You expect the people to almost be like aliens — a species wholly other, having nothing in common with the life you’ve temporarily left behind. You expect to be able to see them from an objective place, seeing their problems and being able to solve them with a wave of your hand or a swipe of your credit card.
And that’s just not what happens.
Not if you’re paying attention.
When we arrived in Guatemala, our comfy shoes laced up tight, we were ready to change the world. And felt deflated when we heard our first assignment. “Walk around the city, don’t talk to anyone,” they told us, “just walk and observe.”
Packed to the brim with ministry, our schedule those three days hardly allowed time for anything else; our meals squished between activities like the PB&J sandwiches we munched on daily. But that walk, that walk changed my perspective. It changed the way I saw everything.
Walking around the city, keeping myself as an outsider, I expected to see things in a new way. I expected this to exacerbate this feeling of disconnect, the locals existing like zoo animals to me, there for observation but not for interaction. But as I sat on a dusty curb, across the street from a broken down cathedral, I could see only myself.
As teenagers strutted by, feigning confidence in their short skirts and slicked back hair, I saw my own insecurity and the insecurities of the men who had hurt women in my life.
The world I was watching walk by looked eerily similar to my own. The people, the interactions, the fears, all of it. The air didn’t even smell that different when I began to actually pay attention.
The feeling that I was expecting, that of a disconnected savior, never came.
While visiting with some older people, I saw something oddly and eerily familiar in the eyes, as I held their hands and sat with them for a while. The longing in their eyes was the same thing that kept my friends and I out at bars five nights a week, making out with guys whenever we could get the chance: wanting to be seen and pursued and loved — even if for a night.
It’s a desire to be loved.
I sat on the ground in front of an old man in a wheelchair. He looked at me with hollow, empty eyes and in slurred Spanish he told me “I’m very sad when nobody comes to visit.”
That man doesn’t need much. He’s fed, he’s clothed, and he’s kept warm at night. But greater than any physical need is his need for love. He wants to be reminded that he’s cared about and know he still matters.
And that’s the same nagging that keeps the girl on the street in her teeny little skirt, and the boys zooming around the city on their motorcycles, making as much noise as possible.
It’s the same thing that keeps college students reaching for another shot, holds girls from eating, and has guys locking themselves in their rooms alone with their laptops.
We all want to be loved.
But neither of those is true. We are not saviors and we are not too small to make a difference. We’re just the right size to give away a little piece of the love we were given first.
We are the perfect size to give people the thing that they – we – need so much. Love.
Who around you needs your love? What are you waiting for?
Adventures staffer Stephanie May lived these stories on a recent Wrecked Vision Trip to Guatemala. Click here to find out more about our next vision trip to the Dominican Republic.
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