Eyes of sadness, eyes of hope.

I sit on my porch on this Wednesday afternoon watching the business of life as the sun starts to set on the day. The city is filled with the movement of people, most somehow energized, with the knowledge that today’s duties are over. Kids are playing in the street. The game they are playing is similar to tag, but it unlike the American version it involved bottles caps and base is the broken down car that hasn’t moved since my arrival over four months ago.
Through all of the life and living that is going on, my eyes are drawn across the street to my neighbor. A senorita of twenty years or so is rocking her baby carriage as she finish yet another cigarette. She seems tired. Not a tired of physical labor, but a mental tiredness that comes only from accepting the end of ones childhood dreams and hopes. She lives in the house with her mother, a poor example of one at that. It is hard to sit and speculate about her. She, herself is full of life, but the eyes, they cannot hide the truth and hardship of life that she has seen.
We sit her on General Armstrong street, probably a notable general that was know for his courage, but the eyes of this woman show battle scars that would make many a man shudder. The street is near Mapocho, considered on of the “rougher” or more “dangerous” streets here in Santiago. Yet, for the locals of this little street it is a safe haven. Walk to the end of the block and you will be confronted with kids on the corner haggling people passing by, or the simply the silent exchange of an all too familiar transfer of drugs.
It is hard sometimes to realize that I am truly living here. That, I, John Power, son of white middle class America is sitting juxtaposed against this scene of crime poverty and somehow through it all hope. The most amazing thing about moving to a foreign country is the absence of past norms and customs, which have been quickly demolished since you have lived here. The people here are overwhelmingly friendly. Maybe it is because we are missionaries, maybe because we speak English, maybe still that we are simply people.
As the sun moves a notch lower on it’s quest towards sleep. She raises her hand up to cover herself from the sun, but also to cover her sad and lonely eyes. The baby lies in it’s rocker sleeping giving the mother a much needed rest of the activities of the day. She does not carry the hope of a husband coming home, she carries only with her the love of her family and friends. Sometimes this is enough and she will be able to make a good life for her and her child. Yet, she looks up at me with those sad eyes and ashamedly stares at her feet. She speaks to herself in a hushed whisper as she looks at her child. I cannot help but think that it is a prayer. I imagine that she is praying for courage, for health (mostly for her child), but I think she is concentrating on praying for hope. Hope that one day, this will all be in the past. Hope that she will not live a predestined life of failure and obstacles that is all too familiar for many of today’s poor single women.
I try and pray with her, and I ask you to do the same. Whispering under my breath I ask God to intervene. Not in the foolish or self-centered way of a lottery ticket. Yet, that she will receive the hope she is asking for. That she will continue to raise the child and try to do the best with what she is given. That maybe she will comfort and a sense of peace with herself and her child.
I pass this on to you, I hope that you will find peace. I do not ask that all of your problems suddenly disappear, for I do not believe in a puppet God. I pray that you are given the hope and courage to continue. To survive and to help those that are not blessed with the gifts that you have been given. Remember that they are gifts and to horde them or take them for granted makes you a miser. Be grateful for what you have and try and making a positive impression on others. Make a powerful impression, like the one this girls eyes made on me.