On the very last day of ministry in the DR, we went to the most materially poor community I have seen while on the Race. On the side of a hill, scraps of metal and wood fastened together by rusted nails and twine compiled a colony of tiny homes. We sat with a group of neighbors who spoke with us about their experience. Two and a half months here, and I still shed tears to hear about what they had to go through. Almost every morning, Immigration comes in a yellow school bus (not unlike the one we take to ministry every day) and breaks into their houses to hunt illegal immigrants. They hide in the forest because their passports were stolen a few weeks ago. They have no food, but what they do have they share with one another. They have no hope, except the scraps of encouragement they pass around. They ask for money, for help, for a new passport, but we can’t give them anything. That isn’t our place. What we can give them seems meager in the light of their struggles. What we can give them seems like it isn’t enough, but really it is all they need. I share a Psalm 18 with them, I pray over them, and I leave, but I don’t forget. No, right now, they are probably crouched in the forest, praying to a God that they aren’t sure exists, but was trusted by a white girl who visited them. 

I wrote a few verses about this very last house visit. Some things can’t be contained within paragraphs, some things can’t be expressed within words. So read between the lines, and allow your heart to be broken by the brokenness of your brother. Allow your heart to be encouraged by the reality that our King is still on the throne even when circumstances deceive us. 

4am and they are running into the forest 

Searching for a hiding place

From the ones that desire their demise.

A bright yellow school bus arrives 

Early in the morning

And they grab the shaking hands of their starving children

To scamper into the forest

As if they were foxes being hunted.

Doors broken 

Splintered wood and stolen goods. 

As if they weren’t unwelcome enough.

I haven’t worked in 2 weeks, he says.

We have no food, she says.

I’m hungry, their children cry.

For every morsel of food that falls into their grateful mouths

Has been touched by heaven

Completely relying on a God

Who has not forgotten them

Though sometimes it feels like He has

Especially in those early-morning moments

Crouched in the woods

Wondering if today is the day they will be sent back

To their home country

That desolate planet of red earth 

Across this island of brutality.

Yet the God who rules there

Also rules here

And everywhere else that

People believe they are too distant to be touched

By the presence of God Almighty. 

He is still the King

Who rules over all creation

And each starving heart

Is fed by the Bread of heaven.