what do we do with what we see?

When we encounter poverty, especially for the first time, something in us changes, something internal pulls, and something new stirs. For me that was probably some time in Mexico with Parkview Youth Group. Wow, they live here? People go to church here? Do they have other shoes?

When we encounter poverty, especially for the first time, there comes this realization of how blessed we are. And if we are honest we both hurt for the poor and becoming exceedingly thankful that we aren’t.

In these encounters, we also realize that God is with these people in some really special way. After all, we come to understand that he physically meets their daily needs. And so we become enlivened and excited to serve them and be with them because we know God is letting us do his work. And so we work. And then we leave.

And we leave and become confused. We come home and feel discontent, after all, our lives just had so much purpose. So we promise to change our lifestyle somehow. And perhaps we start giving more. I started sponsoring a World Vision girl.

And then life goes back to normal. And you occasionally remember a sight you saw, or you remember the lack of sanitation, and you say a quick prayer. But overall, you adjust well to your surroundings at home again and only become truly stirred the next time you get on a plane and decide to encounter poverty again.

So what happens- why do we care for awhile at all? And why does that fade?

In my encounters, my sympathy and guilt could only last so long. I felt a divide and sort of came to the understanding that this was just their plight, and what else could I do? If I was really honest I would tell you that I couldn’t’ relate to people who were so different. And so I made up narratives about the differences between us and them. Like, oh they are stronger so they can handle the heartbreak. Oh, this is all they’ve ever know, so they can’t long for what they havent’ seen. Or, it’s not like we could help where we were born. It’s not my fault my parents had money.

And I rationalized as I tried to make sense of it all. Because I, like you, only knew how to care so much. With every mission’s trip, that feeling came and went. And I just couldn’t figure out what all this poverty had to do with me.

That is, until the poor became my sisters and suddenly didn’t look so different than me. As we shared a home, I found out that they, like me, like to have warm showers. And they, like me, like to do other girl’s hair. They have stomach aches when they consume some parasitic bacteria. They get nervous trying to speak a new language. They really wanted to succeed in school. They liked playing, watching movies, they hated laundry and always wanted midnight snacks. And as they became we I found out that there were fewer differences than similarities between us as people. They were my sisters. And so poverty became ours.

Poverty is confusing. And it moves us and stirs us in strange ways. And at each taste of it, we feel pulled to partake in some way. But it’s too foreign, too vague, too unknown. And the taste goes away. And we stop caring simply because we don’t’ know what else to do.

When will we see that the lines between us and them are faded? When will we stop long enough to stand in poverty with our equals? When will we see them as our brothers and sisters?

Well, when we develop relationships.

We each know we were meant to love the poor. It's time we stop running from that. Make friends with your taxi driver to the airport, he has stories to share. Stop and talk to the foreigner, show her how to get a cart from Aldi. Get involved in someone's life and share a burden. You will be eternally changed. And you will ache for heaven. But you won't have to wonder what that tug is anymore. 

We must let poor into our lives. We must accept the foreign as family, we must do it together. Because all of that stirring inside of us, well, it’s a stirring that calls us to claim poverty as ours. It's a stirring for Shalom.

So what do we do about all of this?

On the state side of things, I have had time to think, to feel, to readjust. And yet there are parts of me that I pray never readjust. As I describe this journey between worlds, please understand that this isn't just my journey.

It's the journey of any Christian who lives in a secure neighborhood and reads the words, did you clothe me when I was naked? Did you feed me when I was hungry? Did you visit me in prison? (Matthew 25), and doesn't know what to do with them.

It's the journey of the girl who is cared for, who has money, and yet understands something about Jesus loving the poor and doesn't know where to start.

It's our journey to love Christ while surrounded by affluence.

It's our journey as we ask ourselves, "is there more?"

..........

When I was in Bolivia, I spent a lot of time looking out of windows. From the room where I stayed in the restoration home, I could see the whole neighborhood. I could see the dogfights, the tiny market outside, the beer glasses left on the table of the restaurant next door. I saw women with lines on their faces from worry and hard physical labor, walking down the street to buy more potatoes. With make-up and some computer training, they could look like the women I lived with, professional and well-rounded. But they would not have a moment of spare time to daydream of desk jobs. They would always have one reality to face.

I memorized what I saw without intending to. That’s what happens when sights, smells, and touches hold emotional weight. These sights represented my girls’ realities, the realities they were stuck with, the realities that I would get on a plane to leave behind.

And that is what I did. I left. I got home and I stopped writing. I felt numb, overwhelmed. I found myself curled up in corner in my college apartment looking out a similar window at the strange, white-washed world. I saw well-dressed college students stressing about the work for today, suburban moms with their kids secured in carseats. I saw people in pea coats with Starbucks mugs. And I cried. Not because I don’t like nice clothes or car seats or Starbucks. I have nice clothes, I drink Starbucks, and I will in fact use a carseat. Yet I was sobered.

Partially I faced culture shock, reentering into a pace I learned to live without for six months. Partially I faced the Chicago winter. But most of all, I cried because these people, my people, had so much time to daydream about other realities. About future jobs, future homes, hobbies, and hallmark moments to come, because they had the resources to. And I hurt, because their striving, working, and upgrading would keep them from meeting the people who could desperately use a friend. Especially a friend who could spare some time, some resources, some energy. It hurt to see these Starbucks drinkers and minivan chauffeurs, because part of me knew that they would keep on dreaming without ever teaching someone who desperately needed to dream again.

I want my girls to dream again. Not of wealth, not of CEO jobs outside of their educational reach. I want them to dream of healthy marriages when men stay no matter how tight the budget gets, where birth control is within reach, and poor families are not stretched beyond what they can bear. I want them to dream of living in sanitary conditions, of working and investing in their children's education. I want them to dream of jobs where they can be home at night so their kids feel secure like they never did.

My parents helped me dream. They helped me train. They educated me and invested. 

My husband’s parents did the same for him. So, we know that in this crazy world, we will be okay. But for what purpose? So we can drink more Starbucks and buy cuter pea coats?

Something is wrong about the scenes outside my window. They are so far away from one another. And so I sat by the window in Wheaton, crying. And now I sit by the window in St. Louis, wondering:

If only we could have heard their cries, what we could have done. Julia may have had her own bedroom to keep her safe from a drunk father. Vanessa’s mom may have been diagnosed with depression before she commited suicide. Betti may have gone to school and learned about her rights to her body.

My friend's parents asked me, "so what do we do about all the inequality?" I said I didn’t know yet. But if I love my girls, then I will be brave enough to ask the question. And more so, if I believe that God loves people, then I will not dismiss it as too complicated, because dismissing it has huge implications for Vanessa. For Julia. For Betti. And they are in our family. And we will answer to God for them one day.

So what do we do about all this?