It Matters To That One

Apparently this story has been around for years, but I recently read it in a chapter of -The Whole in Our Gospel by Richard Sterns. It really touched me, particularly in thinking about the constant battle of explaining to people, including Christians, why it is important that we go, why we take the Gospel to the ends of the earth. In a culture of numbers and looking at things based on a scale, especially in considering our effictiveness, this story encouraged me in why we should continue to fly across the globe even if we touch just one hand, one heart, one soul. Here is the story:

One early morning, after a fierce storm had hit the coast, I strolled to the beach for my morning walk. Horrified, I saw that tens of thousands of starfish had been washed up on the beach by the winds and waves. I was saddened by the realization that all of them would die, stranded on the shore, away from the life-giving water. Despairing that there was nothing I could do, I sat down on the sand and put my head in my hands.
But then I heard a sound, I lifted my eyes. There, in the distance, I saw a man bending down and then standing up, bending down and standing up. Curious, I rose and walked toward him. I saw that he was picking up the starfish, one at a time, and throwing them back into the sea.

"What are you doing?' I yelled.
"Saving the starfish," he replied.
"But don't you see, man that there are tens of thousands of them?"
I asked, incredulous. "Nothing you can do will make a difference."

He did not answer me but bent down, picked up another starfish, and cast it back into the water. Then he smiled, looked me in the eye, and said, "It made a difference to that one!"
Adapted from Loren Eiseley, The Star Thrower (New York: Harvest, 1979)

Why do we go? Because it matters to that one. And because they matter to God, they matter to me.

Do you see me?

I have heard that in some countries, in distant lands far away, three year olds like myself are learning how to decipher between their ABC's and 123's. I hear stories of loving parents- both moms and dads, play-gyms, water parks, stuffed animals, big cozy bedrooms filled with things bought or designed specifically for you, drawers overflowing with clothes, and all-you-can eat ice cream, none of which I have ever experienced and still the child in me leaps with imagination! I heard once that when it is your birthday, your parents throw you extravagant parties filled with enough food for an entire village, enough candy to go around for weeks, clowns, ponies or whatever characters you desire, and the presents, oh the presents, they pile up faster than you know what to do with them! Despite my young age, I know that fairy tales are just that, but these stories I hear of children far away I am told are not fiction they are absolutely true. Maybe it is silly but I dream of going there. Not occasionally, not every now and then, I dream of it daily.

You see, it all began one sunny afternoon during a break between classes, where my mother ventured outside school to get a snack, only to wake up in a brothel. She was just twelve years old. In the beginning she fought, and hard. She hurled punches with every ounce of her strength; screamed until her lungs felt as if they would explode. Eventually once the starvation and beatings became severe enough to fear today may be her last, she quit fighting. Then came the dreams- dreams of the police, a family member, a white knight, somebody, anybody, would brave the danger and rescue her. But, when the days became months, which turn into years, and no one comes down a tower to rescue you, you just become numb. All the while, sex-slavery begins at day one. And with every vicious thrust, innocence is shattered and a tiny piece of you dies. Pregnancy is inevitable, but the solution is unfathomable. It is not uncommon for a woman to endure multiple forced abortions. Under little, if any, anesthetic, these procedures are basically butcher jobs and the “employees” are sent back to the “office” within a few hours. Infections and complications are irrelevant to the profit margin; business must go on.

You see, where I come from, a land thousands of miles from the fairy tales I hear of, things are different. I was born into a brothel. I do not know who my father is, nor does my mother. He was just one of the clients she is forced to service on a daily basis. And I was one of the lucky survivors. I have never had my own bedroom, or my own bed. Most days you will find me either roaming the streets with other children or curled up underneath my mother's bed while she works. My imagination is my only escape. 

Our room is the size of a small closet. The air is filled with thick humidity, mildew, sweat and body odor, animals, spices and smoke. The noise, it never stills. It is a constant circle of voices; often yelling, heavy feet climbing stairs, women being paraded in and out like cattle on sale in a stockyard. There is no peace.

At night my mom tells me more of these fairy tales, these incredible visions of life in that distant land, she tells me we will go there someday, and I want to believe her, sometimes I almost do, except I can see the tears welling up in her eyes and I know…

I want to believe, I have to believe that we are not invisible, that somebody sees us. Does anybody see us?

Open your mouth for the mute, for the rights of all who are destitute. Proverbs 31:8