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
Continue Reading ›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.
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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
Continue Reading ›“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.
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Child Sponsorship: It’s a Family Affair
I realize that God wants me to look at my sponsorship of Evelyne from a whole new perspective. My goal now is to win Evelyne’s entire family to Christ.
Malaria in Africa: Nana’s Story
The sun was at its zenith on that Thursday I visited. Nana had been at the center since the morning. After the holistic child development program, it was now lunchtime. Many children who were not part of the development center gathered round the church’s courtyard, staring at the registered children enjoying their meals.
Every Thursday there are two groups of children that meet at the development center: registered children and those waiting to be registered. It was such a privilege for Nana to be registered.
After lunch, Tou-Wend-Sida, the team leader, took Nana home. The boy’s left foot was wounded and he could not walk home from the student center. When the team leader and Nana reached home, the boy’s father was sitting in the shadow of one of the two huts that compose the household.
He was resting after working the whole morning to put harvest in a safe place in their loft made of high grass. A smile of complete satisfaction could be seen on his face. The rainy season had been satisfactory, and the harvest was better than in the previous year.
“Hopefully, there is going to be enough food this year after a time of severe food crisis that turned so many lives into hell on earth,” the boy’s father seemed to say to himself, while staring at the loft.
The boy’s mother and sisters were nearby, making brooms out of grass plucked in the field that they will use to sweep the courtyard and the huts.
Some months ago, Nana’s family was going through hard times. Nana was sick from malaria. The family might not have not noticed that the child was sick except for a fortunate accident. Nana was riding a bicycle with his older brother when his left foot got trapped in the rear wheel’s spokes. (more…)
My Sisters Are Sponsored. What About Me?
In the courtyard, Mariam’s sisters, Assanata and Zourata, are preparing to leave. They both have weekly appointments that they would not miss for anything in the world. They are registered at the Assemblies of God Central Church of Koudougou Child Development Center.
Mariam always awaits their return so she can taste the food that her sisters bring home, and she does not fail to learn the songs that they sing as they return.
Are My Letters Really That Important?
This is a sample of what the children I sponsor write to me. Although the words are different, they often have the same message.
