I was always a bit of an activist. In my younger, more naive days I was actually a card-carrying member of Green Peace (I know — I know) and Amnesty International. I boycotted gas stations that were partially owned by South African interests. I boycotted the cafeteria at my college because it was run by a company that supported the whaling industry. I refused to wear certain shoes. I circulated a petition to get recycling bins on campus. I almost went to Tienanmen Square. I was always up for serving in a soup kitchen or running down to Mexico to build a house.

I’ve been told that my activism scared some of my friends. They were concerned that I might turn into one of those guys who trots around the globe looking for a crisis to involve myself in.

But that stopped. I never made an intentional choice to stop. It just sort of…faded.

I became an intellectual activist. I wrote books and articles and a blog that had hundreds of readers. I served churches. I got married and had kids. I settled down and contented myself with giving money and encouraging others to go.

But this trip to Ecuador is changing something in me. It feels like something that went dormant in me is waking up.

I realize it’s really easy for me to sound like a commercial for Compassion International right now, but this is a game-changer. This isn’t a one-time thing for me. This is going to become a part of my identity — working to help the poor, leveraging the influence God has given me in the U.S. to expand the work God is doing in places like South America and Africa.

The activism of my youth was scattered and unfocused. It was raw and unbridled, but it was also passionate and heart-felt. Perhaps God sat me on the bench for a while until I could be seasoned and responsible with my energy.

Or maybe I spent a decade-and-a-half ignoring what God was trying to speak in my heart.

Regardless, consider me an activist again.

This morning I awoke, received a few text messages, checked my email and had a breakfast of french toast at the Swissotel in Quito, Ecuador. To say that the world is flat is an understatement that is growing more understated with each passing day.

Quito, like many large cities in developing nations, is a city of contradictions. Rich and poor sit next to each other where ever you look. This hotel, for example, is one of the nicer hotels I’ve stayed in anywhere — indoor/outdoor pool — big, spacious rooms — fitness center — fantastic breakfast buffet. But from my window I can see people living in cramped quarters — tall apartment buildings with dirty rooftops — mismatched clothing hung out to dry on power lines — graffiti everywhere.

The line between the wealthy and the not-so-wealthy is thin but clear.

But the line between the people I can see from my window and the people I spent the afternoon with is carved in marble, palpable and it is this line that has broken my heart today.

I met with three area pastors and their wives for lunch. They each work with Compassion International at varying levels. The visit for us this afternoon was to what is referred to as a CSP — a Child Survival Program. The folks at Iglesia Christian de Victoria care for mothers from pregnancy until their child is four years old, offering pre-natal vitamins, assistance with labor and delivery, a curriculum for mothers to help early childhood development, groceries and workshops where these young women learn anything from how to sew to how to cook.

It’s a full-service project.

I met Fanny today. Actually, I went to visit her house. And calling it a house is a stretch. It was little more than three tiny rooms the size of most walk-in closets. Fanny is 27, and she only has one leg. Fanny has a 10-month old baby boy. Fanny found out she was pregnant after she’d been raped by a man she doesn’t know. A few months ago, Fanny thought about killing herself and her child. The baby was malnourished and had developed pneumonia.

You should know that Ecuador is a nation of approximately 13 million people, but they only have two children’s hospitals — each accommodating only about 110 children at a time.

Fanny, with no husband, no job, no way to help her sick baby figured murder-suicide might be her best option.

That’s when Compassion International got involved, connecting her with the medical attention her baby needed and getting her the counseling she needed.

Fanny has a job now — she makes small pieces of fabric local mechanics use to polish cars. She can make about 25 of these each week, and she sells them for eight cents apiece.

More than that, though, Fanny has hope. Fanny has friends who come visit her each week and help her by teaching her how to be a strong, courageous woman. Fanny has connected with God, and she says he gives her hope that life will not always be so difficult.

It costs $20 a month to help Fanny and her baby.

Twenty dollars a month might not seem like much, but it can be the line between life and death.