Ti Chape
It’s a Creole phrase that many parents in these poorest areas of Haiti use with their youngest kids. I’m sure you’ll hear it often over the next several days as we visit homes. It’s a term of endearment … but also a harsh reality that reminds everyone of how devastating each day can be for people living on the brink. Ti Chape means little survivor or one who has escaped death
A Peek Into Poverty
By the grace of God, the “Twinkie Project” has wrapped up a successful phase in its development. Morgan arrived back in the U.S. earlier this week. And I feel like I have caught a glimpse of what this thing could be. I’m pretty excited.
Did you have a chance to read some of her latest work? Here are some excerpts. Read and pass along. Please. Share her stories.
The Unexpected Picture
In today’s culture it is almost a fad to put money into charities, or to buy brands that support a cause, which is great … but I wonder if that is numbing us to the reality of the world that is beyond our safe and comfortable walls.
I wonder if we have been overexposed to the idea of poverty to the point of forgetting that it is not simply about a continent, a country or a group of people … it is about a life. It is one heart, one mind, one prisoner, one child and one future.
We must narrow our focus, we have to look through the feel-good hype and let our hearts truly feel for the people, not just the feeling of donating.
If we maintain such a broad focus of poverty, it is almost impossible to do anything to put a dent in it … but if we can hone in on one life, think of the difference we can make.
Through Dessiray’s Eyes
Most people would agree, at least to some extent, that “The eyes are the window to the soul.” Somehow eyes manage to tell more about a person than could be said by words, stories or descriptions.
Perhaps it’s because eyes display emotion: They light up when we are happy, look exhausted when we are tired, display fear and worry, and are the gateway for tears when we are sad.
Maybe they say so much because for most of us, they capture our experiences and paint the pictures of our memories. It is through them that some of the most beautiful and also some of the most horrific things become a part of us as we make our way through life.
What we see, who we see and where we see it colors our “window” and leaves a mark on how we will view the world and how we view our own souls. This is why we often wish we could see things through the “eyes of others,” or we attempt to see the world through “rose-colored lenses.” We are aware that things appear different depending on the eyes through which we are looking.
A window is a piece of glass that goes two ways, so if it is true that the eyes are the window INTO the soul, that means they are also the window OUT of the soul. This makes me wonder, as I stare into the eyes of the children, what they see when they look out.
Please pray for the hearts of children that Morgan loved and touched with the grace of God while she was there.
She Is Hungry
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’
Afi’s Angle
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’
A Mother’s Burden is Never Too Heavy
In 2007, Carrie McGinty was Executive Director of Donor Development at Proverbs 31 Ministries. She traveled with Compassion to South America. Through a mother’s eyes, Carrie gives us beautiful insight into a mother’s deep love for her son.
In August 2007, Proverbs 31 had joined on as a Compassion representative to speak on behalf of poor children all over the world. And so, Compassion had invited me and other Proverbs 31 ministry staff and speakers to experience firsthand the work Compassion is doing in Ecuador.
To say that this trip was a life-changing experience is an understatement. The people I met deeply touched my heart and I will never be the same.
In the Otavalo mountains of Ecuador I was surrounded by beautiful little girls, dressed in their finest handmade dresses, but out of the corner of my eye I couldn’t help but notice a young man on crutches.
He was all alone. I felt God telling me to go over to him. I left the brightly dressed little girls and walked over. (more…)
In the Void of Poverty
The running water in my comfy apartment cannot help the hurt in my heart today. The grande nonfat latte I picked up from my favorite coffee shop didn’t help, either.
American luxuries I once looked forward to now feel empty, as nothing fills the void that Africa left.
Someone once said, “Once you get the dust of Africa on your feet, it will never leave you.”
Every day further away from Rwanda, the more I ache to be there. It’s been six weeks since my return from Africa, yet some moments, I feel as if I just stepped off the plane and into this alternate reality called America.
What does a person do after experiencing poverty firsthand? (more…)
Rwandan Genocide: Hope Lives
“I know there is a God because in Rwanda I shook hands with the devil.” – Major General Romeo Dallaire, Force Commander, United Nations Mission Assistance in Rwanda.
But where evil is strong, hope is stronger.
I’m an employee at Compassion. I work as an assistant for our International Program Communications Director. I love my job and I love working for Compassion.
However, for years my heart has ached to travel to East Africa. I wanted to see firsthand the children that haunted my dreams and now consume my days as I work to help release children from poverty.
Last year, my boss agreed to let me take a two-month leave of absence to work at a Rwandan orphanage. I just got back a couple weeks ago.
While in Kigali, I experienced more hope and more devastation than I thought possible. But it’s because of Compassion that I am able to bring you this story about love, hope and sorrow in Rwanda. About some orphans, some widows and some abandoned children who when they have nothing left, cling to Jesus. In the midst of extreme poverty, they choose hope.
Rwanda. It seeped into every part of me. The only phrase that seems appropriate for this country is “Devastating Beauty.”
In Kigali, I saw more beauty than words can express. However, in some of the same moments, the realities of poverty and sickness overwhelmed and haunted me. All I know is that it profoundly changed me.
Like many 25-year-old girls in America, before I left for Rwanda, I attempted to define some characteristics of young men of integrity. In Kigali, I found examples of those men.
Rwandan Genocide: Where Was God?
In a country identified as 90 percent Christian, Christ-like behavior essentially vanished as children and babies were hacked apart with machetes. What happened to God? Where was He?
Back From Colombia
I recently had the privilege of visiting my three correspondence children, a few children that I helped find sponsors for, and the sponsored child of my pastor in Colombia. It was a trip I will never forget (unless I get a serious bout of amnesia). (more…)
Meeting Sarath
NOTE FROM EDITOR: This content honors Compassion’s historical work in India. While we no longer have an India sponsorship program, we are grateful for the lives changed and meaningful work achieved through our sponsors and donors in our nearly 50 years there. For a detailed explanation of the end of our sponsorship program in India, please visit: compassion.com/india-update.
When I was in India last month, I met the boy I sponsor, Sarath. I had been hoping and praying to meet him, and I just happened to be taking a work trip to India.
I was a bit nervous. Don’t tell, but I’m not great with kids. I know I work at Compassion, but I’m a writer–more natural with a keyboard than with real, live people, let alone children who can smell fear. So I wasn’t sure how this was going to go.
The day I visited his village outside Chennai was Pongal, a festival in the state of Tamil Nadu. Along the way, we saw bright sand drawings outside every doorway and cows adorned with flower garlands for the holiday. I had put on my nicest salwar kameez, vainly worrying he would think I was some weird-looking old white lady.
We arrived in Sarath’s neighbhorhood, and I was so happy to see that it was a relatively nice, pleasant place. There was space between the homes, his family had their own bathroom and even a little courtyard to play in and wash dishes.
Sarath was waiting outside. I’d like to say we rushed toward each other and hugged and cried. We didn’t. (I learned on my trip that Indian children don’t seem to be as into hugging as other cultures are.)
We shook hands and he whispered something in my ear. He was very sweet. He was so shy that during the entirety of my visit, he only whispered a couple of short phrases in my ear, so quietly I couldn’t tell if they were in English or Tamil.
We stepped inside and I met his mother, two lovely sisters, aunt, and cousin, who all share the same little room for their home.
On their shelf was a picture of my husband and I. His mother told me that he likes to call us “Mommy” and “Daddy,” even though the project taught him to call us Auntie and Uncle. Sarath tells his mom that even if she dies, he knows he’ll be OK because there’s someone else who cares about him. (more…)
A Day in Port-au-Prince
The first thing you notice when you wake up in Port-au-Prince is the smoke. Your eyes sting, and it feels as though you’ve had a smoky cloth held over your mouth all night from the Haitians’ cooking fires.
At the Batey
The situation on the batey is as hard as the dirt ground, but there are a few shards of hope gleaming out of it.
