Happy New Year!

As I walked along the side of the main road in Solwezi, Zambia, I noticed the small town was busier than usual because of the holiday. I adjusted my backpack and waited for a pause in the flow of traffic so I could cross the street. People were pushing past me on both sides, jostling me around. I hurried out after a taxi bus whizzed past and made it safely to the other side. Crossing the street is always a challenge here because the cars are on the opposite sides of the road as they are in America and I tend to look the wrong way by habit while crossing. Every time I make it across I send up a silent thanks.

I stepped into a small restaurant and walked up to the counter. There was a man already ordering so I stood behind him to wait my turn. Naders was hot and stuffy, as usual, and I was already beginning to perspire after a few seconds of waiting.

When the man finished and took his food, I stepped up to order. Nader saw me and smiled, "A Shawarma?" he asked, in his Middle Eastern accent. His broad face was glistening with sweat and he leaned on the counter to wait for my answer. There was a fan blowing in the corner of the room, but it did little to help the heat coming from the large stove. "Yes, please. One shwarma and a bottle of water." He nodded and, spinning around, he began to prepare it. I dug into my wallet for a K20,000 and handed it to the young Zambian man at the register.


Once I had my plate and water, I headed outside to sit at a small, plastic table on the sidewalk--it was too hot to eat inside. I scooted my chair up to the table and sat my backpack under my feet. After saying a silent prayer for my lunch, I began to unwrap the shawarma, aware that there were eyes watching my every move.

I tried to ignore the street kids who were kneeling on the ground watching me eat with hopeful eyes. I wanted so badly to help them, but there were too many for me, as I can't just give to one child and not the other. I sat my shawarma down and took a drink of water--their eyes following every movement carefully.

One of the children walked up to the table, a little boy. "Madam, give me bottle," he said, pointing to my water. I told him no and continued eating. He circled in front of my table and stood watching the traffic go by. He was a young boy, probably about eight or nine. He was skinny with a large, swollen belly and was barefooted, despite the filth of the ground.

His faded red shirt was much too large for him and torn in many places and his shorts were completely torn on one side, revealing a bare bottom. His hands and legs were dusted with the light colored dirt, and he had several bald spots on his head because of a fungus common among the poor.

He turned back around to watch me and then walked back over. "Madam, give me bottle." I turned to the side and saw some older street boys watching. I knew if I gave him the bottle, they would beat him and take it away. So, again, I told him no. He walked away, dragging his bare feet so that they made a scuffing noise on the dirty concrete.

I finished my shawarma in a hurry and pushed my plate away. Leaning back, I closed my eyes and let the bright sun hit my face. It was hot today, just as it always was after a big rain. I heard a small noise beside me and opened my eyes to see a small little boy standing there grinning. I often saw this boy when I came to town.

He looked to be about seven and was always smiling. I got the impression that he wasn't quite all there, like maybe he had a mental disability. I smiled, despite myself, and he smiled even bigger. He pointed at my plate where a few pieces of chicken had fallen out of my wrap. I pushed the plate toward him, eyeing the older boys. He grabbed the wrapper and unintentionally sent the chicken pieces flying. There was a big scuffle as four or so boys fought for the dime-sized meat chunks that were now scattered on the ground. Thankfully, he got a piece of it, but it was hardly a bite. I watched painfully as he received a few blows from his fellow street mates. He yelped and ducked, but I could see the satisfaction in his face.

Not wanting to see any more, I stood and took my plate inside and left to go to Shoprite for my groceries. As I walked across the dirt parking lot I came across the same little boy. "Sir, bottle," he said, pointing to the water I was now carrying. I looked around for the older boys and, seeing they were distracted, I quickly handed him the bottle of water. He smiled up at me and I rubbed his head with affection and patted him on the back. I really wanted to take him into my arms and tell him that God loved him and everything would be okay, but I resisted. Even if he understood English, which I doubt, trying to hug him might scare him. He jumped in the air and ran away with it quickly, kicking up dust as he went. I sighed and continued on to the store where I knew I would be in for more street kids.

Their big dark eyes watched as I scanned the shelves for the type of seasoning I wanted. Not finding it I continued down the crowded aisle. Hearing shuffling behind me, I turned to find a few boys right on my heels. They smiled sheepishly as if being caught doing something wrong. They held out their hands in hope of a hand-out and I shook my head. Turning, I walked away feeling horrible. They continued to follow me.

Later I found my hands full and there was not a basket or shopping cart in sight. I sat my things on a stack of fertilizer bags and looked around. I was tired of walking around this crowded store and was ready to leave. Suddenly, a young boy appeared in front of me holding up a basket. I looked at him wearily and then nodded and started putting my items in the basket. He eagerly helped me.

I motioned for him to follow me to the check out and he obeyed. As we stood in line, he held the basket for me, knowing I would pay him for helping me. It seemed to me that he was trying to hide his excitement. Maybe he knew better than to be hopeful. Life had taught him otherwise.

He was a very good-looking boy of about nine. He had big eyes and long dark eyelashes. He was wearing a heavy coat, despite the heat of the store. The sleeves were pushed up and it looked like it might have been white once. The hood was trimmed with fake fur and the zipper was broken.

Under the jacket I could see his caved-in chest that stuck out over a ratty black tank top that was much too big for him. His belly was very swollen--one of the worst I had seen--and it made his coat stick way out in front. Unlike most of the street children, he was wearing shoes and they looked fairly new. I found myself wondering how he had acquired them.

We waited as the line moved slowly and he looked almost proud to be standing in line holding my basket, but at the same time anxious for the line to get moving. I looked ahead to see how much longer we might be standing there. The store was jam packed with people and it was unbearably hot.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead and tightened the sweatshirt that hung around my waist. It smelled like feet and bad body odor where we were standing and I was feeling faint. What I wouldn't give for a Wal-Mart. I peered across the store to the other lines and couldn't believe how many people were there. I took note that there was only one other white person in sight.

After we made it through the line and the boy bagged my purchases for me. I took the bag from him and handed him some money. He looked at it with big eyes and though he tried not to, he smiled at me. "Thank you, madam." He said quickly and quietly. I smiled back, "You're welcome."

Later as I stood outside the store waiting for my ride, the boy found me again. "Thank you, madam!" He said again, smiling big. I smiled and nodded. "Have a good new year." He hurried off happily and, for a short moment, I felt good.

That was when I saw him. An older man with a pair of crutches sitting against a pole. He saw me and held out his hand, his sad eyes pleading for me to fill it with something. I sat down against the building, took a chocolate bar out of my bag, and begin to unwrap it.


I didn't come to town very often and I always treated myself to a chocolate bar to keep from getting too homesick. His eyes widened as I broke off a chunk and popped it into my mouth. Taking out a bottle of water, I drank some. He was still watching. I rolled my eyes. I can't enjoy things when someone is watching me who I know has nothing. I was filled with an immense amount of guilt. I stood and walked over to him and placed the candy bar in his hand. He nodded, "Thank you very much madam." I sighed and then did my best to smile warmly, "You're welcome."

I picked up my backpack and sack and started walking off. I turned suddenly and, walking back over to him, I handed him my water. He thanked me again and sat it down beside him on the ground while he finished the chocolate. I was so thirsty. Why did I keep giving my water away?


I walked across the busy parking lot full of the thought of these people who were suffering on a daily basis. Begging for what they needed, fighting to survive. I jumped out of the way as a car honked, narrowly missing me. I shook my head trying to rid the thoughts, but I couldn't. There was nothing I could do about it--there were too many problems to fix. The thought haunted me.
I didn't even feel good about the small things I had done, because it wasn't enough. That old man would still be there tomorrow and the next day and the next day after until finally, he would die. The children . . . who knows what would happen to them? The small amount of money I gave the boy seemed like a fortune to him, but how long would it last? A few days? A week? On top of that, there are hundreds of people living on the street here and even more who are going hungry in their homes. What about them?

I absentmindedly bought some tomatoes from a street vendor and went to sit down and have a drink, again. My heart was, and still is, heavy with these happenings. It happens every time I go to town--everything I just described. What can I do? What can anyone do? I suppose the answer is, as much as they can. Maybe if everyone did as much as they could, it would be enough . . . maybe.

For now, one sure thing we can all do is pray. I am asking that you please join me in doing so. It doesn't seem like much, but it is. It is huge and it can make a big difference in the lives of these people. Pray that they find comfort, peace, and the things they need to live. Pray that they will be helped by people who have more. Pray that they don't give up on life, as hard as it can be for them. Most importantly, pray that they come to know Jesus and His love for them. Pray that it is put on someone's heart to teach them about what they are missing. God can do amazing things if we ask Him. Praise God for the blessings He has given us! We should all be thankful.

Happy New Year!