Inspire, Fall 2003

22 Fall 2003 Rebecca is a 2001 graduate with a degree in English education. She teaches English and language arts at Colegio Cristiano Logos, a Spanish-speaking Christian school in the Dominican Republic. Last year, I traveled to the village of Juan Tomás with some of my students to share gifts with the children who attend a school started by missionaries. The supply of toys and clothes quickly diminished, but a number of children remained in line. It soon became clear we would not have enough presents to put a smile on each child’s face. I remember one little boy, holding a ragged notebook in his hands, who asked if he could trade it for a nicer gift. He wanted something a little more special, perhaps a shiny toy car. I had nothing left to offer, and in my heart I knew he needed so much more than a shiny new toy. Months later, I chaperoned a class trip close to the border of Haiti. Along the way we stopped in a small village primarily inhabited by the laborers who comprise the poorest fraction of the population. From the moment we stepped off the bus, we were swarmed by scantily clad children begging for candy, loose change, and snacks. Many were wearing little more than ragged underpants. As they picked us clean of the lollipops and cookies we brought to share, their interest began to shift to photographs. They loved posing for the camera. Though they would never see the photos, the process still fascinated them. After a few pictures, I put my camera away to save the remaining film for later stops. The children clustered around me, pleading for another shot. I kept envisioning the beautiful vistas awaiting me — scenes of the tropical sun as it began to set upon the horizon, the crashing waves of the Caribbean — special moments to capture with my students and to share with my family back home. So I mumbled some excuse and quietly sneaked onto the bus to hide my camera. I convinced myself that the few remaining shots would really not matter to the children. On another afternoon in Santo Domingo, I stopped by the supermarket to pick up a few items. The cashier gave me my change in coins rather than paper bills, causing much irritation. As I struggled to the car, trying to balance my groceries while grasping a handful of coins, a little beggar boy approached. I ignored him, focusing my attention on unloading my groceries, but then decided to give the boy the change as it was too small an amount to matter to me. So I called him over and dumped the coins in his hands. I didn’t act out of compassion or any sort of noble sentiment. My interest in this child stemmed from the simple fact that it was easier to give him the change than to carry it myself. I wish I could express what occurred in the boy’s face as he counted the coins. His sad eyes were transformed as an enormous smile crossed his cheeks — and a sharp knife cut through my heart. I saw how superficial I am — contributing a few pennies out of the abundance of my wealth. I live in a country characterized by poverty; many people live hand-to-mouth, struggling to make ends meet in an unsteady, turbulent economy. Most will never graduate from a university, own a car, or have a savings account. While I willingly donate a few cents when it is convenient or take a handful of pictures with my camera, my generosity falls short of sacrificing those things that are important to me. I worry about wasting too much film on children who have so little to truly smile about. I often claim that my months in the Dominican Republic have expanded my perspective to love and serve my fellow man. In some ways, however, I think these months have revealed the selfishness of my heart more than anything else. In those moments when I am brought face-to-face with true necessity, I see how my tendency is to look away and refuse to act. I mutter words of superficial pity in an attempt to disguise the true hardness of my heart. My self-absorbed vision of daily life reflects that I often fail to understand what unselfish, dedicated service truly is. I fail to grasp the nature of my own heart, and instead, I perceive myself as more noble, sincere, and more giving than I truly am. I fail to truly love the people who come across my path. My experience has helped me to realize how hesitant I am to sacrifice in those areas where true service will cost me what I want to keep. Yet at the same time, I can say that these past few months have sharpened the sensitivity of my spirit, opening my heart and eyes to a harsh reality of injustice and a daily struggle for survival that is not uncommon among humanity. Perhaps I’ve come to identify and more clearly understand those things that hold true value, merit sacrifice, and demand my involvement. The life I have been granted and the gifts and privileges I hold are marks of a responsibility with which I have been entrusted. They enable me to embrace my responsibility to live a life of service and daily seize precious moments to impact the people I providentially encounter each day. Lessons from A Life Abroad B y R e b e c c a N a s m a n ’ 0 1