Do you see poverty where you live? Do you actually see it or is it just something you know is there but don’t actually see?
Growing up in Africa I saw poverty every day. It was in my face, can’t get away from it always there poverty. I interacted with it every day of my childhood and it was part of my normal. Maybe too normal now that I reflect on it.
Living where we are in the US, poverty is much more hidden. And unless you really look for it, it’s easy to miss.
But I’ve been seeing a lot of it since we’ve brought Desta home. Maybe my heart needed the extra push to soften and open my eyes.
Poverty for me looks like this now. Standing in the line at McDonald’s at the mall, a single noticeably pregnant woman with 6 kids around here, looking about 7 and under. It was a warm day here but they were all in layers, many many layers with more stacked in the double stroller that looked like it was on its last leg. And the children were quiet as churchmice, standing and waiting for their happy meals. Now maybe she wasn’t poor, maybe I was just looking for something that wasn’t. Maybe but it made me stop and think nonetheless.
Poverty is the man holding the sign at one of the intersections, asking for bread. Poverty is shopping with other people at the Extreme bargain warehouse. Poverty is heading into Memorial hospital and seeing the crowds wait at the urgent care clinic. It has a different face here.
It’s hard to see where I live. But when I do and stop to actually think about it, I grow so sad. Because I’m torn. See, living in Africa, it was easy to help. I could give a few cents and know that would feed them for a few days. My mom would often hire the children to cut the grass and pay a crazy amount of money for such a little job.
Helping the poor here, well, that’s hard. It’s hard to help in my own backyard. I’m working on it and have a few ideas brewing. It helps that my husband works for America’s Family , an organization that helps the working poor. You’d think that would be enough for me.
But no, I am so absolutely blessed with all this stuff around me and I feel torn…give it away, use it to help, what?
For now, I’m going to keep looking and SEEING and working hard to DO SOMETHING. How about you? Do you see it?
I was born in Jos, Nigeria many years ago. I spent the next nineteen years living in Liberia, Kenya and Ethiopia.
I live by City Park in Denver, in greater Cap Hill, near downtown. I see incredible wealth on my street. I also see quiet poverty–subsidized housing sure, but also people struggling with 2,3 even 4 jobs just to rent a tiny basement studio. Businessmen and women in beemers, and homeless folks standing on the corner panhandling. The weird thing for me, is I don’t know if they see each other. I stand on the outside, observing both worlds and it’s as if they defy physics. They both occupy the same space totally unaware of each other. But I see them both. I live in both worlds. It is hard to help here. It was easier in India, like for you in Africa, I knew a few cents could make a big difference. Here, not so much. So we serve on a mentor team through Denver Rescue to work with people moving from homeless to stability. And other small little bits here and there. I’m humbled though, because as I try to make a difference, I’m always reminded that I’m just as vulnerable as each of them. I’m no better, I don’t pray harder, I’m not smarter, I haven’t always made better choices. We are all just holding on to God’s grace