A Saturday

It was a late night and an early morning. A long drive and conversation on the way.

Titeres, or puppets, were unloaded. Stages set up. An apartment complex in a refugee neightborhood. Swarms of small children arriving in small clusters till there was anywhere from sixty to a hundred children.

A pastor in a red shirt, and it spoke of how he was too blessed to be stressed. He'd been in the area since 1967. Eyes that had seen many people, probably many in different walks of life. He spoke of the sex trafficking that went on there. Twelve murders in one month in a ten square mile area. Almost enough people to fill my graduating class. Twelve names. Twelve faces. Twelve stories. But will we every hear of them? No.

Two hundred and sixty-seven apartment rooms filled with children left to fend for themselves while parents are away. Left to run drugs across the dangerous intersection. Left to play in the parking spots that are in the shade.

I could see it in his eyes. Sadness, or was it loneliness? He was so young. Cuantos anos tienes? Tres.

Three little grimy fingers he held up. Five fingers on his hand I got to hold while we did the Limbo. Five fingers that were willing to be held. Five fingers that were not bothered by holding a stranger's hand. Five little fingers I got to hold.

What will happen in his home tonight?

I don't know. I do not even know his name.

I could not hold every child's hand. I could not find out all of their names. All I could do was give of myself. I can not give of myself to every child. But I could hold his hand.

Maybe someday he will remember that we sang of Jesus.

Maybe he will remember a girl who came to tell him about Jesus.

Jesus te ama.

Jesus te ama muy mucho.