsor. After translation, he nods his head. Yes. He’s been sponsored for only eight months but he’s received three letters.

I ask James to tell me about his sponsor.

He looks confused, as if I’d asked a silly question. He points across the room, right at me. My translator, a Compassion worker in Kenya, chuckles. James is mistaken. He thinks I am his sponsor.

Of course! How many other white people have stepped inside his home and showered him with hugs and forehead kisses?

Later, back in the comfort of the ministry headquarters, I tell this story to a friend. She points at me, smiles, and says, 

“In that moment, you were his sponsor. You were the hands and feet of Jesus, bringing comfort.”

I flinch at the thought. In the stark beauty of that humble Kibera home, I had not felt worthy to even tie the sandals of James’ brave mother, let alone “be Jesus” to her and her children.

How could I explain to my friend that I hated Kibera? I love Africa but I hated this slum. I had never felt so much righteous and unrighteous anger bubble up inside of me over a place.

I wish I could say I was brave. Brave like our child development center workers who thump back the gates of hell and Kibera and bring comfort to its children each day.

I may not be brave like them. But I remember the moments in the car, waiting to go into the bowels of Kibera, holding James’ hand. When I return to that place, as I certainly plan to do, I will go clutching the strong hand of Jesus.

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I recently returned from traveling to Haiti with Compassion. After all the trouble that has been keeping Haiti in the news I wanted to go and see the people, and the devastation, for myself.

I was challenged, amazed, aghast, and humbled — sometimes all in the same moment.

I am not a novice when it comes to visiting foreign cultures. I have been in several countries and done many different things. However, one of the hardest things for me is the way foreign cultures constantly bring out your worst insecurities, and how they seem to underscore the same insecurities again and again.

This will continue until you (1) deal with it, (2) succumb to it, or (3) turn it into strength and move forward.

One day in Cap Hatien we visited the Citadel. It is an impressive 18th-century castle that is, as the name implies, a fortress. It is not meant to be reached easily. Getting there means climbing approximately 3,000 feet in elevation over about 4 kilometers. It is not an easy climb by any stretch of the imagination.

Our group of 30 all rode horses to the top. I may be from Colorado, but I last rode a horse about 20 years ago. My first insecurity was dealing with the fact that I needed to ride a horse and that I really do not like them much.

They are beautiful, but some people simply should not be around horses. I am one of those people.

My second insecurity had to do with the fact that the horses did not appear to be well-fed. They were more the size of donkeys.

Add to this the fact that I am a large individual, and the next problem is even more challenging. What “horse” could possibly take me to the top? It took a while, but we found one.

We all giggled at one another as we got on the horses. I was the last to mount up, and as I planted my foot in the stirrup I realized that the entire village had come out to watch me. “Big Papi!” they chanted, and we were all laughing.

The village was impoverished. I know that God is close to the impoverished, which means that Jesus was laughing at me. I am OK with this. He was having a good time and, when all was said and done, so was I. It just took a while for me to get there.

My infirmity has always been my body. I have dealt with neurological illness, cancer, and other illnesses in recent years and my body has the scars and the stories to prove it. God has been incredibly faithful through it all, and He continues to be. I am reminded of the apostle Paul in 2 Corinthians 12:9-11 (NIV):

“But he [God] said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong. I have made a fool of myself, but you drove me to it. …”

As I rode up the mountain on my horse, I realized that my weakness was being magnified so that it could be personified in the love of Jesus Christ. As I thought of that I began to weep, but I also begin to relax.

I realized that I was where I was supposed to be at that time, at that place, and that what we were seeing on the mountain was no less than absolute beauty.

The land was lush and green, and the families we met along the way were friendly. They continued to shout “Big Papi!” as my horse and I stammered and stuttered our way up the hill.

My French is lacking, but I knew I was being teased — and also called out. I was being called out to act like a “Big Papi.” What this term means to the Haitians is a man, who is healthy, who has money, and who is kind and loving to those around him.

In a country where food is not plentiful, where disease is rampant and people die from diseases we “eradicated” generations ago, I am king because I have beaten the odds.

I’m sure that I am not the last “Big Papi” to come to town and ride up the mountain. But I think the local village will be talking for days about the day Big Papi came to town and how he not only laughed at himself mounting the horse, but also relaxed in the knowledge that everyone had only good intentions.

I hope they will remember a Papi who came to the mountain, learned something about himself, and had a heart that grew about three sizes that day. Ultimately, I hope they remember the ultimate “Big Papi” who loves them, who came to this earth and beat the odds, and who still listens to their plight and is not mocked in their pain.

I encourage anyone who is considering a trip with Compassion, or any organization for that matter, to press on and go. It is far too easy to look at statistics and listen to the worst-case scenarios and decide such a trip is not for you.

However, when you are ministering to “the least of these,” you actually may find that God is ministering to you as well. That’s when true growth happens, and we are all called to grow in our relationship with God, with others, and with ourselves.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Carl Holmes works in Sponsor and Donor Relations for Compassion International. He is a pastor, theologian, and father of a rambunctious, red-headed 10 year old. You can read his personal blog at thoughtsofagyrovague.com.

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Christina Kaiser shared her story of climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro to benefit our Leadership Development Program students. Now her Compassion UK counterpart, Joe Henegan shares his account of climbing the highest mountain in Africa.

Ascent day was epic, to say the least. It was like Ben Hur, The Odyssey and Lord of the Rings all rolled into one. I will never forget that day.

It is difficult to describe how amazing the summit day was. Words alone cannot do it justice, it must be experienced to fully appreciate how remarkable it was. There were moments of exhilaration and moments of exhaustion. Times of despondency and times of adrenaline fueled highs.

Hours and hours of staring up the dark and imposing hill face were followed by captivating minutes of losing myself in the unforgettable views. It really did take my breath away, in more ways than one.

We woke fairly early on Day 5 to get going for a long day ahead of us. An eight hour hike across a barren ridge brought us to the base camp at 4,700 metres high.

We arrived at about 4pm, had some dinner and went to sleep. We woke again at 11.30pm, had a breakfast of sorts and assembled in a line ready to begin the hardest six hours of my life!

I was already feeling quite rough with altitude sickness. I remember wondering to myself,

‘How was this going to go?’

It was obviously totally pitch black. If you looked up the mountain you could identify groups of other people who had already started their ascent by the snaking lines of headtorches.

It was a surreal sight. Most of the time you had no idea how far you had come and how much was left to climb.

At 3am we reached our halfway point. I felt ready to give up. The altitude was making me weaker and weaker. I had fallen back from the main group and was now being cheered on by one of the amazing guides (I have no idea which guide it was).

I carried on zig-zagging my way up, just focusing on nothing more than the next step, putting one foot in front of the other.

It was about -15°C and the tube to my water container had frozen up. I was desperate for the sun to rise and warm my back and so that I could see how much further I had to climb.

At about 5am the sky started to turn purple and I could just about make out the outline of Gilman’s Point, the first peak at just under 5,700 metres…

I have never before been so impressed by God’s creation. Jesus Christ is Lord of Kilimanjaro, He is the Lord of the universe and He also humbled himself, even to death on a cross to save me.

Over six hours of internal monologue with myself, this amazing truth kept me going higher and higher when I really wanted to turn back around.

Read the entire post on the Compassion UK blog.

Read the entire Blood, Sweat and Compassion series.

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The Wally Show recently returned from our offices in Asia where they witnessed child sponsorship in action.

We met a woman named Ko who was a sponsored child, and she now works for Compassion helping others. This is one time a vicious cycle is a good thing. She still has the picture of her sponsors from 30 years ago on her desk.

I asked her if there was anything her sponsor said or did that really made a difference in her life. She told me the fact that someone who did not know her would show her such love and tell her about Jesus inspired her to live the rest of her life serving God. That is a sentiment which is echoed throughout the lives of most of the Compassion kids.

Read the entire post at The Wally Show.

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When does a boy become a man?

He becomes a man when he needs to.

When Ann introduced you to Jonathan on Saturday she called him a child. I call him a man.

Even though Jonathan is just 15 years old, he is a man. He has to be.

Jonathan’s mother abandoned the family when he was 4. And his father walked out of Jonathan’s daily life not long after.

Jonathan lived in the jungle with his grandparents when his father moved to the city to find work. But last year when death took his grandparents, Jonathan’s father didn’t return. He stayed in the city – with his favorite son – and left Jonathan alone to care for himself.

Living in the jungle is isolating, which is why most people in Jonathan’s community are quiet and reserved. However, Jonathan is quiet for another reason as well; he’s hurting deeply.

And this is why I say he is a man. Jonathan refuses to succumb to the temptation of silence and isolation.

When we visited him on Friday, he allowed us into his home and shared his story with us. He embraced vulnerability, trusted us, and rose above the lies poverty is trying to convince him are real.

In the midst of poverty, from a life of loneliness, Jonathan demonstrates a rare nobility. He stands tall.

Although his life is incredibly difficult, Jonathan is maturing personally, spiritually and morally in the Body of Christ.

When a boy needs comfort he turns to his mother, or he turns to things in this world. When a man needs comfort, he turns to the Lord.

Jonathan told us that sometimes when he’s lonely he rests in his hammock and sings to God.

Jonathan isn’t a man because of his wisdom and behavior in desperate circumstances, although those are characteristics of manhood. He’s a man because he knows that God’s grace is sufficient for him, that God’s power is made perfect in human weakness.

When does a boy become a man?

He becomes a man when he needs to, regardless of age. For some, manhood comes at 15. For others, it may come at 50. And for a few, it may never come at all.

Being an adult male and being a man are not the same thing. A boy becomes a man when he understands and consistently demonstrates through humble surrender to God that the Lord’s strength abounds in human frailty.

From what I saw in Jonathan, I think I can learn a thing or two about being a man.

Sponsor a child in Ecuador.

Sponsor a child in Jonathan’s child development center (EC-273) or a center near him.

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