Fiction/Non-Fiction |Return to Fiction/Non-Fiction Table of Contents

Jenny Brown

A Life-Changing Journey

In October of 2005, I arrived in the beautiful country of Guatemala to spend a month learning the language and culture with my brother and my best friend, Marie. Stepping outside the airport, we found ourselves in the midst of a rush of people, cars, and buses. As we waited for our taxi, my attention was drawn to an old woman sitting on the cobblestone sidewalk resting her frail body against a wall. A small, empty, wooden bowl was beside her. Her wrinkled face and hands were all that could be seen beneath her blue- gray cloak. People passed by seeming not to notice her presence. As I gazed upon her, our eyes met, and my heart was broken by the pleading look on her face. Not knowing what else to do, I dropped some quetzals in her bowl. Slowly clasping her hands together, she whispered in a hoarse voice, “Gracias, senorita, gracias.” As I walked away, questions arose in my mind. Wasn’t there something more that could be done? Was there a way to give her a better life? My travel experiences among the poor and destitute changed my life and gave me a stronger desire to make a difference in the lives of others.

During the evening, while driving to Antigua, we were able to take in the sights and sounds of the countryside as our taxi slowly inched its way through a maze of cars and buses. The constant stopping and starting and the exhaust gave a nauseating effect. Soon the pavement came to an end, and a dirt road wound its way up towards the city. From my taxi window, a picture of Guatemalan life unfolded before me, with women in native dress walking steadily up the hill while balancing large woven baskets on their heads. Children with calloused feet and dusty clothes clung tightly to their mothers’ dresses. Each bend in the road held new images and kept our eyes transfixed on what lay ahead. To my amazement, a woman wearing heels and a business suit passed by a tattered dirty family, each of whom was heavily laden down with a bundle of firewood. Further up the hill, a man bent with age and wearing dusty clothes was dragging a log slowly behind him. Finally, resting my head against the seat, my eyes closed to what seemed like a giant anthill come to life. After hours of bumping along and being intoxicated with fumes, we reached our haven of rest, Antigua.

During our first week, we began our language studies and our exploration of the city. As we walked the cobblestone streets, we soaked in the life of Antigua. The houses were a burst of colors of oranges, yellows, greens, and purples. Flowering vines hung over the walls, cascading their way down to the sidewalk. Suddenly, a woman wearing a blue dress and veil appeared in front of us, motioning us to come into her store. A tiny baby tied in a colorful sling clung to her back, blinking his little brown eyes at us. The mother spoke in English, saying, “Come look, good price I have.” As we continued towards the center of town, the voices filled the air around us with the demands to “Come see, good price!” People swarmed like bees around vendors, and the air was filled with spicy, exotic smells. When we reached Parque de Central, the crowds of people absorbed us into the culture of their world.

Stepping out of the busy crowd, a young boy stood covered in black grease, holding a dirty rag and a small bottle of shoe polish. Stretching out his little arm, he asked if he could clean my brother’s shoes with the same pleading look that had been on the old woman’s face. Working intently, he polished and buffed the shoes until they gleamed. Smiling and blinking his little black eyes, he eagerly held out his greasy little hand for the well-earned money. My brother rewarded him, and he vanished into the crowd as quickly as he had appeared. He left me wondering where he lived and how he survived such an uncertain life. It would soon be evident the city had many little street boys struggling to make a living for their families. The same feelings of desperation and sadness overwhelmed me. How could a difference be made with so many people begging at every corner? Whenever we ventured out, we were met with new pleading faces, and each time my heart was filled with more compassion for their suffering.

One evening, while we sat in a restaurant, a little girl appeared at our table. Her scraggly, long, dark hair hung down over her tiny shoulders, and she wore a soiled white dress. She smiled, reaching her little hand into her shoulder bag and bringing out half a dozen handmade miniature dollies. Placing them neatly in a row on our table, she studied our faces and asked which ones we liked. A short distance away, her mother stood waiting in the shadows. The silhouette of her dress clinging to her bony frame could be seen in the dim light coming from the surrounding shops. She waited patiently with her hands clenched together, and I knew desperation to survive must have driven her to send her child amongst strangers to beg. My mind was flooded with feelings of pity, anger, and sadness. “How could this happen?” “Why does it have to be this way?” These memories would stay etched in my mind forever, giving me a determination to bring God’s love to the lost and needy of this world.

One month later, overlooking Matamoros, Mexico, Marie and I were hammering away building the walls of Nueva Esperanza ( New Hope) orphanage. Wiping the sand and sweat from our faces, we smiled down at the small band of orphan boys who worked beside us. Their little black eyes and bright smiles shone out from their dirty faces. Tired of the work, they dropped their hammers on the dusty ground, begging us to play with them. As they pulled at us with squeals of laughter, we relented and joined them in their play.

Glancing down on the village of Matamoros, I realized there were thousands more who were in need of faith, hope, and love. My travel experiences among the poor and destitute changed my life and gave me a stronger desire to make a difference in the lives of others. My mind drifted back to a story. “A grandfather and his grandson walked along a beach covered with starfish baking in the sun. They had been washed onto the shore with the morning tide and lay helplessly dying. The old grandfather was picking up one starfish at a time and throwing it back out into the sea. After plodding along for some time behind his grandfather, the little boy said, ‘Grandfather, there are far too many, and it won’t make any difference.’ Picking up another starfish, the grandfather said, ‘For this one, it makes all the difference in the world!’”