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Five Days that Changed My World
The water changes color as you leave Miami and fly southward. Fingers of emerald thrust upwards, 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 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 (D.R.), 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 D.R. 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 Santa Domingo, amid heat that 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.
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 ally 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 babysitters. And help us hear Your voice
tomorrow.”
* * *
Our
interpreter’s name is Victor Hugo, a towering Dominican graced with a
quick smile and an easy laugh. Thankfully he takes over: “It’s cold in
Canada eleven 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
no help…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 this much.
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 seems 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. It’s 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. I don’t know why He cared. I don’t know why He sacrificed His
life…oh but I’m glad, I’m 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
like, “I’m starving,” or “is there anything to eat around here?” I just
vowed to quit clutching my blessings and 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 any 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
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” 1:27, NLT). They 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.
Like to see Phil's article syndicated in your magazine or newspaper? Email us for info. Copyright © 2012 Phil Callaway. Read more of Phil's articles.
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[A NOTE FROM PHIL: I'm so thankful for the
integrity of Compassion, a Christ-centered ministry. My wife and I have seen what takes place when a child is fed,
clothed, given medical help, trained for a career and, best of all, loved
by a local church. We endorse Compassion wholeheartedly. 
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 two million. As do potholes and pickup trucks that
seat a dozen. Construction knows only two speeds: slow and stop. North
Americans have money. Dominicans have time. Guards ride shotgun outside
grocery stores and small children poke coconuts and mangos toward those
who obey stoplights.
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 homeruns 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.” 
