If my children grow up to be average Americans I’ll have failed them as a parent.

If they spend four hours a day watching other people live on a television screen.  If they’re bored.

If they go to school to get a job so their kids can go to school so they can get a job so their kids can go to school…If they’re without purpose.

If they take more than they give and want more than they have.  If they’re greedy.

If everyone in their prayers looks like them.  If they’re unaware.

I’ve failed.

As part of the 40 Day Fast a bunch of us bloggers are taking turns posting about a tremendous need in the world and educating our readers about solutions they can be part of.  I can think of no problem that worries me more than this: How do I raise content, selflessly driven, cheerfully generous, globally aware children in a culture where such characteristics are the exception and not the rule?

I’ve met slaves.  I’ve seen injustice.  I’ve talked with impoverished children in some of the world’s poorest countries.  I’ve stood in the homes.  And I’ve been moved to act on their behalf.  But, the truth is, my confession today is, my action hasn’t been entirely about saving their kids.  I’m saving my own.  Or trying.

When my kids turn five we sponsor a child through Compassion International for them.  (Go here to do the same) This means I pay $32 a month to meet the physical, economic, social, academic and spiritual needs of that child.  This also means that my kids get a pen pal from an undeveloped nation, someone my kids can describe a Christmas tree to, someone who can describe life in the third world to them.

Gabriella is now seven and she now pitches in some of her money to sponsor Yanci who lives in El Salvador.  One day Gabriella will sponsor Yanci by herself. For now a few bucks and a few well-written sentences is contribution enough.  I watch her forehead tense up as she stares at the page struggling for what to say. 

“Does she know Hannah Montana?”

“She doesn’t have a CD player.  She shares a room with her whole family remember?  So there’s not much room for stuff like that.”

Gresham is five and his sponsored child Yoseph lives in Ethiopia.  He’s still too young to help pay for Yoseph’s care or write much but he’s big enough to pray.  And ask questions.

“Why doesn’t Yoseph live with his mommy?”

“He lives with his aunt because his mommy doesn’t have enough money to take care of him right now. That’s why we’re helping.”

I watch his face and for a few seconds he looks very concerned, a little sad, shocked.  Then he grabs a Matchbox car and bounds out the door to play.  Because he’s still a little boy.

But someday.

Someday I hope he’ll be a man who gives more than he takes, who knows where Ethiopia is on a map, who works for something greater than a paycheck, who believes God’s hands are bigger than America, who helps his kids write letters to their sponsored kids.