Four tables are set up in a rectangular pattern in the Common Room of the Rock Port United Methodist Church. The table tops are an off-white and dark gray-specked plastic- hard, cold, and ugly- not the message a church normally would want to convey. But budgets are tight, and plastic is cheap; the equation has an economical and practical solution. It is a Sunday afternoon in mid-September. The sun is not shining as brightly, but I do not condemn it, as the sun seems to be in a position of constant speculation and criticism. I am wearing a black cut-off t-shirt, which had already aroused a complaint from my best friend’s mother, Susan. Her chiding is maternal, not meant to be rude. Becky Heits, the leader of the Rock Port United Methodist Youth Group, stands up and begins to talk about our Mission Trip to Jamaica. I’m skeptical about the trip. It involves a week away from family, potential financial benefits (work), fund raising (it is $995.00 per person), time away from friends (I have to leave for college next fall; I want to spend as much time as I can with people I may never see again), and entering into a country that is full of economic and political hardships, seemingly not a positive environment. The sign-up sheet is sent around; with much hesitation, I put my name on the line in big, sloppy calligraphy: Abbey Lawrence.
The trip is dismal and depressing. My heart aches; someone is reaching into my chest and squeezing it with no mercy. I see Jamaican people living in homes not suitable for the lowliest creatures like mice and snakes. One such home is built with a flimsy-dark gray wood. It is a one-room home with dirt floors. There are several holes in the walls; through the holes I can see minimal furniture: two chairs and a little cot. The house no longer has a door; perhaps it never had a door. Around the home (I don’t even really know if I can call it a true home), there is a moat. In the dirty water, there is trash and debris. A crab climbs out of the murky, mysterious water, even the crustacean can’t survive in the filth.
We go to the orphanage one day. I see the one of the most beautiful baby girls I have ever laid eyes on. I pick her up from the pack-and-play; I can’t resist babies. We sit in the rocking chair. She has a milky-chocolate complexion; her skin is smooth, no imperfections. Her head is a mop of curly black hair. A bead of sweat is forming on her hairline; the curls are matting together. Her eyes are endless dark brown tunnels of suffering. My eyes sting with tears as I look down at her and see her left, pudgy arm in a home-made sling. I ask one of the intimidating nurses why she is here and what her name is. The nurse responds, “Her mudda’ was addicted to drugs. Pulled on da’ liddle’ thing’s arm. Didn’t give her no name. Da offica’ that found her named her Lisa.” The baby is only two-weeks old.
Every night, I cry myself to sleep. Human beings do not deserve to live like the beasts of the land and sea. After the trip, it is hard to live with my guilt; no longer can I whole-heartedly believe in the protection of God.
-Abigail (Abbey) Lawrence J
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