I have been reading a book since August - it's called the Poisonwood Bible. It is a fiction book, but it still really makes me think. I'm getting toward the end of the book now, and two nights ago, one of the daughters finally died. I knew this moment was coming since the prologue of the book - throughout the story the suspense kept building and building. Just when I thought I knew who the unfortunate victim would be, the character would pull out of whatever predicament they were in and you were left wondering how it was all going to end.

When the end finally came for little Ruth May, I cried. Not any of her older sisters - vain, proud and self-focused. In the end, it was dear, sweet little Ruth May. So I cried.

Then I found myself getting angry - at myself. Countless Africans had died throughout the story, yet I never cried for them. But when one little white American died, I cried. Granted, she was a character that the author had developed a history and personality for throughout the story. Was that the only reason I cried? Or did I cry because I can relate to her more - as an American? Did I cry because I can imagine how terrible it would be to be in a scary, foreign place and have someone I loved so much die?

I think it is inevitable to start thinking that it is normal for children to die in the rural villages of third world countries. Why? Because, unfortunately, it is true. It is normal - it is a part of life. Does it hurt them any less? I am not sure. On one hand, they know to expect it, and chances are they have already experienced much death by the time that one of their children die. Does it make it hurt any less? Or does it only make it that much more agonizing to lose yet another person that they love?

I think there is a dangerous line between acknowledging that it is normal for children to die in third world countries and accepting that children die in third world countries. It is normal, but that does not mean it needs to stay that way. It does not mean that a death of someone in a third world country is any less tragic than the death of an American. I get so angry with the American media for focusing on such petty stories (relative to the stories around the world and the suffering of people around the world), but am I really any different than them?

I was reading BBC Africa online the other day and came across a story about a British couple that was murdered in Mombasa, Kenya (where my team spent a few days on vacation). It freaked me out. "Oh my goodness, we were there! If they killed that British couple, they might have killed us! How sad for their family." It made me question whether or not I really wanted to go back to Kenya - I mean, it is so unsafe.

How does that line of thinking make me any different from the media? Sure, I am not the one picking the stories to report on, but the stories about Americans and white people getting murdered are the ones that make my feel uncomfortable. They are the ones that evoke a deep, strong emotional response. I read stories about the Turkana dying from the drought, and yes, I cry. I think it is so terrible that they are dying from lack of water and food when we could be helping them. I want to make a difference, but I connect so much stronger with stories about the privileged white people. They are the stories that make me shudder and feel dread in my heart.

I suppose it is only normal to feel more emotional over the death of someone in your family. I would be much more distraught if I lost one of my siblings than if one of my friend's lost theirs. I would feel very bad for my friend, and I probably would cry. It would be worse if it was one of my own family members, though. I think that is kind of my mentality when I hear about bad things happening to the people who live in Mombasa, versus bad things happening to tourists to Mombasa, specifically tourists from the western world.

I don't want it to be that way. I like to think as Africans being as much family to me as people from America. I spent six months in their land. I learned their customs and some of their language. I cried with them and I learned to struggle through some of the same things they struggle with. I came to care about the things they care about and began to adapt more and more to their way of life. In those six months, they became my people. I want them to be just as much my people as my fellow Americans, if not more so. I want to align myself with the poor and those who struggle. I do not want to align myself with the greedy and the powerful.

Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn,
for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek,
for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
for they will be filled.

So, I am again faced with the question that haunts me daily these days. How do I put this into practice in my life? How do I turn from my greedy and selfish ways and learn to live a life that seeks justice, equality and love for all? It's not just something that I personally want to do. It's truly what Jesus would do. Jesus would not sit in his house in his well-off suburban neighborhood and build his comfortable empire. He would be out among the poor and needy, giving of Himself and meeting the needs of those around Him.

I want to pour myself out and meet the needs of those around me, but I feel so weak and so small.

Sources:
The Poisonwood Bible: A Novel, By Barbara Kingsolver
BBC - Arrests over Kenya tourist deaths
Matthew 5, NIV, Bible Gateway