I remember the first time I went into the home of a poverty stricken person. It was in the late 1980's in the woods of the Appalachian Mountains in North Carolina. I was with a TV crew doing a story on the poorest of the poor during Christmas time. We were led to a structure that looked more like a shed than a house. Rough hewn wood with some sort of metal roof. The door opened as we approached. A women stuck her head out to see who was coming. She was told we wanted to tell the story of her suffering, which we did. It was in the 20's outside, so she only opened the door a crack. When we were a few feet from the door she opened it a bit wider for us to enter. I don't remember her name, she looked about 50 but was probably in her early 30's.
What struck me right away was how dark it was inside. There was only one light on and a little natural light streaming from a couple of small windows. My eyes took a few seconds to adjust from the glare of the frozen snow outside.
The air was heavy with sickness, a wood burning stove fighting the cracks in the walls that were wide enough to let in cold drafts and fading daylight.
Without speaking she moved me toward an even darker room. I stopped at the doorway not knowing what was in there. I felt nervous. How should I act? I didn't want these people to think I was shocked by how they lived or that I was there to belittle them with that intimidating TV camera. There on a bed lay an old man. How old? 60? 70? 80? He was dressed in a gray shirt and stayed under some ratty, thread-bare blankets. His thinning gray hair was uncombed and his face looked unshaven for several days. He locked eyes on me and we just stared at each other for what seemed like forever.
"I am here to tell your story" I said.
He didn't respond, just continued to stare at me.
"He's real sick" the women said. A deep cough from the man backed her up.
We took shots of the house and briefly interviewed the women who turned out to be the old man's daughter. He was dying of emphysema, lung cancer or both.
As we left I reached into my wallet and gave her ten of the fifteen bucks I had on me. She looked at me and nodded. She said nothing. I loved her dignity.
Last month Sheri and I went to the absolute poorest place I have ever been. The slums of the Dominican Republic. Our friend and guide walked us down a wet mud street to a tiny shack made of scrap metal. As we approached I thought back to that freezing day in Appalachia.
Again I was worried about how we would be perceived. The idea of other humans on display because of their despair repulses me. I didn't need to worry.
A smiling grandmother warmly met us at the entrance. There was no door. We walked into a two room structure. There was a pot of something heating on an ancient stove. Because the place was made of metal it had to be close to a hundred degrees inside. The grandmother pulled up two chairs and motioned for us to sit down. A little boy about five played on the bed in the only other room in the house. He had shinny dark hair and eyes like big chocolate drops.
The grandmother told us his mother, her daughter, died of AIDS eight months ago. The little boy was born with AIDS. Her life was to care for her grandchild. She made money by selling a few pieces of fruit and whatever came her way at a little stand outside the shack. On a good day she might pull in a dollar. On a bad one nothing. On a dollar they could survive for a couple of days.
We visited for about a half hour, holding the boy, taking pictures, and meeting some of his friends who had gathered with great curiosity outside. I wondered the obvious. How long will this lovely childs path be, and how hard?
When we left, I quietly gave the grandmother the twenty-two dollars I had on me. A little more than half of what I pay for a haircut. She nodded her head. I love the dignity.
What struck me was this; White, black, cold, hot, father, daughter, grandmother, son. The poorest among us all want the same thing. To survive. And if God blesses them, to live with a tiny amount of human dignity.
You can learn more about World Vision and view videos and photos of our trip at www.bobandsheri.com/worldvision.
Bob,
I am a native Charlottean and now I know why I have always been a Bob Lacey fan. You are one of the most loving and caring men that anyone could ever ask for. You are truly one in a million--thank you for being you!!!
Posted by: dhoneybee | September 19, 2007 at 10:37 AM
Oh, and Bob, this is OT but you don't look the least bit smelly or disheveled in the Dominican Republic picture!
Posted by: angie again | October 05, 2007 at 08:47 PM