American poverty

I whine because I have to vacuum the living room carpet.

   I could live on dirt floors, with no electricity for miles.

I complain that I share a car with two other people.

      I could be cut off from the outside world—stores, news, medical care—because it was too far to walk.

I hiss that the ancient oven baked the bread unevenly.

       I could eat one cold meal a day—on a good day.

I mutter that I've gained too much weight, and can't afford a gym or running shoes.

   I could be too weak from hunger and disease to even stand up.

I growl because I hate my old clothes.

    I could wear rags that hadn't ever been washed, except when it rained.

I sigh about cleaning the bathroom.

     I could walk miles to haul my water.

I moan that I'm bored, with no money to go out.

      I could be cowering behind thin walls, praying the bullets don't bite through, that the soldiers don't hear my rattling breath.

I lament my small budget.

    I could be selling my body on street corners, in exchange for a slice of bread and shelter for an evening.

I grouse that my room is too small.

    I could sleep in a pile of siblings under the night sky, shivering in the cold.

I wail that I'll never be able to afford the wedding of my dreams.

     I could have been sold by weeping parents into a "marriage" full of abuse, nightmarish and unending, forced to serve and bear children to a cruel old man.

I fuss that my Bible is too small, too dilapidated with age.

      I could have never touched or even seen a whole Bible in my entire life.

I grumble about the under-funded programs at my church.

     I could be screaming and gasping for breath, begging, praying, that the agony will end, that I'll be released because my only crime was loving Jesus . . . and having no means for a bribe out of prison.


I don't really know what it is to be
                                               hungry
                                          cold
                                                    thirsty
                                             afraid
                                                        wounded
                                         dirty
                                                   sick
                                                      helpless.

 I don't really know what it means to be poor.

          And yet . . . I complain . . .

Give me neither poverty nor riches, but give me only my daily bread.

Otherwise, I may have too much and disown you and say, "Who is the LORD?"

(Proverbs 30:88-9)