Recognizing our need for a vacation, we booked four tickets, packed our bags, and headed to Mexico with Randy’s parents for what we thought would be a relaxing and inconsequential break from our hectic lives. The trip was a typical vacation filled with sun, fun, and sand castles, except for one thing. One day we took a van ride with several other tourists to an attraction several miles from our hotel. The lighthearted conversation between the passengers eventually arrived at the question, “What would you do if you won the lottery?” The answers ranged from sailing around the world in yachts to telling bad bosses where to go. I thought we had left our conflicted hearts at home to enjoy this break from reality, but when it was my turn to answer I heard myself saying, “I would like to make a difference for the poor people of the world.” The other passengers looked intrigued as Mike Milbach, a friend of Randy’s parents, spoke up saying, “You don’t have to win the lottery to do that.”
The remark would have sounded condescending had he not continued in a kind tone with an invitation. “I am a member of the board of directors of a Seattle-based organization called Public Health International (PHI), and we are working in Ecuador to place drinking water systems in villages plagued by waterborne disease.” He further explained that he wanted to put us in contact with a friend who would be traveling to Ecuador to visit villages that were being considered for the installation of water systems. We exchanged email addresses, and the wheels in my mind began spinning. Did he mean that he wanted us to actually go to Ecuador? That was in South America, right?
Within days of returning home I received an email from Mike’s friend, Frank, a civil engineer who indeed formally invited us to join him on a trip to visit some of the poorest villages of the Santa Elena peninsula in western Ecuador. Randy’s immediate reaction was, “No way! This is dangerous territory. There are civil wars, guerillas, banditos . . .” He mentioned various other scary things that I now refer to as “monsters under the bed.” But we knew that the resources God had given us were intended to be used for His purposes and, eager to put our faith into action, we offered to sponsor a water system. It was November of 2001, and we were on a plane bound for Ecuador, only a few months after the van ride in Mexico that had become the first of many stepping stones toward God’s ultimate plan for our lives. We fell in love with the Latin American culture. The simplicity of the lifestyle and the kind, gentle nature of the people were inspiring, as was the gratitude they felt for the little they had. We wondered how so many in our country could have so much and be so miserable, while the people of this country could be so poor, yet so content. We had not seen the suffering of Guatemala, so with our limited perspective, the poverty of Ecuador seemed extreme. The idea of living without indoor plumbing alone seemed like hell on earth to us.
On our first day on the Santa Elena Peninsula, we settled into Manglaralto, a small oceanfront fishing town where we would be based as we spent the next few days visiting villages being considered for water systems. Frank took us to a local hospital to illustrate the contrast between the health care in rural Ecuador and that of urban America. We were appalled. The floors of the few small dingy rooms were caked with dried blood, and the striking lack of medical equipment and supplies called into question what, if any, medical care could be provided in the facility. A lone nurse passed from patient to patient, but there were no doctors present. We happened upon a nine-year-old boy whose eye socket was swollen to the size of a tennis ball with infection. His mother sat helplessly by his side in a state of despair, having been told that her son needed an antibiotic costing nearly a month’s worth of her husband’s wages, which she did not have. Without the medication, the infection would most likely spread to the other eye, and the boy could be left without sight in either eye. To make matters worse, the boy’s mother was living with the remorse of having tried various home remedies that had worsened the condition. The situation was translated to English for us since we then spoke very little Spanish. Tears welled in my eyes as my thoughts turned to our own daughters and how easily we would have been able to solve this problem for them. I thought of the life-threatening illnesses common in this country and how often parents must watch their children suffer and die for lack of resources to purchase medications that would have saved their lives. They loved their children as much as I loved mine, and it occurred to me that I had done nothing to earn my lot in life. My life of privilege was a result of the geographic location of my birth and the opportunities that my country had afforded me. I had always been aware that thousands of children around the world died each day due to unsafe drinking water, starvation, and preventable disease. But now the problem was becoming real and personal to me in ways I could no longer ignore. Apathy, preoccupation with “the good life,” and the responsibilities of home would never gain be sufficient as an excuse to live as if the suffering in the world was not my problem.
The medication the boy needed was available in a neighboring town, and we asked the nurse to determine the cost and send word to us at Manglaralto’s small rundown ocean front hotel where we would be waiting at a table outside. The sun was setting over the sea as a few tattered fishing boats returned to shore, their captains unloading meager rewards for a long day’s work. The sound of rhythmic waves lapped upon the shore while wild dogs searched the beach for food. They, like the fisherman, survived from day to day on the outcome of their quest for sustenance. Eventually we noticed the boy’s mother slowly approaching us, her downcast eyes expressing no hope or expectation of the miracle she needed. In her hand she held a scrap of paper on which was written the cost of the medication needed to save her son’s eyesight. She handed it to me without making eye contact. Twenty-five dollars was the insurmountable sum of money that would save her son from a lifetime of blindness. I stood up, reached into my waist pack, pulled out $25, and handed it to her unceremoniously. She burst into tears. Randy was next, followed by the members of the hotel staff that had been standing on the front steps of the hotel observing. As all within earshot watched in tears, the boy’s mother gushed expressions of appreciation in Spanish, most of which we could not understand. Her repeated phrase, “Que Dios les recompense,” were the only words I could decipher, which meant “May God repay you.” After several minutes exuding heartfelt expressions of gratitude, she hurried off to purchase the medication. We were amazed to find ourselves overcome with emotion over such a miniscule contribution given at so little sacrifice. The $25 would have been spent without hesitation on a few scones and lattes back home, but here it meant the difference between vision and blindness for a child.
Evening fell, and Frank led us to the humble household of a family that had invited us to dinner, having heard we had come to help their villages. This was a large family that would have been considered wealthy in this culture, but as we entered the small dimly-lit cinder block home, we were confused to find that we were being seated at a table set for three. A mangy rat the size of a small raccoon scurried around the perimeter of the room, as Frank explained that they wished to honor us, but could not afford to feed their family the meal they were about to serve us. The fare was familiar: a small slice of beef, a mound of white rice, and refried black beans. Apparently, it was considered a privilege for this family to have us in their home, and as hard as it was to bring ourselves to eat a meal that would have been such a special treat for them, we had no choice but to enjoy their generous gift and express our gratitude for their hospitality. In reality, it was we who were honored to have been treated so kindly.
Leaving our gracious hosts we shuffled back toward the hotel, exhausted while at the same time wired from the emotional impact of the day. The next day would be action-packed, and we needed rest, but knew we could not possibly sleep. Frank bid us goodnight and disappeared to his room, so Randy and I walked the dusty streets alone, reflecting on the day. We enjoyed the ocean air blended with the aroma of burning wood wafting from the kitchens of the humble homes that lined the streets. The world seemed to move in slow motion, and I relished the sense of peace and calm. At home I would have been dealing with the tyranny of email, paying bills, doing mounds of laundry or possibly collapsing to read a magazine, feeling lazy and guilty for taking a few moments to relax while my endless “to-do” list waited.
Eventually we happened upon a small dimly-lit tienda cluttered to capacity with snacks, cigarettes, and sundries. We bought a couple of beverages, and as we sat on the cement steps to unwind, three generations of the family that owned the shop emerged from the living quarters behind to greet us and welcome us to their town. The little Spanish I had learned thus far was nearly useless, but the five years of French I had taken in high school and college was helpful in communicating general concepts, since many verbs and adjectives are similar between French and Spanish. Randy, armed with his endearing sense of humor and a few vague memories of high school Spanish, led the conversation with a comedy of charades. The language barrier was extreme but the mutual sentiments were clear—we were happy to be there, and they were happy to have us. We had brought simple gifts: candles, nuts, candy, and Bibles which we pulled from our back packs and offered as a sign of our gratitude for their warm welcome. We laughed until we cried like life-long friends, amazed at the bond that could so quickly be formed among strangers from distant lands speaking different languages. We were having “fun” in the deepest sense we had experienced in quite some time, and, although we did not yet realize it, the wheels of change were turning within us.
Weariness finally caught up with us, and it was time to return to our tiny hotel room, joyfully exhausted, to collapse and try to sleep. As we approached the dwelling, however, we realized that our rest would be postponed a bit longer. The dark silhouette of a thin man on a bike in front of the hotel caught us by surprise. When we were within earshot, softly spoken words of gratitude poured forth from the visitor, at which point the communication barrier became a serious problem. I vowed that my top priority upon returning home would be to become fluent in Spanish. The man was the father of the boy who had received the benefits of our paltry $25 donation. He had ridden his bike into town from his mountain village eight miles away, after ten hours of work, to personally thank us for our generosity. His family had been praying for a miracle for his son, and he considered us to be the answer to their many prayers. Tears streamed from his eyes as we again heard the phrase, “Que Dios les recompensa.” I wished I had been able to communicate to the man that God had paid us in advance. He had blessed our lives immensely, and we were there to express our gratitude to Him and to be a sign of His love for this family.