This spring break, I spent my vacation time waking up at 5 a.m. and taking bucket showers.

And I wouldn't want to have it any other way.

Over the past two years, I've traveled to Sainte Suzanne, Haiti, a small, rural village hidden within the mountains about an hour outside of Cap-Haïtien. I've worked on yam farms and in medical clinics; I've ridden in the back of pick-up trucks on some of the most scenic dirt roads in the world and survived rush hour without traffic laws.

One trip, I ended up meeting the interim prime minister; three days later, he was fired. Another, I played (and was literally crushed by) the Haitians in soccer. I came home with a black eye and an incredible story.

Those stories don't matter, though; that's Haiti, but it's not really the real Haiti. Or reality.

1.3 billion people in the world live in "extreme poverty," earning less than $1.25 a day. A king size Kit Kat bar from Walmart is $1.41.

Before my first mission trip, I thought I could understand such hardship by following the news or through a simple Google search. But no photo could capture the destitution.

I visited windowless homes--their structures consisting of nothing more than mud and sticks--without any beds or furniture, filled only with trash, completely isolated from what little society exists.

Our "basics" are their luxuries. Some kids don't own clothes or shoes. They can't afford to attend school. They suffer from diseases, mental illnesses and malnutrition. The teenagers there looked like nine-year-olds here.

They didn't want much, just our time, just our help. They begged to take a sip from my water bottle, for me to give them a bag of rice, a piece of my granola bar.

Yet despite their pain, they never ceased to smile.

It was a strange yet beautiful moment, a profoundly moving experience.

The Haitians, despite having so little, had so much to give. And that selflessness and willingness to transform their lives, the community and the future of their nation makes me believe there is hope.