Lessons in Compassion

“DON’T!” Molly screamed as I reached into my pocket for my camera.
“Oh come on,” I groaned. “Just let me take one picture.”
“No!” she insisted. “The second he sees us stop, he’ll hop out of his kidnapper cart and drag us in!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoffed. “That’s NOT a kidnapper cart! It’s just a little taxi.”
“But the last one we saw had swastikas on the wheels! Please…I really don’t want you to take that picture.”
“Fine,” I muttered, surprised that she would get so worked up over one picture. “If it’s that important to you.”

Two months later, hundreds of miles away, I again found myself standing before a “kidnapper cart.” Only this time, I would be getting in. If only Molly could see me now.


I stepped into the mototaxi and held on as we set off down the bumpy road. I laughed at the thought of being kidnapped in one of these. I could easily jump out of it and be no worse for the wear.

When we reached the bus station in Ojojona, the giant bus to Tegucigalpa was just pulling away. My driver honked his little horn, which sounded more like a squeak, and I rushed from the taxi to the bus, glad I wouldn’t have to wait 30 minutes for the next one.

The bus ride was uneventful, except, of course, for the general South American lack of the concept of personal space. Although I started with my own seat, there were soon two others crowded in next to me, pressing me all the way against the window. The popping of my “bubble” was almost audible.

Stepping off the bus in Tegucigalpa, I realized that I was much more likely to be kidnapped here than by riding a mototaxi in Ojojona. I looked around and started to pull out my cell phone when I heard my name. A taxi pulled up next to me, its rolled down window revealing a smiling woman with a Compassion International clipboard. I climbed in, and my eyes landed on a familiar face. Staring up at me were the big brown eyes that had beckoned me two years ago from a laminated sheet of paper. I remembered seeing those eyes and instantly begging my parents to let us sponsor him, as if he were a puppy at the pound. Sure enough, we had “adopted” Lesvin Guillen Tomas Martinez that day. Every month, we sent his family money for food, clothing, school, and any medical care that he might need. We sent him letters, photos, and little gifts, and he responded with letters of his own and beautiful drawings.

Although he was two years older, Lesvin’s shy smile was just as cute as the day I’d picked him out. And even though there was a slight air of awkwardness in the taxi, I could tell that it was going to be a great day.

Our first stop was the children’s museum. In the playroom before the actual exhibits, I marveled at how much fun he was having with some wooden cars and blocks. He would have been content to stay there all day. I knelt on the floor to play with him, wanting him to like me, but being aware of my white skin, nice things, and 19 years like never before. Sure enough, though, working together to build walls with the blocks tore down the walls of differences between us. His shyness was lifted to reveal a sunshiney grin.

Lesvin had a blast playing with every toy. He especially loved riding around on a little backhoe. Being much too big to play, I watched with a smile. Then he called my name-- not Yosee or Yoshi or Miss, but Josy-- and waved a plastic ball. I held out my hands, and he tossed it to me. After passing for a few minutes, I suggested we start into the actual museum. With a reluctant look at the scoot around backhoe, he agreed.

When we walked into the first exhibit, I thought his eyes might literally pop out of his head. He looked like the roadrunner as he dashed over to a giant crane, sat down, and drove it through the room. Thirty seconds later, he jumped down and hopped into a bulldozer that was powered by hand pedals. He drove it forward and backwards and all around, and then stopped. He climbed down, ran over to me, and grabbed my hand. Dragging me over to the dozer, he sat me down in the driver’s seat, and had ME pedal while he hung on the back. His laugh was music to my ears.

Lesvin loved every exhibit so much that I’d have to drag him on to the next one. As we got ready to leave, I could tell that he was tired. He plodded slowly up the same ramp that he had sprinted down, full of energy, two hours ago. We got back in the taxi and rode to the mall.

In the food court, I was surprised to see how many American restaurants had spread all the way to Honduras. There were more American choices than Honduran ones! I asked Lesvin what he wanted. “Pollo (chicken),” he said confidently. Then he looked around. “Hamburguesa….pizza…” His mind changed with every restaurant we passed. Finally, he settled on Pizza Hut. Of course. After eating Pizza Hut in Peru, I’d sworn I’d never eat their pizza again outside of America. But that’s what he wanted. And he probably ate rice and beans almost every other day of his life. So, I ordered a large pizza “Americana.” (I think it was SUPPOSED to be pepperoni.) I even went all out and bought the combo that came with stuffed crust, a 2 liter, and some little pecan pies. When I took my first bite, I was surprised to discover that it actually tasted like American pizza. And after a month in Honduras, that was kind of nice.

After lunch, we headed to the mall’s arcade. Lesvin went straight for the racecar games. His jaw was set as he drove. As I watched him, I was amazed at his driving skills. He was only six, yet he already knew how to drive like a Honduran, RECKLESSLY. With no concern for other cars or pedestrians, he sped the car around the track. But not fast enough. GAME OVER.

I convinced him to try a different game, and he soon discovered arcade tickets. That only led to heartache. We spent his entire game card, yet we only had 50 tickets. As with all arcades, everything was ridiculously priced, and 50 tickets would buy little more than an eraser and a sticker. Lesvin desperately wanted a toy car, but it cost 250 tickets. Seeing his downcast face, I wanted so much to pull out the 5 brand new Hot Wheels cars waiting in my backpack. But I couldn’t exactly whip them out while standing at the ticket counter. I convinced him to pick two army men and then led him back through the mall. My heart broke as I watched the tears well up in his eyes.

I tried to cheer him up as we walked back towards the food court. Then I stooped to his level near a large table. “Are you sad about that car?” I asked him. He nodded, the floodgates ready to burst open. “Well I think I know what will make you feel better,” I said with a smile. I pulled the Hot Wheels box out of my bag. His frown did a backflip, revealing not so pearly whites, and he took the box with a gasp. I told him to share with his brother as I handed him markers, pencils, a new shirt, a harmonica, and other little toys. I talked to his mom as he played with each toy one by one, saving the cars for last. His mom thanked me with eyes full of tears. She asked me about my family and pets, specifically citing every photograph we’d ever sent. She was so glad to finally meet me. She smiled as she looked at her sons. They were driving the cars all over the table, imaginations running rampant. And we just watched them. For 5 minutes, 10 minutes. They were so happy.

We stayed at the mall for a while longer, just enjoying being together. Lesvin cowered against me when a man in a dog costume walked by. I dared him to go shake his hand. He shook his head frantically. But with a little bit of teasing, he ran over, shook his hand, and sprinted back. I couldn’t help but laugh at his proud grin. Taking his hand, I led him back over to the dog and took a picture.

After that, it was time to leave. We rode the taxi back to my bus station and waited in the stifling taxi for the right bus. As I said goodbye, he wrapped me in a hug so tight I couldn’t breathe. But I didn’t care. Who needs oxygen, anyway?

Standing on the crowded bus, I looked back on the day. Not only had it been fun, but, once again, God had revealed to me a piece of his heart. I had loved and cared for Lesvin for two years. And even though he had never seen or met me, he loved me too. All he had were the words I’d written him and the gifts I’d bestowed so often, but he loved me nonetheless. So when I finally did meet him, and got to see him face to face, it was a joy unlike any other…for both of us. And THAT, multiplied to the millioneth power is exactly what we have to look forward to when we finally see God face to face.

That wasn’t all, though. I also thought about our time at the arcade, how much Lesvin had wanted that plastic car. But I had said no. Because I didn’t love him? Because I was mad at him? Of course not! I said no because I had something SO much better for him in my backpack. I had hated watching his sorrow, but it was necessary. In the end, the little car was forgotten in the wake of something better. And I have a feeling that the love I shared with him, that same love God has for us, will linger much longer than the memories of that little plastic car.