It was pork chop day at my favorite eatery, ensuring a large, hungry crowd.
I wasn’t in the mood for one of my favorite meats, so I had my usual, an omelet dragged through the garden, and two biscuits. Miss Sue was ever-present with refills of cold sweet tea. The conversation around the table ranged from a community garden project to a new industry to the ball game between UNC and Duke.
As I was headed across the parking lot, I heard a woman fussing to her friend as they stood beside a newish car and an almost-new SUV. Both were well-dressed. She didn’t like her pork chop. It was too big. One edge was too well done.
Wah. Wah. Wah.
Just before I left the office for lunch, I had answered a message from my friend Edward. He runs a hardscrabble orphanage in Uganda.
I am not sure how Edward and I came to know each other on social media. I don’t know many people in Africa; a missionary and a hunting guide are the only ones I can think of. As with so many online friends, it was through some mystical connection created by a computer program. I’m sure it was actually courtesy of the Holy Spirit.
Edward and I have some things in common. We both love animals. We both love children. We both love the Lord.
I write for a living. Edward cuts planks with a chainsaw, trims them by hand and sells them.
I have a good well at home, bottles of water for when the minerals are too strong, and city water when I am at work. Edward and his kids haul water from a muddy spring.
I sleep on a mattress, with clean sheets and a fan or heater at night. Edward and his kids slept mostly on a dirt floor until recently, when someone donated some mattresses to his orphanage. The joy those kids showed bouncing and rolling on those thin mattresses just about broke my heart.
A while back, I asked him for a list of specific things the kids needed. On top of the list was toothbrushes.
I send Edward some money when I can; just a little bit makes a big difference with his operation. I vetted him as best as I could before doing so the first time. After all, there are a lot of orphans in Uganda and elsewhere, and a lot of criminals who use them to make a living off of softhearted Americans. I never found any reference to him, which a reporter over there (a crime reporter with a lot of other responsibilities, like me) assured me was a good thing. It seems that people who don’t run scams or commit crimes don’t often make the news in Uganda.
Edward was named for a Ugandan businessman turned philanthropist, who came to America, was successful, and reinvested his earnings in his homeland.
Every time I send Edward a donation, he sends me photos of how the money is being used. He is concerned that people will think he is not a good steward, or worse, a criminal. I’ve followed him via digital photography from a food seller to the rough place his kids call home, and down the line as the children are fed. Sometimes they get a soft drink with their meal. You can tell the siblings, because invariably the older ones make sure the little ones are fed first.
I love watching the videos, and praying with Edward, and hearing about the children.
If nothing else, it helps me keep things in perspective.
There have been a very, very few times in my life where I was seriously lacking in food or shelter. In each of the cases, it was due to my own poor judgement and pride, and it was always temporary.
Some of Edward’s kids have never known anything but dirt floors, dirty water and bowls of rice.
I have never had to worry about criminals or an army killing or kidnapping my family. Indeed, like most of us in the modern world, I know I have the protection of law enforcement. If someone of nefarious intent does set their sights on me or my family, and 911 is too slow, I can likely give an account of myself, courtesy of the Second Amendment. Yet the likelihood of me having to do so is minuscule.
It’s almost a daily concern for my friend.
When I was sick last year, I was able to go to a doctor, then to a hospital, where I had excellent medical care, as well as followup visits.
Some of Edward’s kids saw their parents die of things we solve with a trip to the drugstore.
I sat in a climate-controlled sanctuary Sunday morning, listening to a sermon amplified over a sound system, reading words from a screen when we sang songs of worship and praise. I had a choice of Bibles to carry with me.
Some of the kids my friend cares for have to learn hymns through repetition, sitting outside on buckets, boards or the bare ground. They don’t all have Bibles, and some can’t read. Still, I suspect their songs and worship make God smile more than many of mine.
I cannot say I have ever been truly desperately poor; I have been poor and broke, but that isn’t the same thing. I always had the opportunity to pull myself back up, as well as folks who stepped up to help in the hard times. I always had hope; not everyone has that luxury.
I don’t expect life to be fair. I am by no means a bleeding heart who feels guilty because I have a roof over my head and plenty to eat. I know where those things come from, and I know they could disappear in two shakes of a goat’s tail. I don’t expect everyone to do something, since that’s a personal choice. I know there are plenty of desperately needy people who are a whole lot closer than Uganda or Ukraine or Bangladesh (I have a missionary friend there, too).
I am not sharing this to boast, by any means. Honestly, I am a little ashamed I don’t do more to help my little buddy Simon (one of Edwards’s kids who has an impish smile and loves to work) and the other kids at Edward’s orphanage. If you want to help Edward or anyone, I appreciate it, but I don’t need to know about it. I know the kids will appreciate it, and that’s all I care about.
I couldn’t help but think of Edward and Little Simon and all those kids as I heard that woman fussing about her pork chop the other day. She helped me be thankful that I don’t sleep on a dirt floor, worrying about my next meal, having to ask for help from strangers on the other side of the world.
Her pork chop helped me keep things in perspective.
