levels of poverty

It seems to me that life in the city is not so bad.  There is poverty.  People live in little one room houses made of mud or brick, where everything they own is in sight.  They cook over a little charcoal burner outside, or inside when it rains too hard.  There may be only one bed for 5 people but usually there’s a bed.  The floor may be mud or dried cement but it’s flat and they keep it clean, as clean as possible.  Roofs may be a little tin covering but still a covering, or if straw covered with sticks as well.

However, today I took another trip outside Mwanza to the town of Magu.  It’s more of a village area. There, ordinary life is again different.  Poverty is more severe.  It means partial straw roofs that give many openings for rain.  It means stepping onto rugged dirt floors, as if you’re still walking up the pathway. It means a little room, or maybe two, that hold everything which is practically nothing and you suppose that little bit of straw in the corner is the mattress. Through ChildCARE Plus, you’re happy to see one boy with a sponge to lay on.  It means that when Kija puts on his good shirt for a picture, you still find no buttons hold it together.

And then you see the house where three sponsored children once lived but they’ve moved because some people cut off the limbs of the grandmother they lived with when they thought she was involved in witchcraft.  They hoped to kill her but she’s still alive and they still live with her, no doubt taking care of her.  However, the positive side is they still have a grandmother.  And some people think the world is over when there’s a line at the bank machine or when it takes 15 minutes to drive through Tim Horton’s or when the pastor doesn’t ask them how their week went!  To be “sheltered, clothed and feed” has different meanings for everyone and most times those who aren’t understand it better than those who are!

One Story

                 Before dawn breaks the prayers begin from the Muslim mosques.  Around six the sounds of traffic begin to emerge.  Some crickets are still croaking, a hundred different birds are singing, monkeys are screaming, cows are calling, insects are humming, dogs are barking.  The smell of burning bundles already wafts through the windows which are never closed.  By seven the whole place is alive. Roosters are crowing. Drums are sounding.  Mothers are calling.  Children are playing and preparing for school.  Merchants are rolling carts or riding bicycles to their shops.  Boys are leading their goats and cows to pasture.  Drivers are sounding horns as warning signals.  Trucks pass through the city blasting various commercials to attract consumers.
                Just an ordinary morning in Mwanza, a city of about one million people in northern Tanzania. It cannot be compared to any place in America.  The sights, sounds, smells, are all unique, all part of another environment, another culture.  It’s filled with life and in many cases the life is filled with difficulties.  Here’s one story:

Her name is Mwameni, a mother of three.  Her oldest son Juma is 5 years; the next, Joseph is 3 years; and the youngest, a girl Buya, is 1 year and 5 months.  Most days Mwameni works at a rice factory where it is dirty and dusty.  She also tries to earn some extra money sometimes by carrying luggage for people or digging.  Her husband of ten years died when the baby daughter was just 5 months old so she has to earn a living somehow.  She is one of the fortunate who found a job.  Today Mwameni is at home because her baby has been sick for four days already, no energy and not eating.  It may be malaria or something else.  Unfortunately Mwameni has no money to take Buya to the hospital for examination.  As she sits in the 5x6 ft mud room she tells of her struggle to pay the rent, having to sell a prized radio that belonged to her husband, perhaps the only cherished thing that remained.  Buya sits quietly in Mama’s arms, innocent and helpless, as her mother tries to decide what action to take. Mwameni herself is not well.  She oftens coughs a lot due to her working conditions.

                Just one story, but one that could be repeated a thousand times in a thousand places and still be true.  Life goes on, it has to go on as long as there’s breath. However, for some people the pictures becomes a little brighter when someone from another country, a richer country, decides to open his or her heart and give a little.  That little can make the difference between sitting helpless with a sick child or taking her to a doctor for help.  It can change the “ordinary” by shining a little bit of hope! 

Coming Home!

Canada is a wonderful country.  I love it and every Canadian should feel a sense of pride and gratitude!  It's Thanksgiving weekend but I'm stepping on the plane to return to Tanzania, a different country, a new home.  There's no sense of regret or sadness but rather, as I view my residence permit, a sense of thanksgiving that I now have two home countries.  When I enter Canada, they stamp the passport "entry in to homeland" and when I enter Tanzania they also smile and say, "Oh you're a resident" and ask no more questions.It's a funny, good feeling, a feeling of pride and also a reminder of Philippians 3:20 "For our citizenship is on heaven from which we also eagerly wait for a Saviour."And I think of how it will be when we finally enter the final homeland.  If we feel a sense of pride here on earth, what will we feel when we pass the final entry point and realize we're home?? Think of it next time you put your feet up and say "It's so good to be home!"

Excitement

You know you're living the dream when everything in your being feels free and at peace.  Jesus said He would give peace but not peace like the world. This peace is fuller and much more liberating.  It's a peace that knows you are where you need to be, not from an earthly perspective but from heaven's - knowing you are in God's will.  Nothing is more important, nothing is more fulfilling.