Steve North

I’m not a Children’s Pastor. I don’t do very well with children, when it comes to teaching or otherwise connecting. It’s not that I don’t like kids, or that I don’t care—in fact, it’s just the opposite. I find myself struggling to communicate how deeply I love them—this is true even with my own kids. I sometimes try very hard to convey my feelings to them, but it comes out heavy or forced, as though I’m trying to convince them of something they take for granted.

In spite of my failings with them, many children are very good at connecting with me. And sometimes their message hits me with a force I cannot shake. Like today, on Filantropica street in San Pedro:

As I stumble through survey questions with an older woman in the colonia, my eye is caught by a little girl in a blue dress, cautiously investigating the stranger-conducted interview. Losing my place in the survey becomes of less and less consequence, as the scene comes into focus before me.

Rangelli is a stunningly beautiful little girl, whose bright-eyed curiosity reflects the treasure trove of potential with which God created her. Her long dark hair frames an inquisitive face eager to know and discover events in her world.

Rangelli’s world should be bigger. This little one should have opportunities, like taking dance classes and piano lessons and seeing the world. It would be right for her to learn about herself and her gifts, painstakingly and uniquely arranged by God in His grace. It would be justice for her to achieve her full potential, sharing with the world what, in all likelihood, only those in her little neighborhood behind other houses on a narrow dirt street know.

It would be right, but chances are Rangelli will never get a piano lesson, or any other chance for personal growth and discovery and expression so common for children in my home town—or my household. Chances are that Rangelli will live much of her life, if not all of it, imprisoned by a lack of the basic opportunities that would otherwise release the potential of her soul into the world—held captive not by a lack of ambition or potential or effort or desire, but by the limitations placed on her by a world and a culture that doesn’t concern itself with justice for the small and beautiful.

There is a bigger and better world for Rangelli, and for every child we see during these days here in San Pedro. There is hope for something more, for significance, for a release of her beauty into the world—and for a release of its beauty into hers. I don’t know how, but something must change. Someone must make things change—or chances are...