Below is a letter that I sent to a charity foundation my parents contacted before our vacation. The organization helped set up this visit and they publish a quarterly newsletter. I submitted this letter to be published, though it never was. It's a bit bombastic and ostentatious, but it gets to the point: be gracious for what you have, some don't have much.

I decided not to re-edit the letter, though it needs editing, for the sake of authenticity. My purpose at the time was to get people on board with the charity, so, knowing my audience, I left out some details. Like the fact that the customs agents in the Dominican extorted my parents because we were carrying two huge bags of gifts and they assumed we were wealthy. And the fact that only a select group of children from the village were chosen to attend the function based on their deservedness. The others lined up outside the pavilion in plain view watching the festivities. And that we needed some of the men in the village to keep the undesirables from causing us any harm or stealing what gifts we had brought. It was truly a tedious situation. Also it was my dad donning the Santa costume in the torrid heat, which I didn't mention here.

But without further ado, I give you the most precious gift I ever received for Christmas: the chance to give.

To whom it may concern:

I am twenty-three years old. I’ve learned things in school. I’ve seen people on television. I’ve traveled to many places. Nothing prepared me for reality.

During our visit to the island nation of the Dominican Republic, my family and I ventured away from the armed-guard protection of the tourist-laden vacation district into personally uncharted waters. On December 26, we realized how privileged we are as Americans.

My parents thought it would be a gracious gift for our family to forgo the usual present-giving extravaganza of Christmas and, instead, spread holiday cheer among those who rarely see a Christmas tree, let alone one with abounding gifts as we are used to.

The ghetto was, at first, startling to me. My brother Drew is younger than I am and he, no doubt, was just as hesitant as our car dodged crater-sized potholes and sped down blocks of decaying houses.

Upon arrival, children ran to the streets, thrilled with the sight of us. Once we got out of the car, they followed us through a maze of dwarfish, mishmash houses: slim metal planks, homespun rope, jagged rock, and tattered mattresses. Only the delight of the children’s faces kept me from lamenting their ghastly poverty. What government allows their children to grow up diseased, depressed, and deserted?

A mother called to one of her children. Two of them sat in the tailgate of a tireless, deteriorated, rust-covered pickup truck. The third and oldest child lowered the corroded gate to let the diaper-clad babe out to awaiting mama. In America, I guess you would call it a playpen, but in this case I don’t know if it’s a suitable name.

A truck rumbled through the street stocked from side to side with produce. Two men sat inside blaring prices over a megaphone. No one was buying though.

Families, body after body, streamed out of concrete caves. Some mothers were too sick to follow their young. Some young were too sick to go on their own.

We carried a translation dictionary, but its pages seemed inhuman now. Communication was established mostly by piecing together various words we knew and smiling. The children understood the smiles more so than the words anyway.

First, we entertained the children of the village with face painting. Some faces were adorned with Christmas images. Others masqueraded in tiger stripes. Still others donned warrior camouflage, but every brush stroke was carefully placed around wide grins.

After the face painting, we moved to another venue for a holiday party. Refreshments and cake were served, but for Pennsylvanians like us, it just didn’t feel like Christmas in this tropical country. But fear not! Although we couldn’t supply snowflakes, we did bring with us a cherished friend from the North: jolly ol’ Saint Nick.

His Roundness entered with presents overflowing, more than enough for each child. He brought marvelous games and wonderful toys, and he helped himself to a few slices of Christmas cake before packing up for the long trip home.

After all, the village was in crescendo. The boys tossed around balls and the girls worked on their doll’s hair. Our daylight was waning and our trip back was a long one, so we packed up our gear and checked our Spanish-English dictionary for the best word “farewell.”

My hesitation upon coming into the village had vanished, and now reappeared upon departure. I didn’t want to go. There was so much more we could have done.

The people of the Dominican Republic need someone’s help. In their country, children, not yet teenagers, carry guns. Emelio, our friend and guide on the trip, told my brother and I that it was because they had to protect what they earn at work so that they could feed their families.

Children. Working. Protecting. Feeding. Somehow it didn’t add up.

My preconceived notions were shattered. I came wondering if anything one family could do would actually resonate amid such oppression. Our gesture, though trivial and obstinate in the face of mass hardship, was graciously welcomed and treasured. I left wondering how I could do more to help the astounding battlers, Emelio, and the rest of the missionaries. These people don’t have much, but no one can take away the one thing they all share: hope.

Sincerely,

Timothy J. Carroll