Hope for the future

A few nights ago, Todd and the boy and I had the type of experience that reaffirms one’s faith in humanity.

We attended a talent show.

Now, it was no average talent show—it was a variety show featuring the many gifts of the middle and high-school age children at our church. And it was fabulous.

I, as usual, didn’t really want to go. I could foresee only another lost evening, more time away from home, more time at church… I dragged my feet a bit. But Todd had already picked up tickets, had told some of his students he’d be there, and I knew, in my heart, that if I went I’d be glad I did.

Boy, was I ever.

Those kids rocked. They sang, they danced, they did acrobatics and even performed some theatrical stuff. One amazing boy played the piano like a young Beethoven; another young lady pranced around the stage, coltish and lovely, leaping with joy. A street-wise boy slinked onto the platform and moved with such grace and natural rhythm that I knew, just knew, I’d see him on Broadway some day. Another big, beautiful gal sang a first uncertain, then bold and confident Amazing Grace that brought the house down.

And to match the incredible talent, our audience of many teenagers was appreciative and enthusiastic. In an era of ridiculous competition among our youth, this gathering clapped, shouted, whistled, and stood to applaud the acts before them. There was never a jeer, never a catcall, only genuine love and admiration for the performers. I’ve rarely been more proud to be part of a congregation of observers.

Most amazing of all was the cause: these kids, these gifted kids, were all performing by choice, for no other reason than to help raise money for themselves and their friends who are planning to make missions trips in the next month or two. The missionary students are volunteering portions of their summer vacations, and working to raise money, so they can go and work for strangers, for free—work merely to help others who are experiencing hardship.

Isn’t that great? Doesn’t that make you proud to be part of this country, of a God-fearing culture that can inspire kids to do something selfless, something of that magnitude?

I’m sure that in many ways, the kids I saw are still typical teens—I witnessed lots of texting at the show, as well as plenty of whispers and flirting. But mostly, I saw a shining hope for their future and mine.

And on the dawn of Independence Day, I wanted to share that with you.

A society insulated...from itself

We’re crouched on the floor playing with little dinosaurs, fake trees, and a hollow plastic mountain. The kid is telling me all the dinos’ names: Spotty Blue, T-Rex, Triceratops (who is always female), and then he proceeds to name the mountain: “This is Silver Mountain.”

“Oh really? Well, perhaps the dinosaurs live on Silver Mountain,” I say. “Maybe WE live on Silver Mountain.”

“No, we don’t,” he chuckles. “That’s silly. People don’t live on mountains; people live on roads.”

“Sure they do, honey. People live on mountains. Some people live on mountains where there are no roads.” The boy stares at me, disbelieving what I’m saying. I can see the thoughts zooming through his newly aware brain. How could that be? People live where there are no roads? How do they get there? How do they get anywhere else?

And it’s kind of funny that he thinks this, but also a bit vexing.

I can still recall my genuine shock when, many years ago, I drove through some very rural areas of West Virginia. I was looking out the car window at real shacks, the kinds of places I had only heard about, no glass in windows, tiny ramshackle structures with unkempt and inadequately clothed children spilling out the doors and off the sagging porch. Buildings that in any other setting would have been condemned. Buildings that you suspected had no running water, no electricity. Oh my Lord, I was thinking. People actually live this way even in this day and age. And those were the dwelling places on the “hard road.” Who knows what I’d have found if I’d stopped the car and taken a hike into the “holler”?

It was the first time I’d really grasped the concept of poverty. And it was only a glimpse. I get citified glimpses sometimes when I make wrong turns in our own little urban jungle, ending up in unfamiliar neighborhoods that often feel unfriendly. I’ve seen those same buckling buildings, the same glassless windows, and the same vacant faces looking back at me. Sometimes they are angry faces; they know I’m a poser in their world, that I have the choice to leave—a choice that eludes many of the permanent residents in such places.

It makes me realize how spoiled I am, how absurd and silly are most of the concerns of my day. And this is nothing. I’ve talked to people who’ve ventured into REAL poverty—in other countries, especially. What I’m calling poverty here? Well, from my understanding, what I’m talking about would likely appear comfortably well off to people who are really, truly poor.

Todd has spoken of participating in a missions trip someday, and I have to admit I change the subject when he brings it up. I’m afraid. I’m honestly afraid to have my eyes opened that wide. Once they gaze upon some of that down-and-dirty, international poverty, I don’t think they’ll ever be the same. And this idea is coming from my husband, who dreams of a cabin in the woods, a nice fishing boat. I’m the girl who’d love to call several bucolic acres my own someday in which to hide. If we let our eyes be opened, really opened wide, will we still be able to enjoy those extravagances? Or will they seem fatuous and self-centered?

And how do we reveal this realistic and all-encompassing worldview to a little boy who, for all general purposes, is a typical kid in suburban America…a kid who has no idea that people live on mountains?