“First we’ll have to cross crocodile pond, and then we’ll go up ice mountain,” little Elijah said, as he clasped my hand tightly and started to sprint across the gym. The five year old was one of many missionary children who attended the vacation bible school that was hosted by my church. The week took place at the Spanish Language Arts Institute in San Jose, Costa Rica. The institute is a beautiful college where missionaries and their families go to learn Spanish. My church went there to show God’s love, serve those who serve, and to give the kids the taste of America, that they had begun to miss.
It was only seven in the morning and I felt as if I had run at least five marathons over the course of our playtime. Although I could barely breathe at the moment, I ran alongside him. For no one, not even I, could say no to his pleading blue eyes that peeped through his shaggy blonde hair. When we finally reached the north side of the gym, Eli and I hunkered down like army men. While attempting to catch my breath, I watched as the young boy pulled out the crumbled paper he had found on the gym floor. To me, it was an outdated brochure, a piece of trash. But to Eli it was a priceless treasure map. His ability to imagine boggled my mind. In fact, I felt myself slightly jealous of his skill. The fatherless boy was able to escape the tragedies of this life and maintain true joy, regardless of his situation.
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