grace.kindness.peace.disruption.pain.processing.rinse.repeat.have a nice day.

I've said to many of you in emails that things here are hard, but good. The hardness comes in many ways: seeing extreme poverty, lack of conveniences, heat, walking, missing good friends and family back home, loneliness. But the hardness is good. It causes me to think about what is before me. One such hardness before me has been seeing people beg for money on the side of the street. There is a story behind each person: polio, victim of war atrocities, widowed, and many more. Each one is a person, deserving of dignity, but having to humble them self to beg from others. Enter a large white man. I stick out and am asked for money many times a day. My personal philosophy on giving here has yet to form. But beggars do not wait for personal philosophies. Here is the story from my journal of the first beggar to tear through the outer shell of my heart. 
While seeking a poda-poda to ride back to the Aberdeen house, we ran into Mr. Gooding, the house owner. He drove us to Congo Cross in his Ford Explorer. I wore my seatbelt and was mocked. It's humorous to do so in a country where seemingly no one does so. I haven’t even seen a seat belt in over a week. On the drive back a little boy approached the car to beg for money. Traffic was slow so the boy was able to approach my window several times as we stopped repeatedly. The first few times I tried to ignore him. There are so many beggars here that you become numb, or try to keep yourself numb so you don't end up utterly broken or broke, or both. But after a few stops, I could ignore him no longer. I turned to look upon his face and saw a child that had been scalded on the face and body. The protective shield around my heart that keeps me numb and rich was torn and my heart filled with emotion. Compassion, pity. I reached into my shirt picket for a 2,000 Leone note … only 66 cents, but enough to buy more than a day's worth of food. I gave. It was easy, temporary. The money would not fix his scars, nor keep his belly full for long. But it was something.

But then again, is the point to change his life? I can only affect his life for a brief moment. Our interaction was no longer than a minute. No, it was in this moment that he affected me. God used this moment, this thin place to break through my thick outer shell to show me that my heart beats, my heart breaks.  It was in this moment that I was changed, not the boy. I sat quietly as we drove on. I did not look back at my friends; I could not bear the possibility of their stares, questions, or remarks.

I sat there quietly, trying to figure out what had just happened.