USAID shaped my concept of America. Its undoing is shaping it again.

And the Christians who purport to serve others

I was 9 years old, living in Kenya with my American evangelical missionary parents, when I learned about USAID.

A devastating drought hit East Africa in 1984. It was probably one of the few times Africa's existence even penetrated most Americans' thoughts, because the famine that unfolded in next door Ethiopia became a cause célèbre, prompting every musical star in the Western sky to come together and record "We are the World." Images of dying babies with distended bellies and listless eyes intruded into American living rooms, briefly interrupting news of Reagan's reelection campaign and the Cabbage Patch kid mania.

We didn't own a television, but I didn't need one to know of the drought's devastation. Kenya didn't face full-blown famine, but people suffered and struggled. My dad visited a church where parishioners told him they were eating weeds. My primary school took us on a field trip to visit the village of a pastoralist tribe. Their cows--whose blood and milk comprised a large part of the community's diet--were dying. The people begged us for food of any kind. I came home shaken to my core.

And I saw trucks of food aid driving through our town, delivering bags of corn--American corn, bought from American farmers--to people who needed it.

And on those bags was written, "From the American people."

From MY people.

We had moved to Kenya the year before, so at that age, I had fresh memories of the United States. It was the land of Toys R Us, Saturday morning cartoons, and roller rinks. It was where we left my grandparents, whose house on a lake in Texas up until then was my favorite place on earth. I was already coming to love the warmth and beauty of Kenya, but America--America was more than just my passport country. I had a sense of it as a kind of Promised Land, or Disneyland, or the place from which all blessings flowed.

We were The Good Guys, that's why my family even came to Africa, to share with others all America and God--and those two things were definitely co-mingled for me as a child--had given us.

Growing up in Africa, the contrast with what I saw around me was stark, in 1984 and always. Not just the poverty, but the political oppression. That same year, I and my schoolmates were ushered out of class and down to the main road so we could see President Moi come by in his motorcade. We cheered and chanted his nickname, "Nyayo!" as he waved his ceremonial rungu at us. As I grew up, I became more and more aware of Moi's abuses. Kenya held its first multiparty elections the year I graduated from high school. Moi won by, among other things, terrorizing his ethnic opponents. At my American boarding school, we were told to prepare go bags in case the Embassy needed to evacuate us.

America was the land of freedom and wealth and goodness. Of course, as a young person, I had a limited understanding of American history or foreign policy. I hadn't been taught much about the horrific chapters of our history. Nor did I know how the Cold War binary pushed the US to prop up dictators like Moi. I only knew that US pressure had compelled him to finally relent to multiparty democracy.

And I remembered those USAID bags. And all the other projects and signs around the country announcing US assistance. More than anything else, that's what shaped my own idea of America. What it was, and what I wanted it to be. I imagined that was how Kenyans saw it, too, although reality was probably more complicated.

My 20 years working in the US government only reinforced these childhood memories. I interacted with people from many different agencies during my time, but the USAID officers stood out for their idealism and dedication. They were always the strongest voice of conscience and humanity in every policy meeting, always asking what the impact of our decisions would be on the most vulnerable, the poorest, the most marginalized. Always searching for a way to get aid into a war zone, offer protection for women and children, find more opportunities for talented people constrained by poverty, channel more power into the hands of the powerless.

In Africa, USAID has carried out the bulk of US policy. They have been the ones on the ground, in rural areas, in dangerous areas, outside elite capital-centric circles. They had enormous cultural expertise and insight. I would regularly seek out working level counterparts to pick their brains, get their inputs, ensure my analysis meshed with what they were seeing. I also saw first-hand the life-saving work USAID does on my travels to the continent, including food programs, public health measures, the distribution of HIV antiretroviral drugs, care for rape survivors, post-conflict peace building programs, democracy promotion, media training, and a million other things. USAID programs purchase American products and burnish American interests around the world for less than 1% of the federal budget. It is a bargain.

Don't get me wrong, there is definitely a conversation to be had about the aid industry writ large. Its efficiency and efficacy can be scrutinized, although USAID funding comes with more accountability measures than many other sources of money. There are bigger philosophical questions about how foreign aid relieves bad governments of responsibility to their citizens. Gone are the days of direct budgetary support that such leaders siphoned off, but they still get the downstream benefit of services and support that they should be funding being provided by someone else.

But the overnight shuttering of the world's largest source of aid--by far--is irresponsible, inhumane, against US national interests, and just plain asinine. It’s also illegal, but when considering the deaths of children around the world, that seems like a trivial matter.

And let’s not mince words—It is EVIL.

For me personally, it's not just heartbreaking as an American adult and former government employee who is well educated on USAID's work. It's a devastation to that little girl, a long time ago, whose sense of being American was shaped by the arrival of food aid bags emblazoned with the stars and stripes.

That little girl thought America was good. This adult woman is rapidly losing faith.

And I'm rapidly losing faith in the very American Christians who funded not only my parents' missionary sojourn but continue to fund evangelism and charity all over the world while voting for a man who breaks the law, dismantles democracy, attacks the marginalized, expels refugees, and profits off what is supposed to be public service.

The same Christians who conduct Christmas Child drives for Samaritan's Purse, one of many evangelical organizations that get funding from USAID. The same Samaritan's Purse run by none other than Franklin Graham, who heralds God's favor for Donald Trump without qualms, questions, or any apparent demands on the President in return. Who has declared him God's chosen leader.

The same Donald Trump who is now risking the lives of millions of desperate people and denigrating the work of the dedicated Americans who care for them with his reprehensible and irresponsible actions. One would hope that white evangelicals might finally cash in a return favor for handing him mostly unchecked power on behalf of the people they claim to care about.

But my long experience, as a missionary kid and former evangelical, has taught me that white evangelicals as a collective are far more interested in maintaining an image of themselves as The Good Guys than they are in actually being good.

And now they are making American less so, very tangibly and directly. I hope they prove me wrong by rising up and demanding Trump restore American aid, but I know better than to hold my breath. I’ve been watching them my whole life.

I’ve been listening to them, too. I can no longer hear their words for the clanging cymbals ringing in my ears.