This is a story about poverty, and how it can be more than empty stomachs.

Recently, Penny and I spent an evening with our friend Amelia. It was our last chance to catch up and exchange Christmas gifts before she heads back to the States for a few months.

Huddled around her wooden dining table, we shared a meal. It was nothing fancy, just tagliatelle tossed in a light covering of olive oil. As we ate, the normality of the evening stood in sharp contrast to where Amelia had just come from.

She’d shot a video on location in the local slum. It was about the work of her charity supporting local children affected by HIV. 

Life in the slum is lively, yet disorganised. Streams of sewage flow among congested mud-walled homes. Cows, goats and sheep roam freely, grazing on heaps of rotting rubbish. There are people everywhere. Some are idling and chatting, others are busy hustling to make a living, and others are walking to who knows where.

The slum is home to many. Andrew is one of the children who lives there. At three years old, he’s experienced many struggles that no child should ever face. But thanks to Amelia’s charity, Andrew’s life is much better than it could’ve been.

What Andrew showed me

Between mouthfuls of pasta, Amelia told us how Andrew had sat, relaxed, in her arms while she walked through the slum. 

Knowing that there’s often no food in his house, she’d asked Andrew, “Did you take breakfast?” “No,” he replied. “Well, would you like some mandazi?” (A traditional heavy doughnut.)

Andrew answered, “Yes … but a chapati would be better.“

His answer lingered with me, not because of what he asked for, but because of what it revealed.

Here’s a child living with the pain of hunger, voicing his preference over what’s being offered without fear of disapproval.

From begging to belonging

Some might say, “He should show some gratitude and accept what’s offered.” But Andrew wasn’t negotiating or pushing boundaries. He felt secure. The safety of his relationship with Amelia gave him the courage to reveal what he hoped for, whether or not he got it.

This toddler in Amelia’s arms was now my teacher. Seeing his confidence in Amelia’s unconditional acceptance uncovered my own doubts about God’s goodness. I’m often still afraid to express my desires or needs, fearing judgment as ungrateful or disapproval.

Changing the characters in the scene, I placed myself as the child in God’s arms, and asked myself, ‘Do I trust God like that?’

The real issue isn’t whether we speak to God, but whether we feel secure enough to be honest with Him as Father. It’s a question of identity, because trust always flows from who we believe we are to Him. Do we approach God like someone who needs appeasing, or as a family member who belongs?

I recall when a Kenyan education officer used the well-known saying, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” I didn’t like it at the time, and now I know why: Beggars take what’s offered, not because it meets their need, but because fear makes it feel safer.

You see, to a beggar, asking or expressing a preference carries significant risk. Saying, “I’d rather have something else,” can sound ungrateful when you’re depending on someone else’s kindness. Beggars often learn to accept whatever is offered, even when it isn’t what they hope for, because silence feels safer than honesty. 

In contrast, a secure child asks freely because they know they belong and nothing’s going to change that. Even now, when I visit my parents, I know I can freely help myself to the contents of their fridge because I’m home. I have freedom in knowing my place in the home is never in question.

This observation is not exclusive to Kenya, but what I see in many children we serve is not just need, but how they have come to view themselves, almost as beggars.  

My prayer is that they will encounter God, come to know Him as Father, and learn both the freedom to express what’s in their hearts and the trust to receive whatever He gives.

This is not work we do alone. Many of you help make this work possible, creating environments where children are welcomed as sons and daughters.

The longer I reflected on this in the children, the harder it became to ignore how familiar that beggar posture felt in me.

I realised that God isn’t after my silent compliance. This isn’t about demanding my own way. It’s about who God is to me. Is He someone I feel secure with, someone I trust and can speak openly with, sharing my hopes and desires?

Before Amelia answered, Andrew already knew he was safe. The answer didn’t matter. Her arms did — they showed him he belonged. (Amelia did get Andrew a chapati.)

We finished our pasta, still sitting around the same wooden table, and as our evening came to an end and we said our goodbyes, Andrew’s words followed me home.