What If You Weren’t Privileged?

The lingering fumes of my neighbors garbage.  Burns alongside the road.  Waking me to another morn.  Another day.  Oh hoping.  And praying.

And I sit.  Knees strong on the dust before me. First thing.  Like Abuela taught me.

Praying to a God I don’t know.

Nervously caressing the dangling emblem. Abuela gave me.  Strung around my neck.

Cause, she said it was lucky.

And I know it’s lucky.  Because the next day I found this cord it hangs on.  At the dump.  On the edge of town.  While scavengering.  

And my friends missed it.  And that was a good day.

This smell I taste for breakfast of smoke and tires burning.  Is nothing compared to the inferno.  Where I found this string dangling.

Heat dancing.  Me grabbing it. Just in time.  Right before the flames destroyed it.

It must be because I prayed.

And Abuela always said.  Pray and miracles happen.

And look at me.  This treasure tucked under my shirt.  A goat to kept me warm.  And a Papa who never stops working.  Yes, I know I am lucky.  

Getting up.  Stomach grumbling.  Non-stop.  But I get ready to walk.  To where Abuela, Mama, and Hermonita lay.  The baby I never met….who took my Mama away.

But, I am lucky still.  Because Papa is not very far away.  He is there. Where the dust is rising.  Field plowing before the sun scorches everything.

And I get to help him.  Now.  Because I am eight.  And at eight I am no longer a boy, but a man.  As I pull on my boots and strap on my only pair of dusty pants.

Not eating anything.  Because the grain is low.  And our chickens haven’t been laying.  And real men can work for hours….sometimes days…..without any food.

Plus, I have the cross that Abuela made dangling around my neck.  That other boys would take.  If they knew I had it.  So I keep it.  Hidden.  Under my shirt.  Where it is safe.

Cause, I can still feel the pain…. in my ribs…..when they wanted the meat from the chicken we killed.

Even though it was to celebrate.  That I had a birthday.  And Papa killed a chicken just for me.  Yes, I am a lucky boy even if I didn’t get to eat it.  

Doesn’t matter, cause….it was only chicken….anyway.

And, bruises can’t hurt….a man who gets to work fields.  Yes, I am a man.  Not a little boy. Now anyway.

And I feel great.  To have a Papa.  And some rice for dinner.  Chickens and a goat around.  When other boys don’t have anything.

Sun rises.  Papa waves to me.  Time to come.  Go help him in the dusty field in front of me.

I walk. But, keep day dreaming….

What would it be like to be those people I saw on t.v. in Primos house the other day?

I mean…

• Do all families really have cars in other countries?  
• Do some people have so much food….so much that they throw it away?  
• What would it be like to have my Mama back.  Or a sister…Or a real family?

And most of all….

What would it be like to go to school? And learn.  Knowing the one Abuela gave praise.  The one I pray to…..

Whoever He is anyway.

And in all this day dreaming.  Nearing Papa plowing…..

I can still hear her singing.

Fields rising with her struggling voice….before she lay at rest in the white grave I pass by….on my way to where real men work.

“Jesus.”  I hear her singing.  Is He just a man who died upon this cross that keeps swaying….as I walk?

Me doubting.  A little boy.  From this town of dirt that has no name.  What am I thinking?  How could I ever get the chance….

To meet him?

Or to know the smell of beans cooking….instead of garbage fuming each day for breakfast.  To stretch out arms to any other human….without having them hurt from labor all day.

For I am just a little boy.  Only eight.  Who works in a field.  To help his Papa pay for the mud walls that keep the goat, Papa, and me warm at the end of a long days work.  

My only treasure?  This cross. At least until the older kids beat me up.  And take it away.

And I end up.  Just with Papa and enough rice in a pot for a day.

I know I shouldn’t be daydreaming.  But, one boy I heard of….got sponsored. And now gets three meals a day.

But, more than that, he goes to school.  And if I got sponsored, I would still work really hard.  With Papa.  After my school day is done.

But, most of all….I want to know The One who Abuela called The Holy Son.  This dangling cross.  The same one I see there at Compassion.

And if Abuela were here. She would have let me meet him.  And given me more….than what I am now getting….

Even though I truly am grateful.

Working hard in that dusty field until day gets dark.  Keeping my dreams close to my heart.

With spoonfuls of rice….when no one is looking.

On my knees.  Praying.  For a sponsor.

With that wooden cross….dangling….from my heart.

From Abuela.

I am honored to be writing for Compassion International this month.  To sponsor a little boy, like the one above, click on the following link:  Compassion International.

My prayer is that children like this….won’t have to keep waiting.

Can you give to a child….in Jesus Name…..through a reputable organization like Compassion…

So even one.  Yes, one child.  One child less.  Won’t have to keep on waiting….

(Linking with Ann, Laura @ Wellspring, Michelle, On, In, & Around Mondays )