Tag: Living With (But Not In) Poverty Page 5 of 8

How You Spend Can Be Just As Important As How You Give

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On March 2, 2016

In Living Like a Missionary, Poverty

When you live in one of the world’s poorest countries, you often feel like everyone needs your money.  And well, most of them probably do.

I used to be wracked with guilt.  Every time I ate meat, went out to dinner, or put gas in my car, I would mentally calculate how it compared to the average Tanzanian’s weekly wage.  Spending money on anything they didn’t have–whether it be toilet paper or a refrigerator–made me feel guilty.

And we do give.  We always look for ministries to support and worthy recipients of donations.  But over time, I learned a really important lesson:  How I spend can be just as important as how I give.  

The money I spend (which originates from many of you) is daily being infused into the Tanzanian economy.  I can choose where it goes.  Who am I going to invest in today?  It’s actually a pretty fun way to spend money.

When our washing machine breaks, and I hire a technician, I am supporting his family.  When I buy pineapples on the side of the road, I’m helping that vendor send his kids to school.  When my language helper comes to my house, I’m helping her save money to open a shop in her neighborhood.

Every day, every time I hand over cash, I am helping to build people’s lives.  Often, that means I make conscious choices about how I spend it.  For example:

  • I try to buy groceries from small shops instead of always shopping at the large stores.
  • As much as possible, I buy food that was produced in Tanzania or Kenya.
  • I hire a gal to come to the house and braid the girls’ hair instead of doing it myself.
  • I buy gifts for friends from local artisans instead of Amazon.com.
  • I pay for the shoe repair guy to fix up my son’s shoes instead of purchasing new ones.
  • When I eat out, I don’t always go to the nicest places, and I try to tip well.
  • I hire a seamstress to sew my daughter a dress instead of buying a new one online.

Everything I need is an opportunity to give someone a job.


Need to buy a knife?  Have it sharpened?  Here’s your guy!  And I wouldn’t mess with him….

We also have two full-time workers, even though we don’t really need full-time help.   By paying them good wages, we also support our house worker’s kids and our gardener’s grandmother.  Two families are sustained, and as a result, we have more time for ministry.

I’ve wondered how I would apply this way of thinking if I ever moved back to the States.  Even there, could I help the people around me by how I spend money?  Of course.

Could I seek out the plumber who is just getting started?  The gardener who just moved to America?  The hair stylist who doesn’t speak much English?  Could I use Etsy to buy gifts?  Could I hire someone to mow my lawn even though I am capable of doing it myself?  Or walk my dogs or be my nanny?  Could I eat at the local diner instead of the big chain restaurant, and leave a big tip?

The difference is that in Tanzania, I am surrounded by these kinds of opportunities, and in America, I might have to seek them out.  It might mean frequenting businesses that could be considered on “the wrong side” of town.  It could mean dealing with the inconvenience of working with someone who is not fluent in English.  It could mean paying more for stuff that would be cheaper at Walmart.  It might require the sacrifice of time or comfort.  But shouldn’t that be okay?

But the point is that it’s possible to help poor and disadvantaged people beyond just donating gifts to a charity at Christmas, volunteering at a homeless shelter, or even buying free trade coffee at Starbucks.  We can “distribute our wealth” simply by how and where we choose to spend our money.

Those of us who are rich should be burdened for others who could use our money.  By all means, let’s be generous.  But let’s also consider those who could really use our business.  Sometimes, that can help even more.

I Really Did Grow Up to Be a Princess

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On November 1, 2015

In Other

When I was a little girl, I often imagined I was a princess.  I loved the idea of being able to have anything I wanted.  I had only one Cabbage Patch doll, while a girl in my class had sixteen.  In my imaginary palace, I had a whole room full of them.

What I didn’t realize is that I already was nobility, and I still am.

After all, I am one of thetop 1% richest people in the world, even on a missionary’s salary.  If you make over $30,000 a year, you are too.  If that’s not a princess, I don’t know what is.

Growing up, I never felt wealthy in America.  My parents lived on the “undesirable” side of town.  My family never had a new car.  My parents wouldn’t buy me a senior class ring.  A girl in my class received $150 a month for her allowance.  I had to work for the $20 a month that I received.

It didn’t change as an adult.  When I was teaching kindergarten and Gil was in seminary, it seemed everyone had more than me.  I drove a dumpy little Hyundai.  Gil and I have never owned a house, and our apartment was full of used furniture.  Everyone else had nicer clothes, fancy kitchens with marble counter tops, weekly pedicures, and gym memberships.  I felt…poor.  And I felt kind of sorry for myself.

Then I moved to Tanzania.  We moved into a modest-sized house, average for California…but most Tanzanians live in one room.  We have electricity and indoor plumbing, which puts us in the top 10% of residents.  We own one 1999 Toyota mini-van, but the vast majority of Tanzanians are lucky to have even a bike.  I have a college education, when only 5% of Tanzanians finish high school.

Suddenly, I was a princess.

Just yesterday, I was talking to a Tanzanian friend about her financial struggles.  She has a sixth grade education.  She receives $100 a month from her job, plus whatever else she can make selling charcoal.  She supports three young children and a good-for-nothing husband who continually cheats on her. Twenty percent of her income goes to childcare, so that she can work.  Ten percent goes to her daughter’s (supposedly free) public school education.  At least sixty percent of her salary goes towards food.  She lives in two rooms, cooks outside, and walks a few blocks to bring home water.  Her life, in Tanzania, is average.  She’s not even considered the poorest of the poor.

Living here has done wonders for my level of contentment.  Sure, there are still people around me who are much richer than I am.  Not everyone in Tanzania is poor!  But when the vast majority is scratching by on so much less, suddenly my 1999 mini-van looks like a queen’s carriage.  The air conditioner in my bedroom puts me in a palace.  The never-ending supply of food in my refrigerator, the trips to the beach, the occasional dinner at a restaurant–all put me in the category of The Privileged.

In America, it was much harder to see myself this way.  I was constantly bombarded by advertisements, shopping malls, and friends’ houses, all telling me that I wanted more, deserved more, needed more.  In a country where even food stamp recipients get $400 a month, it’s easy to feel poor.

I’ve noticed that whenever I feel discontent with what I have, it’s because I am comparing up.  He has a nicer house than me.  She had a better vacation than I will ever have.  Why does she have that, and I don’t?  American commercialism, in general, encourages this.

But if the statistics are true, and Americans hold half of the world’s wealth, and anyone who makes $30,000 a year is in the top 1%…..well, then shouldn’t we be comparing down?  It may seem that everyone around us has more than us, when in reality, in the grand scope of the world, we are the ones who have more….than pretty much everyone else.

I’m not about feeling guilty for being rich.  And I’ve written many timesbefore on what I think us rich people should do with all our wealth.  Today, I’m just thinking about contentment.  About entering this holiday season with the perspective of someone who is one of the richest people in the world.  Instead of comparing up, comparing down.  Americans spend more on Halloween than the entire world spends on malaria in a year.  Americans spend $465 billion on Christmas every year, and only $6.3 billion to fight AIDS overseas.

Someday, just like the servant who received 10 talents, I’ll have to stand before God and give account of how I spent my money.  I think He’ll expect me to own up to being rich.  At the very least, I can start with being content with what He has given me.  After all, there’s not much more that’s disturbing than an ungrateful, dissatisfied princess.

Wailing

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On October 21, 2015

In Life in Tanzania, Poverty

Last week, the wailing crept through our open windows.  I instantly recognized the sound:  Someone nearby had died.

The funeral proceedings, which last for a few days, were set up right outside the wall around our  yard.  A hundred people sat on mats and plastic chairs.  Sometimes they sang.  Sometimes they wailed.  Sometimes they just chatted quietly.

Eventually, I got the story.  A young woman had died.  She was only 32 years old, was married, and had four children.  She lived a bit down the street from our house, but her father and sister live next door to us.  We didn’t know her, but her children had played in our yard with our kids.

She died suddenly, of a strange illness that came on very quickly.  They described it to me as “pressure” in her chest.  Her heart?  I asked.  Yes, they said.  I’m not sure what to make of that.  Maybe a heart attack?  But at age 32?  She had been healthy, they said.  They just shook their heads sadly and shrugged their shoulders.

It’s a story I’ve heard over and over again.  The lunch cook at HOPAC died suddenly this past July.  She had only been married two weeks.  A student from our training program lost two baby boys when each was only 9 months old.  A friend lost twin babies.  Another friend lost two sisters within two years.  And on.  And on.  All from strange, unexplained illnesses.

In Swahili, when someone gets better from an illness, you use the expression Amepona.  Since it was always used with illness, I assumed it meant He has recovered.  For example, if your friend was down with a bad cold and misses a couple of days of work, when he comes back, you might ask him how he is doing.  Nimepona, he will respond.  I am better.

One day, Lucy (my language tutor) and I were working on the story of Noah’s Ark.  When we got to the part about Noah and his family living through the flood, Lucy said to me, Walipona.

Walipona! I repeated in surprise.  But Noah and his family were not sick!  So I got out my dictionary and looked up kupona.

The literal translation is not to recover.  The literal translation is to survive.

In English when someone is sick, we would only say He survived if we were talking about a victim of cancer or a heart attack.  But when referring to recovery from a common cold, a headache, or the stomach flu, we say, He recovered or He got better.

So what I discovered is that in Swahili, when you recover from any illness, the response is literally translated as I survived.

After living here all these years, after hearing of person after person dropping dead for unknown reasons, listening to the stories of almost every mother losing a child, I am beginning to understand.

Of course, I don’t really understand, because I have access to the best health care in Tanzania, and if that doesn’t suffice, I have access to better health care anywhere in the world.  I really know nothing of the fear and apprehension of imminent illness and death.

The United States has 2.3 doctors for every 1000 people.

Tanzania has .02 doctors for every 1000 people, one of the lowest ratios in the world.

Once again, I am reminded of how privileged I really am.  Once again, I ask what else God expects of me for blessing me so much.

Today, thank God if you live in a country where recovery is expected and survival is the norm.  And pray for four young children–Vale, Tony, Aaron, and Jackie, who have just lost their mother and may never know why.

Two Young Men, One Shirt

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On January 7, 2015

In Other

Every time I drive to town, I see them.  Young men, standing on the streets and sidewalks, walking amongst the cars stuck in traffic, peddling their wares.

They sell cell phone cords, blow-up toys, packs of gum, cashew nuts, handkerchiefs, fried termites, bags of apples.  A couple times we’ve even seen a guy with a full aquarium on his head–fish, water, and all.

On this particular day, I noticed one young man in particular.  He was selling boxes of tissues, but it was his shirt that stood out to me.  The light changed before I could get a picture, but when I came home, I did a search to see if I could find an image of that same shirt.

Lo and behold, you can find anything on Google.  This was his shirt:

I also discovered that there are a number of varieties of this particular slogan.

Oh, the irony.

This guy very likely has no idea what his shirt says.  If he was educated enough to know English, he wouldn’t be selling boxes of tissues for a living.  

He will never own a car.  He will never go to high school, because only about 7% of Tanzanians get that privilege.  He probably makes the equivalent of a dollar or two in profit every day, after standing 12 hours in the equator sun, selling his boxes of tissues.

We’ll never know what his “talents” really are, because he will have no opportunity to develop them.  He’s never even dared to have a “vision,” because he is locked in a worldview that tells him that Africans are poor and will always be poor.  

But one thing I know for sure:  He most certainly does “give a shit.”  He most certainly does care about the status of his life.  Who on earth is satisfied with a life selling tissues on the side of the road? 

This young man bought this shirt, I’m sure, from a pile of T-shirts in an open air market.  These shirts were shipped over from America, cast-offs from U.S. thrift stores, and he probably paid about 25 cents for it.

So then I thought about the young man (assume with me for a moment) who purchased this shirt for $19.99 in America, and wore it with pride.  I’m sure he thought it was funny.  

Funny as he barely passed his classes at his (free) high school.

Funny as he decided to “find himself” before starting his (heavily subsidized) college education. 

Funny as he sat on his mother’s couch, eating his mother’s food, playing video games after he came home from his part-time job at age 25.

Funny as he spent his weekends and his wages on partying.

These two young men, on two opposite sides of the world, couldn’t be more different.  

One who has every opportunity at his fingertips, and is squandering it.  

The other who would give his right arm for that opportunity, and will probably never get it.  


From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked.  

Beyond Christmas Shoeboxes: Building a Heart of Compassion in Our Children…and Ourselves

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On January 14, 2014

In Operation Christmas Child, Poverty

The most important starting place is to understand the difference between

Compassion

and

Pity.

Pity is me up here and you down there.  Pity is I’m rich and You’re poor.

Pity is condescending.  Pity is feeling sorry for you.

Pity makes guilt the motivator.

Compassion is coming alongside.  Compassion is We both have needs; how can we help each other?  

Compassion is trying to understand.  How would I want to be treated if I were in this situation?



Compassion makes love the motivator.

So here are some ideas to help develop compassion in our children.  This list is not exhaustive.  Feel free to add your own ideas.

1.  For one school season, buy all your child’s clothes at thrift stores or garage sales.  Buying used clothing is the only reality for the majority of the world’s population.  Experience this reality with your child.  Talk about what it feels like.  Then allow your child to take the money you saved and pick out a donation from a gift catalog such as Harvest of Hope.  (which is a great way to give because it helps a poor family develop sustainable income).  That’s one of my favorite gift catalogs, but there are many good ones out there.

2.  Eat exclusively beans, rice, and vegetables every night for a week.  Again–a reality for much of the world.  Take the money you save and pick out a donation.

3.  Travel on your local bus with your kids every once in a while.  Observe.  Talk with them about what life would feel like without a car.

4.  Read and pray through this fantastic book with your kids.  Let’s hope the publishers put out a newer version soon!  (This is more about missions than poverty, but there is a lot of crossover.)

5.  Go to a low-income area in your city.  Shop where they shop and/or eat where they eat.  Grocery shop there or have lunch.  You’ll get a new perspective, some new dinner ideas, and probably learn a couple things about different cultures.

6.  Go to your church’s or city’s local food pantry.  Take home a couple bags of food (you can always replace them later).  Eat that food for a week.

Note:  If you are like me, this idea makes you incredibly uncomfortable.  You are probably thinking:  I could never do that.  What if someone I knew saw me?  What if anyone saw me?  How embarrassing!  How humiliating for someone to think I was poor!  And anyway, who wants to eat out of cans and boxes all week?



Exactly.  What makes us think that a “poor” person feels any differently?  Imagine what it would do to your soul if eating from a food pantry was your only option, on a regular basis.

Meditate on those thoughts for a while.

Now….last but not least….my craziest idea…not just for kids, but for whole families:

7.  Consider moving into a low-income neighborhood.  I wonder, why is this so radical?  It’s definitely a calling, and it won’t be realistic for most families.  I understand that, but can we at least pray about it?  Many middle-class churches have low-income neighborhoods literally next door. How amazing would it be if a team of church members deliberately moved in–as neighbors, as equals, as friends?  To come alongside, to partner together, to share lives, to problem-solve together?  Now, that would be a way to teach our kids compassion.

With most of these ideas, you could say, But Amy, these activities are not actually going to help the poor. 

No, they are not.  But at least they won’t hurt the poor, which is what can happen sometimes with our well-meaning attempts to teach our children compassion.  And when we have built up compassion and true understanding for the poor in our children, and in ourselves, that’s when we are ready to really start making a difference.

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