Hope; [or] As I Can't Remember His Name, I Think of Him as Sohrab From the Kite Runner

The first thing I saw was the patchy, tin houses sloppily packed one on top of another. Scraps of cars and sheets of metal tacked together in fruitless hopes of deterring the downpour of this rainy season. One house has been sinking slowly down the bank into the thick, muddy river. And that got me down.

I saw hundreds and hundreds of children, and children holding more children. Way too many children to fit in these houses, and way too many children that call this place home. Many children weren't wearing shoes, many without shirts, and way too many children on the streets without parents. And that got me down.

I saw a church and a school, both looking more like a rundown shed you'd find in the woods in the US. The school's overcrowded, and there aren't enough supplies nor teachers, making the ratio on the day I helped out 1 pair of scissors and 1 teacher for 70+ kids. The church is sick. It's pastor allows no children to come in and no women to speak during services. They stand in the back and fan their men, reclining in fold-up chairs and listening to sexist, ageist, and nationalist sermons. There's not just poverty here, but corruption. And that got me down.

I saw the three missionaries, two ticos and one nica. I saw them hugging mothers, holding babies, laughing with fathers, playing with children, giving out sandwiches, leading Bible studies, fighting, fighting, fighting. Oh, but one had to sleep here last night because she didn't have money for the 75 cent bus ride home yesterday. With no money coming in or out, they're falling into the same lives of the people they're trying to help. But is there any other way? It's only their hope and their love that keeps them afloat and lets them smile as they don't tell me that their monthly income is $100. I almost spent that much on some shoes yesterday. And that got me down.

I saw a little boy. He walks past some other boys playing soccer, and he's too young. In this place are many children but little childhood. Someone should be holding his hand, but his arms are full with his two younger siblings. He wears the same outfit I've only always seen him wear. I saw him lead his siblings to the cement slab where, under the blazing sun, the children sit watching skits and hearing stories about a man who feeds and heals people; and while distractedly watching a bony dog violently lap up the sewage water running between the houses, I felt myself sinking so low, getting so down.

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In a world where change is an abstraction and not a reality, so much can tear us down, and if we're not careful, we'll find ourselves sliding and sinking and being sucked down the river's bank into that thick, muddy trap. We can not let that happen. That's not the way for change. Change can be concrete. The way for change begins with hope. The way for change begins with love. And most often, these things are found in the ordinary, with change sneaking in, slowly leaking in not in the extraordinary, but in the ordinary, not in the conspicuous, but in the common.

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I didn't see him turn around and notice me sitting there behind him. I didn't see him sit his siblings down against the fence beside us and scoot towards me. I wasn't seeing anything but that stupid dog over there, but I felt him. I felt him slide into my lap, I felt his breathing as he leaned against my chest, and I felt him change me as I looked down and really saw him. I felt that simple, toothless grin lift me up and pull me out. Sitting there together, I don't remember what Bible story was preached, or how long it lasted; I don't remember that boy's name, or what his siblings were doing in that moment. I remember the unspoken between us, uniting everything about us that was still human, and making me believe again.