What it means to have everything

My first day in Malawi, I walked somewhere near 10 miles. To my new Malawian friends, you would have thought it was 10 yards. This is a way of life for these guys, their five-toed appendages serving as the preferred tools of bipedal transport. I panted and fought off heat exhaustion and thirst - partly due to manly pride, partly due to the fact that we were in the middle of nowhere, and to succumb to fainting would result in a major pain in the neck for everyone involved - knowing my generous, accommodating companions, they would all argue over which ones would have the privilege of carrying me the remaining stretch of dirt road. And all the while I would be confirming their suspicions that us Westerners had yellow bellies and soft wills. I couldn't allow this to happen - so I breathed in the dust-filled air, sucked on my dry, swollen tongue and pressed on.

Winter was right around the corner, yet the sun tattooed its name on my face, neck and arms - there was no dancing around the fact that it was hot. But as I thought about the previous two hours of home visits, it was easy to endure. I visited young boys with asthma, old women with anemia, middle-aged men with coughing spells, and babies with chronic rashes all over their bodies. But these symptoms were descriptions for the silent killer that nobody wanted to discuss: AIDS.

I visited a boy of 11 years old dying of malaria because he lacked the resources to purchase, let alone travel to, the medication that would help him recover. I visited a lady name Rachael whose husband is dying of leprosy. Rachael was so proud of the fact that she could greet me in English. I held back the tears as she knelt before me and took my hands, so honored that a white Westerner had decided to visit her home. I was the one that felt honored as she sat on a mat on the ground while I took one of the only two chairs she owned. I wanted to offer her the chair and sit anywhere; I would have preferred the dirt over the chair. But her gracious, welcoming culture would not have allowed that - she made sure that was absolutely clear. Here I was, a middle-aged man, with light skin, clean fingernails, and soft hands. As I sat listening to Rachael's story, it took every bit of self restraint to keep from falling apart. Apparently men don't cry in Malawi culture - and me being a giant cry baby, I would have totally flipped them out. My mind travelled to my plush life back in the states: job, family, health, roof over my head, food in my refrigerator, money in my wallet, automobile in my garage - it felt like it was another life that merely existed in a dream. No way could there be such a vast difference in our existences. How could there be such a gap? How could the Western world let this happen? How could I let it happen? It wasn't fair! My emotions moved quickly and sharply from depression to anger to fear. Depressed because I had gone 41 years without seeing this person and the life she lived. Angry that I was letting her husband die of leprosy. And fear that I would never see her again.

Rachael's story is one in a sea of non-fiction, bottom shelf, no-one-will-ever-read books. Where is her husband today? Is he still sleeping in their dark, dry hut? Is he still breathing? What of poor Rachael and her children? How will she feed them today? How will she pay for their education? How will she clothe them? We can't let her answer these questions alone. Malawi needs us. The next time I speak to a group of people, I will not be ashamed to ask for money. Compared to Rachael, we have everything. I think we can afford to give.