The pictures of African children with distended bellies and gnats flying around their eyes and noses. The literature containing pictures of children who gazed into the camera with lifeless eyes. The endless infomercials letting me know how “for less than one dollar a day,” I could change the life of a child.
I saw poverty while flying low in a Blackhawk over war-torn Iraq…I saw children play on trash heaps…and watched them run from the heap as we tossed them soccer balls in a small humanitarian gesture.
However, like many Americans, I had never really seen extreme poverty…up close and personal.
Never had seen it, that is, until I went to Honduras.
There, I saw poverty…extreme poverty... up close.
I looked into the eyes of poverty.
Held the hand of poverty.
Heard the “white noise” …dogs barking…hens clucking…the murmur of voices…the sound of cars…a distant radio blaring…children playing…laughing…a baby crying…creating a hypnotic static.
Smelled the repugnant odor of sewage and trash along the roadside.
Poverty permeated my senses…
Walking…trancelike…trying to wrap my head around all the sights, sounds, smells…unable really to take it all in…
Reaching our destination, standing in a dark, dank “home”—not more than a shack really—made of roughly hewn wooden planks where the cracks between the planks allowed small ribbons of sunlight to play on the damp, dirt floor. The main room furnished with only two 50’s diner type chairs with rusted chrome legs, a sheet separating the bedroom that sleeps six, and a “kitchen” out back behind the home. No running water in the home…no bathroom…just a lone community spicket several yards away from the cooking area.
We were introduced to the family that lived in the home. As the mother spoke through an interpreter telling what a blessing the sponsorship has been to her daughter…my mind drifted…the mother’s soft murmur followed by the quick cadence of the interpreter…words lost their meaning…for the pounding in my head…bringing me close to tears…was the thought that the seven month old little girl that she held in her arms would learn to crawl and eventually take her first steps across the damp, dirt floor in that dark, dank shack.
I thought of LJ and how vastly different his life will be from this little girl’s. I thought of the many times that we have played with him on the living room floor—something so simple that I have taken for granted—and the oh so many other things that I have taken for granted.
How many times have I complained about minor inconveniences or nuisances…never realizing the hardships that so many others around the globe face each and every day?
After each home visit, I would board the bus…gaze out the window as we pulled away…trying to wrap my head around what I had seen and experienced.
Usually, I was speechless…silenced by the thought that I have failed…as a Christian…in my obligation to the poor.
*Thanks to all who shared pictures. Included in this are pictures from 2 of the 5 home visits that we made. The final home visit will be in a separate post.
Making our way to one of the home visits. For each home visit we provided a bag of non-perishable food and toiletry items (that is the black bag our guide is carrying).
Six people live in the home below. Their kitchen is in the front of their home.
This mother has three children.
This is her home.
This is her third child. He is sitting in the "common area" that three homes shared. Beside the wooden table is their water spicket.
This is the grandmother's home; it is adjacent to their home. 
Random pictures...
