A Big Box of Cereal

I read this amazing quote this morning on Chris Chappotin’s blog. Chris is doing church planting in the Ft. Worth area.

I Think I See a Plank in my Eye

If you are looking for some sobering words, read this quote from Philip D. Kenneson's Life on the Vine: Cultivating the Fruit of the Spirit in Christian Community:
"If all God cared about, for example, was that people were fed, then presumably God might have chosen to distribute [the world's] resources more equitably. But God also cares deeply about the way people get fed. To see why this might be the case, entertain the following thought-experiment. Imagine that you are going away for the weekend and you need to provide for your five children in your absence. You could, if all you cared about what that they were provided for, give each of them a large box of breakfast cereal and instruct each to take care of him or herself in your absence. But you could also make one of the children the steward of the cereal with instructions to make sure all were provided for, knowing that this would require the children to learn to interact with each other in ways that would be unnecessary in the fend-for-yourself strategy.
What if God has entrusted to some of us much more than we need, not as a sign of God's favor or as a 'blessing' to be hoarded, but as a call to reach out to those in need that they might be provided for by the One who loves them most? It may be that too many of us have taken the large box of cereal, written a check for 10 percent of its volume to the church, and then gone off to enjoy one heck of a big breakfast. Surely this is not stewardship." (pgs. 52-53)

Living in Africa, it’s hard to forget what big box of cereal I have. Last night, about 7:00 p.m., just as I had started the bedtime routine by reading a chapter from The Chronicles of Narnia to Jeremy, our neighbor came to our gate. She said that her sixteen-year old son had broken his leg at 5:00 p.m. and needed to go to the hospital. She wanted to take him to a Catholic hospital, about 45 minutes from us, so that it would be set correctly.

I made some quick preparations to take them and pulled my car across the road to their house, where a large number of neighbors had gathered around the injured boy, who was lying on a concrete slab. Someone had made a splint for his leg. A man who seemed to be in charge (I learned later he was a school principal) was saying that we could not take the boy yet because the father had gone to get a taxi to take him to the hospital, and we couldn’t take him without the father’s permission. We waited around for a while; I asked my guard what he thought was going on, and he said that the father was probably out looking to borrow money so they could afford the hospital bill. Then the principal came to me and suggested that we go ahead and load the boy into the car so he would be ready when the father returned.

We got the boy and his mother loaded into our car and the father returned almost immediately afterwards. As the four of us left for the hospital, it seemed to take forever even to get out of Tabligbo. Knowing that the boy in the back seat had a broken bone made me more conscious than usual of all of the bumps and pot holes in our town’s dirt roads. Even once out-of-town, the paved road is badly potholed for about the first 15 km. Then it gets a little better.

We arrived at the hospital and drove up to the “emergency room.” They brought out a gurney and the boy’s parents and I lifted him out of the car on to it, and wheeled him in. The emergency staff consisted of a couple of nurses who checked his temperature and blood pressure and then slowly registered his personal information in a large notebook. The emergency consultation cost 3,000 francs—about $5.50—which I saw the father slowly count out from a bag of small change he had brought. Eventually a medical assistant came and took a closer look at the injury and began a medical file. Nothing could be done until the next morning, when the family would have to pay a deposit of 45,000 francs ($85, or a month’s salary for our housekeeper) to cover x-rays, a cast, etc. before treatment would begin.

I asked the father how much he had, and he said that he had 30,000 francs, and that he would return to Tabligbo with me that night and try to bring the rest of the money the next morning. (I knew that meant making another round to his friends and relatives to try to borrow more money.) As I watched the parents slowly count through the stack of change and 1,000 franc bills they had brought, I shared some of my cereal box with him.

Of course, a broken leg would set you back a lot more than $100 in the States, but proportional to this family’s income, this costs a lot more to treat. And insurance? It’s unheard of.

Already this morning, two other people have come to my gate needing help. One, a known scammer, I turned away. The other I helped.

I’ve often said that the most difficult thing about living in Africa is not the malaria and it’s not being separated from family—it’s being a rich man in a poor society. During my earlier years here I really resented the burden. But over the past few years I’ve learned to look at it differently. God has entrusted me as a steward, not to save the world (that’s His job), but to bless those I can within my sphere of influence. And in giving me a bigger cereal box, he is teaching me more about how to let go of myself and serve others.