Meet a Statistic

MEET A STATISTIC

by Sarah Corson

I want to tell you a story. Something I have seen, I've touched, I've lived. I want to tell you the day the statistics of the world came alive to me. It happened in Costa Rica, but it could have happened anywhere, perhaps in my own country. Our family moved into a slum area of the capital city, and there I began to see human suffering like I had never known before.

Every morning children waited outside our door until we woke up to ask to empty our garbage in the hole in the back of the row of houses where the little garbage they had was dumped. Once I followed them there and found them fighting over a banana peeling.

One morning a little girl knocked at our door and asked to be my maid. She said she was thirteen, but she was so undernourished she didn't look over nine to me. "I will work hard," she tried to convince me. "I'll wash. I'll iron. I'll keep your house clean. I have worked for other people before and they taught me how to cook." She heard my baby cry and added, "And I'll take care of the baby. Please give me the job."

"I do my own work," I responded. "I can't afford a maid." She didn't believe me, and she was right.

"I'll work for three dollars and a half a month," she pleaded. "I'll work seven days a week. I'll do everything."

"Why would you work for so little?" I asked. "Because my dad died a few months ago, and my mother is sick. She has a new baby, and she can't work. I've got to find a job or my brothers and sisters are going to die. I think if I worked for you maybe you would give me the scraps off your plates to take home to my family." I didn't give her a job, but I went with her to meet her mother. I carried my three-months-old baby and my three-year old son toddled along at my side. Their house was about 10 feet by 12 feet made of scrap lumber which left cracks in the walls. To keep the wind out, they had plastered the walls with newspapers stuck on with mud. There was no window, only the door and the floor was just the dirt. In that room were two pieces of furniture--a cot with broken wire webbing without a mattress and an old table with two things on it--a cup with a broken handle and a medicine bottle with a nipple on it. They were trying to keep the baby alive with the water in the bottle because the mother was sick and had no milk for the child. As I walked into the semi dark hut, I saw the sick mother lying on the cot. By her side was a tiny baby wrapped in rags. The mother slipped over and invited me to sit on the edge of the cot. I tried to get acquainted by showing interest in her baby. She handed the little girl to me and I took her in one arm. In the other arm I held my own healthy baby. Her baby was half the size of mine. I wanted to say, "What a cute baby you have!" But there was nothing cute about a baby dying of hunger. I looked into the pinched little face and saw she was too weak even to cry. She just gasped. I wanted to say something, but I felt speechless. Finally I thought of a neutral thing to say. "How old is your baby?" "Three months old," she answered, and I wished I had not asked because I knew she would ask me. She did. "How old is yours?" My lips could hardly form the words. "Three months old," I said. I could see myself and my child through the eyes of this mother who was powerless to save her child. After a few moments, she struggled to her feet and walked over to a dark corner of the room, picked up a naked little boy and set him in my lap. read the rest of this story
Water for Marcos	Want to read other stories? Welcoming the enemy	Where are the Christians?

"Why would you work for so little?" I asked.

"Because my dad died a few months ago, and my mother is sick. She has a new baby, and she can't work. I've got to find a job or my brothers and sisters are going to die. I think if I worked for you maybe you would give me the scraps off your plates to take home to my family."

I didn't give her a job, but I went with her to meet her mother. I carried my three-months-old baby and my three-year old son toddled along at my side.

Their house was about 10 feet by 12 feet made of scrap lumber which left cracks in the walls. To keep the wind out, they had plastered the walls with newspapers stuck on with mud. There was no window, only the door and the floor was just the dirt.

In that room were two pieces of furniture--a cot with broken wire webbing without a mattress and an old table with two things on it--a cup with a broken handle and a medicine bottle with a nipple on it. They were trying to keep the baby alive with the water in the bottle because the mother was sick and had no milk for the child.

As I walked into the semi dark hut, I saw the sick mother lying on the cot. By her side was a tiny baby wrapped in rags. The mother slipped over and invited me to sit on the edge of the cot. I tried to get acquainted by showing interest in her baby. She handed the little girl to me and I took her in one arm. In the other arm I held my own healthy baby. Her baby was half the size of mine.

I wanted to say, "What a cute baby you have!" But there was nothing cute about a baby dying of hunger. I looked into the pinched little face and saw she was too weak even to cry. She just gasped. I wanted to say something, but I felt speechless. Finally I thought of a neutral thing to say. "How old is your baby?"

"Three months old," she answered, and I wished I had not asked because I knew she would ask me. She did. "How old is yours?" My lips could hardly form the words. "Three months old," I said.

I could see myself and my child through the eyes of this mother who was powerless to save her child. After a few moments, she struggled to her feet and walked over to a dark corner of the room, picked up a naked little boy and set him in my lap.

read the rest of this story

Water for Marcos

Want to read other stories?

Welcoming the enemy

Where are the Christians?

SIFAT - 2944 County Road 113 - Lineville AL 36266 - (256) 396-2015 - info@sifat.org