Forty of us piled into the back of an old cattle truck. The trip took two hours, but I didn’t mind; the sun was shining, and the breeze felt good. We were heading to the poorest village in the Dominican Republic. This was hard to imagine, since the villages we had worked in so far had been unlike anything we had ever seen.

It had been a total wake-up call from our pampered lives back home. Here, the kids don’t go to school; they work. They crave and beg for basic necessities like water. Their entire homes are the size of my living room and inhabited by multiple families. If they get food, it’s a very small helping of rice and maybe some greens. If they are lucky, they get beans, and on rare occasions, they may be treated to a small portion of meat.

If this is what life is like in the better-off villages, nobody knew what to expect from Village 50. This village labeled only by a number was located far from the rest and surrounded by lush, green mountains. Perhaps it was God’s way of lightening the burden on the people who lived here.

The burden of poverty of the villagers is indescribable. Most of the children spend their time naked, while the adults wear whatever scraps of cloth they can gather. All go barefoot, although the ground is covered with jagged rocks that are dangerous to walk on even with shoes. Their tiny homes are made of whatever scrap metal can be found. Whenever it rains, the water seeps through the roofs and floods inside. Each house is shared by four families. Many, including the men on our trip, were brought to tears when we visited Village 50.

Our mission was to spread the Gospel and offer care packages filled with basic necessities to families. The little kids were overwhelmed when we presented them with small toys like Hot Wheels cars or when we gave them sips of our clean, cold water. A little boy gave me a hug to say thanks for all that we were doing for him, his family, and the village. He whispered in my ear, “Salud,” or “God bless you.” He couldn’t speak English, but we didn’t need language to communicate.

We finished our visit by praying with the entire village. Then we piled back into the cattle trucks. I looked back and saw the villagers all waving to us, saying things in Spanish that we couldn’t understand. Then we drove back through the towering green mountains.

The day at Village 50 changed my life. It taught me to appreciate the little things. I will never forget the villagers and that little boy, and I will be forever grateful.