The Idea of an Essay, Volume 2

35 I thought, scribbling out bad ideas and jotting down thoughts that would help me convey a feeling that words could hardly describe. It was a messy process, characterized by many long afternoons staring at a pile of papers and hoping for the ability to make sense of the statistics and case studies. While I dug through piles of research, children around the world were digging through piles of trash that must have reeked of animal carcasses. They were searching for any small piece of edible substance they could find. Those children were wandering the streets as I wandered the Internet, both of us searching, but for different resources. “Dad, can you turn the T.V. down? My brain hurts,” I murmured. Before putting another cracker in his mouth, the old man grumbled, “Yeah, sure. How long are you going to need the computer? I have to check my email.” My dad: always preoccupied and rarely concerned. In that moment I wished I could tell him how much importance this project had in my heart, but he would never understand. He sat comfortably in our home, surrounded by a fair amount of money and few medical concerns. I doubted if he ever cared about the sick, poor, and needy people that lived half a world away. I also feared his imminent discouragement of the route I wanted to take in life, the route towards counseling and providing physical and emotional care for the needy. He would never be the muzungu that showed up in an African village to remove jiggers from the feet of crying children, and he would never want me to be that muzungu either. I determined in that moment to reject my father’s negative opinion. I invested my emotions into my research project. From that point on, I would take baby steps toward the mission field. One night, a few weeks after the day in the home office with my dad, I was sitting cross-legged on my cozy twin bed, studying articles about orphans. During my reading, I resolved to adopt one or two African babies someday. My dad would not like it, but that would not restrict me. Maybe, I thought to myself, by making African babies his grandchildren, I could somehow influence his opinion in the future. The statistics, the stories, and the faces of little motherless children made my skin itch with discomfort, causing me to squirm atop my bed.