There was a period in my life when I was the quintessential spoiled younger sibling. I was the baby of a family living in a two-story house with every type of food at her disposal, a girl who didn’t know what it felt like to have nothing. The way I saw it, poverty was just the 1-800 number on TV with melancholy music to dramatize the images of starved children in mud huts. I didn’t understand what poverty truly meant until I was face-to-face with it, an encounter I will never forget. Until the summer of my eighth grade, all my trips were to resorts or lodges. But the one with greatest impact on my life lacked all luxuries: a bumpy road trip down dusty streets to the impoverished village of Camalu, Mexico where once a year my church would carry out a mission. Despite my objections, my parents made me pack my bags and join the group. It sounded like a boot-camp. As soon as we arrived, I was appalled. Not only were the conditions horrific, but I was expected to live in them for a week. My queen-sized bed, hot showers, and tiled bathrooms were replaced with musty cots, rusty spouts, and fly-covered outhouses. However, my narrow and pessimistic views changed beyond my expectations once I met the kids. The children were covered with dirt and lice, wearing stained and worn-out clothing. Yet unlike the kids I’d seen on the infomercials, they were teeming with excitement and personality, jumping on us and holding up their arms to be carried. I communicated with them the best I could and was eventually shown their homes, which were simple shacks smaller than my bedroom. Throughout the week we familiarized ourselves with the harsh daily schedule of the adults, taking part for a few hours in the tomato fields—a mere taste of the regular 12-hour days they worked for meager pay. We built roads, painted houses, passed out food and clothing, and played with the children. Words cannot describe how fulfilling it was to help families with kids who, despite having nothing, knew...