Prompt 1

Our team arrived at a small village in the foothills of Kilimanjaro to an awaiting clump of children. I had finally made it; I had dreamed for years of traveling the 8,000 miles to help the suffering peoples in Tanzania, and I was finally here.

Everyone has heard about the pain and suffering in Africa. The situation is heart wrenching for anyone; but, unfortunately, the typical response is to avoid the eyes of those suffering children. But instead of simply having a passing thought of compassion, I have decided to do something about it.

As I stepped out of the car, the children’s sweet welcoming melody mixed with the exotic African air, transcended the bounds of a common language, and dove right into my heart. As a small dark hand slipped into mine, I turned and looked down into the fathomless windows of a four-year-old boy wearing a navy sweatshirt, khaki pants that were too short, and broken, dirty flip-flops. His name was Vincent.

AIDS had worn Vincent’s village to shreds. Children not yet past puberty were the heads of their families because their older relatives had died due to the virus. Children like Vincent had been ostracized from the community because they had been infected by the virus at birth. And Mamma Marina, the pastor’s wife, was providing for more than 30 AIDS orphans. Our team came to help provide hope to these young virus victims. We roamed the nearby hills, helping Mamma Marina with all of her AIDS visits. Yet, a surprisingly meaningful part of my trip was constituted in simply spending time with Mamma Marina’s AIDS orphans, one of which was Vincent. I had never imagined how life-changing simply sitting down with a child could bring, not only for him but for myself as well.

Vincent and I plopped down in the grass of the nearby playing field with some other children. Oddly, the language barrier was not even a barrier at all. The lack of words seemed to spill over into actions and our time there seemed far more significant than a lifetime filled with eloquent speeches. Vincent soon snuggled into my lap, and I encompassed him with my arms. He smiled up into my face; and this was more than a smile. This smile showed me that my visit had been worthwhile, that I had fulfilled my goal to bring a spark of hope to a hurting people simply by holding this young boy in my arms. I held him even closer; and, in a rush, I realized just how poor my precious Vincent really was. He not only had HIV, Vincent had no family or home, no food on a regular basis, and no money, clothes, or possessions. He did not even have someone to love him. All these situations were completely foreign to me, and it was hard to comprehend his dire situation. He was, in essence, the living definition of poverty; and he was sitting right in my arms. Yet, in spite of all of this, Vincent was in no way bitter, angry, or even sad. In fact he was quite the opposite. Vincent demanded nothing, but accepted everything, even life, as a gift.

This completely reversed my view of my journey to Tanzania. I had come to help and teach the Tanzanians, but, ironically, it turned out that they taught me a valuable lesson instead. I realized my heart is tainted black with the diversions my affluent society presents me. Oddly enough, the hardest and most difficult obstacle for a person—especially me—in modern society is the hill of wealth we accumulate around our hearts. My heart was surrounded by a mounting pile of insignificant dust. Vincent does not even have dust to gather, yet he is happy. He is content with everything when I am dissatisfied with my comparatively extravagant lifestyle. There was only one deduction, and this deduction seemed to shake the ground my feet walked on: True meaning does not come from the ephemeral possessions of this physical world. In fact, this realization brought me back to the words of Henry David Thoreau in Walden: “the true harvest of my daily life is somewhat intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning or evening. It is a little star-dust caught, a segment of rainbow which I have clutched.” I had discovered the value of simplicity not in the turbulence of urban streets but in the peaceful shadow of Kilimanjaro. In an odd conjunction, the great Thoreau and a humble African boy collided in my mind to teach me a lesson; the things that matter in life are not possessions or wealth, but simple things like love, life, and hope. I may not be able to physically touch sunsets, sunrises, rainbows; but they are in fact the qualities that matter most. While all else may fade away, those transcendent concepts are paradoxically permanent. What an example Vincent was for me, and he was only four years old! I am meant to live for so much more than this corporeal world, and he understood that long before I did.

I looked down at Vincent’s feet again, and my recent revelations seemed to be embodied in those sandals. They showed his poverty yet also his satisfaction in life. Because of this lesson, not a day has gone by since during which I have not thought of Vincent and his dirty, broken flip-flops.

The day flew by, and all too soon we were in the cars again. Vincent’s big dark eyes stared deep into mine from right outside the window. I rolled down the glass and held my hand out to him in a last gesture of love. I felt the odd sensation of utter hope and utter despair all mixed into one uncomfortable lump right in my throat and tried to say goodbye through my tears. We started moving and soon he was out of sight. He was gone from my view but he would always be in my heart. We drove off down the steppes of Kilimanjaro, through the banana tree leaves, and away from Vincent, a boy who had nothing and yet everything—a boy who changed my life.