Editor's Note: The Poverty {In Person} blog series features first-person essays written by individuals who have witnessed the reality of extreme poverty. We hope these stories will inspire you to support Five Talents in its mission to empower and equip the poor -- using savings and loan services, business skills training and spiritual development opportunities. If you would like to submit a first-person essay for consideration, please send an e-mail to This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .

She hoists her small body to see through the bars of the heavy gate and I hear her calling to me, "Sir, sir! Please give me some food."

When I look up, her frantic gaze meets mine. Then she is gone.

A moment later, the girl's face, shiny with sweat, appears again. "I'm so hungry, and God will bless you," she tells me in her native language, and I don't need to translate this in my head because I've heard it a thousand times.

This is why we came here, to this little village in Ghana, West Africa, two years ago; to discern how best to help those who don't have the ability to help themselves.

Walking over to the gate, she lowers herself back to the ground and I notice she must not be more than six years old so I ask, "Where are your parents?"

"They are at home," she replies, and steps back, head low as she stares at her feet. "They are hungry too."

I've also seen this scene a thousand times.

"I will follow you to your house," I tell her, and she nods nervously.

So we walk, not like we would in America side by side, but how we do in Ghana, with her in the front, leading me. We pass the "football" field where I play soccer with the local boys and I smile as I think how they all argue about which team I get to be on, not because I'm a good player, oh no, but because they like to watch me run.

She tugs on my hand as we near a small compound of huts on the other side of the village.

"My mother is inside," she says and I call out a greeting asking permission to see her.

A lady emerges, squinting into the bright sunlight and instantly, I know her. I have seen her a few times in our small church, but she has always left before the service was over.

"I knew you come," she tells me in broken English. "I tell my daughter she call you and you would come." I notice the tired look, the sunken cheeks, and I know it is true.

There has been very little food in their stomachs for days.

"Where is your husband?" I ask her and she looks at me, almost through me, as she searches my face. "He too afraid to call you. He is inside, but alone for shame."

I nod, fully understanding the husband's embarrassment at not being able to provide for his family. And quick on its heals, I wonder if maybe her husband had been one of the loud, drunken men playing cards the night before.... betting money that would decide whether or not his family would eat the following day.

"I want to buy you some food," I nod at the small kiosk down the road, "I will be right back."

When I return with two loaves of sweet bread and a yam, a man is standing there and again, I am startled to realize I know him... Quite well, actually. He had attended church faithfully for over two years and had given his heart to God.

With shaking hands, he accepts the food. Silently, he empties my arms, one item at a time, almost in reverence. Glancing up, tears spill from his eyes, "You bring me peace in the name of Jesus. And now you bring me food. It is too much..." and he is overcome, shifting from one foot to the other, unsure of how to express his gratitude.

I don't know what to say.

So I reach for him, grasping his hands in mine, but he pulls me closer and continues to whisper in my ear, "It is too much... it is too much."

Duane Scott writes for The High Calling and blogs at ScribingtheJourney.com. Please drop by and thank Duane for sharing this essay with Five Talents.