The water changes color as you leave Miami and fly southward. Fingers of emerald
thrust upward, searching for sand, enticing tourists, and resurrecting ghosts of
pirate ships that sailed these seas a hundred years ago. Last night my wife and
I tickled, kissed, and prayed with three excited children, leaving them in the
care of gracious friends. "I hope they'll still be our friends five days from
now," I whisper as Ramona and I munch an airline breakfast.
The stewardess closes the first-class curtain on us peasants in economy, and I
pick up Angela's Ashes. It's one of a dozen books I've devoured preparing for
this trip, a tale of intense poverty in war-torn Ireland. Behind us sit our
hosts, friends from the child development agency Compassion. "We want you to
catch a vision of another world," they told me some months ago. "It just may
change your life ...and your writing." The world they've chosen is the Dominican
Republic, the eastern two-thirds of the island of Hispaniola. A world you don't
prepare for in books.
From the window of a Boeing 777, the Dominican Republic rises lush and green, a
visible contrast to neighboring Haiti, where voodoo has stripped the nation of
its forests and its people of hope. We touch down in Santo Domingo amid heat
that could poach an egg, and jostle with tourists who spend $55 a night being
pampered by servants and eating from buffets the size of a jumbo jet.
They say successful missionaries pack a good sense of humor and no sense of
smell. An hour later I understand why. Everything works on our truck except the
horn, which is the weapon of choice for driving here. Noise abounds in this city
of 2 million. As do potholes and pickup trucks that seat a dozen. Construction
knows only two speeds-slow and stop. Guards ride shotgun outside grocery stores,
and small children poke coconuts and mangoes toward those who obey stoplights.
North Americans have money. Dominicans have time. This is a land of contrasts.
The rich breathe easy behind walls of concrete, while their neighbors sift
through garbage and drink from murky streams. Scrawny dogs prowl the alley
behind the Jaguar dealership. Dogs no one stoops to pet. In our hotel lobby, the
vice president of the country fields questions from the media. Upstairs, Bugs
Bunny speaks Spanish on channel 11. I click the remote control effortlessly,
causing my wife's head to spin. Seventy-four channels and nothing on. "What a
world," I tell her. "We tune things out so easily." Tomorrow we won't be able
to. Tomorrow we will begin visiting Compassion's projects. As a tropical sun
sinks from a neon sky, Ramona and I kneel together and pray, "Dear Lord, keep
our kids in Your care. Bless their baby-sitters. And help us hear Your voice
tomorrow."
The tropical heat hits you first thing in the morning, pasting your clothes to
your body by noon. It's an hour's drive to Sammy Sosa's old neighborhood, still
devastated by Hurricane George. Sammy is hitting home runs in Chicago this week
amid trade rumors. In a tiny church, children smile broadly when I mention his
name. "Hola," I say, almost exhausting my Spanish vocabulary. "We're from
Canada." Our interpreter's name is Victor Hugo, a towering Dominican graced with
a quick smile and an easy laugh. I am thankful he takes over. "It's cold in
Canada 11 months of the year," I say. Victor smiles. "Snow. Ice. Hail. Have you
heard of hail?" They shake their heads. I show them pictures of my children and
tell them that Jesus loves white children too. We dispense suckers and a bag
full of hats, 160 of them. The blue ones are gone first. "Sammy Sosa," the kids
are saying. Now they want to sing for us. And they do, with rhythm and life:
"Jesus me ama...the Bible tells me so."
"We'll speak Spanish in heaven," Victor tells me as we leave the church. "You'd
better learn it here." I am searching for my favorite hat. The green one with
the cross. "One of those kids stole my hat," I tell him. "Hang onto your
wallet," says Victor.
In a neglected shack the size of my garden shed, a weary mother holds suckling
twins and offers us the only chairs she has. "Six people live here," says
Victor.
"Where's the father?" I ask.
"She doesn't know. He left a few months ago."
Ten minutes away in another world the tourists lounge and laugh and sip pina
coladas. Outside the shack, we sidestep an open sewer. Shoeless children grin
and try to figure out the gifts we bring. "Open them ...like this," I tell them,
peeling an egg. "Chocolate on the outside, and inside... aha...a surprise,
amigos!" The children squeal with delight, their lips covered with sweets.
A mother hands me the cutest little black baby I've ever seen. His big brown
eyes poke holes in my emotions. I hold him, noticing his makeshift diaper and
breathing through my mouth. The mother stands shyly to one side as my friends
take pictures. "He's the youngest of eight," says Victor. As I hand him back,
his mother takes me by surprise. "You take heem, senor. I can't feed him ...you
take heem." My eyes mist over and I cannot speak. She chatters in broken
English: about giving him a better life. About Canada. I gently hand him to her
and walk away. How could she? And then I realize that I can scarcely understand
loving a child enough to give him away.
As we climb back into the air-conditioned truck, my mind is awhirl. And my green
hat is in my back pocket.
An hour away Carlos is worried. Orphaned at five, his face looks older than his
seven years. His head is bandaged from a stray rock, his forehead creased.
Carlos' neighborhood is infected with typhoid and chicken pox and mumps. Boys
sit in the rain, bagging water from a crude hose. Water they will sell at the
market, dispensing poison for a peso. A Christian neighbor took Carlos in a few
months ago, but the money's running out. He won't be able to attend school
anymore, she tells us. Or get a job. Or learn the computer. I'm wondering what
my place is in all this. So many needs. So many hurts.
My wife interrupts my thoughts: "You tell him we're going to help," she tells
the interpreter. "We're going to sponsor him." Starting tomorrow Compassion will
care for his family's medical needs, get them into a church, and train him for a
career. It will cost us a cup of coffee a day. Small price to pay for the grin
on Carlos' face.
The grin keeps coming as we present him with a leather baseball glove and a ball
signed by our children. He tries on the backpack full of gum and toothpaste and
stuffed animals. Icing on his cake.
The warm rain falls fast as we attempt to navigate the muddy street. Three
inches of red mud on our shoes and we're laughing and slipping and falling. An
old man emerges from a bright pink shack. "Come," he motions. We follow. Behind
the shack he pours water into a basin and scrubs our shoes and washes our feet.
We slip him some pesos. But he shakes his head. From the pink shack Andrae
Crouch sings on a tinny radio: "I don't know why Jesus loved me." And I sing
along, "I'm so glad He did." The rain on our faces mingles with tears. We came
to serve but the tables were turned.
Somehow it seems quieter on the flight home. Five days in another world and
things seem different. For one thing, I just told my wife that I'll never
complain again. Or say things such as" "I'm starving," or "Is there anything to
eat around here?" I just vowed to quit clutching my blessings and to spread them
around. To dispense hope wherever I can. With my words. With my smile. With my
wallet. I'm reminded of A.W Tozer's words, "You have the right to keep what you
have all to yourself-but it will rust and decay, and ultimately ruin you."
In the Minneapolis airport we walk past the Bow Wow Shop, where you can buy
T-shirts for your dog and jewelry your cat would be proud to wear. Nearby is a
bookstore where people purchase Testamints-candy with a cross, and five-dollar
golf balls emblazoned with "I once was lost but now I'm found." This year
Christians will spend seven times as much on pet food as they do on missions.
We'd rather buy posters about changing the world than change our spending
habits.
Five days in another world, and the apostle James' words make more sense: "Pure
and lasting religion in the sight of God our Father means that we must care for
orphans and widows in their troubles, and refuse to let the world corrupt us"
(James 1:27 NLT). Five days in another world have also shown me that I probably
won't change the world. But with - God's help, I can change it for a child or
two.
Somewhere tonight a seven-year-old boy drifts off to sleep, a green hat with a
cross on it beside his bed. He may not remember my name, and his head still
sports a Band-Aid. But he has a full tummy and maybe even a smile on his face. A
smile that comes from knowing that God loves him. And someone out there loves
him too. Someone he can't see. Someone he may meet again one day soon.
Callaway, Phil. Who Put My Life on Fast-Forward? Eugene: Harvest House
Publishers, 2002, p. 83-88.
Www.philcallaway.com
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