Every Time You Take a Breath……a Child Dies
Sunday March 2, 2003
When the young people of the congregation where I worship challenged the rest of us to join them in World Vision’s 30-Hour Famine, I signed up. It was an experience I hope I will never forget.
One of our goals was to learn firsthand, in our own bodies, what it feels like to be hungry, really hungry, as too many of the world’s citizens do, every day.
The statistics are overwhelming. With 50 per cent of people on earth attempting to survive on less than $200 a year, is it any wonder that 800 million people are undernourished? In our own country, the richest, most developed country in the world, between 20 and 30 million Americans suffer from chronic hunger. Four million of those are children under age 12.
As one who celebrates the Creator’s incredible bounty with zest and gratitude at each meal, I wasn’t sure I had the willpower to pass up three meals in a row. We were to eat lunch on Friday, and not eat again until 7 p.m. Saturday. I don’t mind telling you I savored each bite of my usual lunch of fresh vegetables, rice, chicken and fruit, knowing it would be my last solid food for a lo-o-ng time – knowing I would go to bed hungry, and that when I awoke, I would still not be able to relieve that hunger.
I wonder how it feels to live that way, day after day, until finally, when no help comes, you die.
Most people who are that poor do not CHOOSE to be poor, they’re born into poverty. Whether it’s a poor economy, the ravages of war, no source of clean water or no access to adequate health care or education, a person born into such conditions can’t begin the journey toward bettering themselves because THEY AREN’T HEALTHY ENOUGH. Often, even if schools are available, the child doesn’t have the CHOICE to attend school – because, at age 6, she’s out scavenging through the garbage for pieces of metal for her mother to sell.
We met at the church Friday evening at 5:30. Our time actually flew by, thanks in part to the enthusiasm and planning of our leaders, John Armstrong and Wade Katz. We were allowed to bring our toothbrushes and toothpaste, and something to sleep on, inside the cardboard shelters we were to build to add to our awareness. I decided to spend the time as a homeless bag lady might, so I didn’t bring a change of clothes. (We were told that the children we hoped to help wear the same clothes for weeks at a time.)
Our cardboard shanty town took shape in no time, with the creativity and personality of the builders very evident. Jeannie and Angie shared their space at 33-1/2 Armstrong Court, while John slept in the “vacant lot” next door. .Melinda had an A-frame, with an entryway she locked with duct tape when “lights out” came. Gordy’s Gap was lined with his thickest, most comfy blanket. Gordon’s and Nick’s creations collapsed on them before the night was over, as did Anthony’s, but that didn’t interrupt their sleep – Nick had to be dragged out when morning came. James’s was a sturdy square next to Wade, who looked like he’d hired an interior decorator, with marker-framed pictures on the walls. Josh had a huge front door with a peephole, and next came Naomi’s pad, then Roger with a lean-to in the far corner. Jesse and Bradley created a duplex, their “millionaire dollar mansion” next to Anthony, in unfortunate proximity to the church. The cross on top of the pastor’s Shantytown Presbyterian Church of the Famine wobbled all night; could it have been the vibrations from the thunder-snores within? I slept “across the tracks” with neighbors Renea and Donna, who had built my “home sweet home.” I was surprised at how well I slept, with a dog pad and sleeping bag to cushion my bones, and a coat over me – the “surround sound” emitting from the various sleepers and the noisy pipes just adding to the realism of my homeless experience.
There was lots to do, to help pass the time between our “delicious meals of fruit juice and popsicles,” as they were cheerfully announced by John. On Friday night, we called friends in the church and community for food donations to the Salvation Army, and went out Saturday morning in teams to collect the gifts. After “lunch” Saturday, we went bowling. We also decorated and tie-dyed T-shirts, proclaiming ourselves “survivors” of the famine. It was fun to see how each person commemorated their experience. I had to laugh most at Gordon, who, when I pointed out he’d misspelled “survived” by leaving out the second “v,” promptly printed it in above the word, and added the explanation, “when you’re hungry, spellin’ is the first thing to go.”
Throughout the fun, our leaders kept calling us back to focus on why we were there, with periods of Bible study and graphic videos about hunger in various parts of the world.
And yes, we did begin to fixate on food, especially when we started cooking the spaghetti dinner which we were to feed to our guests before we could break our own fast. But we KNEW we would eat that night, and that with each breath we took, another child would die.
One of the videos had a theme song, as it showed scenes of hope where the money raised in past “famines” was now making a difference in the lives of the poorest of the world’s poor:
If you can’t feed a hundred, feed one.
If you can’t change the world, change one life.
There’s someone who needs the difference YOU can make.
If you can’t feed a hundred, feed one.
World Vision’s Web site, http://www.30hourfamine.org/ offers you an opportunity to make a difference for someone less fortunate than you, in Malawi, Burundi, North Korea, Zambia, Peru, Ethiopia and the United States of America.
If you can’t feed a hundred, won’t you feed one?
Sandy Weil is a freelance columnist who writes regularly for the Plainsman. She can be reached at home in Huron, S.D., or by e-mail at dakotawoman@santel.net
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