The Space I Live In
On Reality:
My mom casually suggested to me that I might occasionally write about more serious subjects, lest everyone think that my life is nothing but one giant vacation, filled with romance, laundry and strange cheeses (although, in many ways, it is). I think the people who have custody of Team Me do their best to shield me from the reality that is poverty in a third world country, but every so often it leaks in around the edges. Nicaragua is the third poorest country in the world, the second in the Western Hemisphere. Poverty’s children, Hunger and Crime, aren’t abstract concepts, they are woven into the fabric of daily life.
I met a pretty woman on the bus. She was attacked by bandidos who would have cut her throat had she not flung up her arms to protect herself; instead they cut her wrists so deeply so can no longer use her hands. Now she begs for change in order to survive.
Some of the children on the street are blond, like me. But their hair isn’t yellow from bleach but from malnutrition. And while these sweet little kids aren’t getting enough food to sustain the color in their hair, over 280,000 meals have been sitting in customs for over two months.
It makes me angry.
It breaks my heart.
Sometimes the feeling of helplessness crashes over me like waves. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know how to make the world different than it is. I feel small, ineffectual. How am I supposed to Bring the Kingdom of God when I can’t even walk alone to the corner store to buy gum without getting jumped?
My life is filled with sunshine and cool breezes, laughter and love, mangos and music. But those things walk arm in arm with loneliness, boredom, and heartache. This is the space I live in.
My mom casually suggested to me that I might occasionally write about more serious subjects, lest everyone think that my life is nothing but one giant vacation, filled with romance, laundry and strange cheeses (although, in many ways, it is). I think the people who have custody of Team Me do their best to shield me from the reality that is poverty in a third world country, but every so often it leaks in around the edges. Nicaragua is the third poorest country in the world, the second in the Western Hemisphere. Poverty’s children, Hunger and Crime, aren’t abstract concepts, they are woven into the fabric of daily life.
I met a pretty woman on the bus. She was attacked by bandidos who would have cut her throat had she not flung up her arms to protect herself; instead they cut her wrists so deeply so can no longer use her hands. Now she begs for change in order to survive.
Some of the children on the street are blond, like me. But their hair isn’t yellow from bleach but from malnutrition. And while these sweet little kids aren’t getting enough food to sustain the color in their hair, over 280,000 meals have been sitting in customs for over two months.
It makes me angry.
It breaks my heart.
Sometimes the feeling of helplessness crashes over me like waves. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know how to make the world different than it is. I feel small, ineffectual. How am I supposed to Bring the Kingdom of God when I can’t even walk alone to the corner store to buy gum without getting jumped?
My life is filled with sunshine and cool breezes, laughter and love, mangos and music. But those things walk arm in arm with loneliness, boredom, and heartache. This is the space I live in.
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1 comments:
Man, the real world sucks. Quite often. I keep hoping and praying that food shipment gets to you guys! Damn those countries with untrustworthy governments!!!
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