Sometimes I close my eyes.
Sometimes Lagos can get to you. Sometimes, you just have to close your eyes when you see the people who have fallen through the cracks ... although they're not really cracks here, they're chasms, since there are no social services beyond private charities. I give money to those who ask, but it is still heart-breaking.
On my drive home from the school every day, I see a man about my age who walks on all fours. I don't know if his disability is due to injury or birth defect, but he has a strong upper body and shriveled legs. He wears flips flops on his hands in addition to his feet, and he weaves through the traffic begging for money. He spends his entire day with his face near the pavement breathing in exhaust fumes. Even when he is resting, he sits on the curb, inches from the traffic. You can't see him when he comes to your car to ask for money; you can only see his hand tapping on the glass.
Yesterday, on our way across the bridge, I saw a boy about 10- or 12-years-old sitting on the median. He was wrapped in what looked like paper tied around his middle, but from the chest up and waist down, he was naked. Did I really just see that? So I wonder ... what could be wrong? Is he mentally disabled? Addicted to drugs at a young age? I don't know, but he seemed to be all alone.
Last week, it was a young man and I assume his little sister. She was tiny and confined to a wheel chair. I supposed she was quite lucky to even have a chair. Were they alone? Do their parents care for them? I don't know.
And more often than I can bear, I see a group of boys who have been badly disfigured by burns. Their arms are frozen in awkward positions, hands gone in some cases, and the skin between their forearms and upper arms is webbed. I can only imagine this is due to the fact that their skin healed while their arms were folded in, thanks to inadequate health care. But I don't know.
I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.
What can I do to help? I don't know. I give money, but that's not a solution. And sometimes, after filling my eyes with these personal tragedies, I just want to close my eyes and hug my children.
I know there are some out there who will criticize me for wanting to close my eyes. That's ok. Or maybe I am criticizing myself. Mother Theresa would have gotten out of the car and taken these people home with her I suppose. But I think we all know she was a saint and I, most certainly, am not.
The first meeting of the American Women's Club is coming up soon. I'm hoping to learn more about ways I can chip in at that meeting. And I am hoping that when the time comes to give until it hurts, I have the courage to do so.
On my drive home from the school every day, I see a man about my age who walks on all fours. I don't know if his disability is due to injury or birth defect, but he has a strong upper body and shriveled legs. He wears flips flops on his hands in addition to his feet, and he weaves through the traffic begging for money. He spends his entire day with his face near the pavement breathing in exhaust fumes. Even when he is resting, he sits on the curb, inches from the traffic. You can't see him when he comes to your car to ask for money; you can only see his hand tapping on the glass.
Yesterday, on our way across the bridge, I saw a boy about 10- or 12-years-old sitting on the median. He was wrapped in what looked like paper tied around his middle, but from the chest up and waist down, he was naked. Did I really just see that? So I wonder ... what could be wrong? Is he mentally disabled? Addicted to drugs at a young age? I don't know, but he seemed to be all alone.
Last week, it was a young man and I assume his little sister. She was tiny and confined to a wheel chair. I supposed she was quite lucky to even have a chair. Were they alone? Do their parents care for them? I don't know.
And more often than I can bear, I see a group of boys who have been badly disfigured by burns. Their arms are frozen in awkward positions, hands gone in some cases, and the skin between their forearms and upper arms is webbed. I can only imagine this is due to the fact that their skin healed while their arms were folded in, thanks to inadequate health care. But I don't know.
I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.
What can I do to help? I don't know. I give money, but that's not a solution. And sometimes, after filling my eyes with these personal tragedies, I just want to close my eyes and hug my children.
I know there are some out there who will criticize me for wanting to close my eyes. That's ok. Or maybe I am criticizing myself. Mother Theresa would have gotten out of the car and taken these people home with her I suppose. But I think we all know she was a saint and I, most certainly, am not.
The first meeting of the American Women's Club is coming up soon. I'm hoping to learn more about ways I can chip in at that meeting. And I am hoping that when the time comes to give until it hurts, I have the courage to do so.
“Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love.”
― Mother Teresa
Hi Susan, I totally understand how you feel...it is really hard to see all the people who are in such great need here. I have found that if you can find your own little niche here...that really helps alot. It's great that you are going to the american women's club meeting. they have some great charities they support.:) meredith:)
ReplyDelete