One Simple Question

Two days before leaving Guatemala, we traveled to the town of Chichicastenango. It is a relatively large town lined with cobblestone roads. On the outskirts of town, we met with a local group of sponsored families. They entertained us, they fed us, they blessed us with their smiles. We had a chance to sit with several mothers of sponsored children. Each of them told us their stories and explained how their lives and the lives of their children have been bettered through the support of people who live thousands of miles away. They thanked us, offering the priceless gift of their humble prayers.

Later that afternoon, we traveled to the center of Chichicastenango and right into the heart of their weekly market. The market itself is a maze of stands and shops where local people come to sell everything from souvenirs to food. In every direction we looked, there were more people and more stands.




We traveled through the market and couldn’t help but smile as we heard broken but effective English being spoken by many of the Guatemalan people. We certainly weren’t the first American tourists to make our way through their market. I will forever remember the Chichicastenango market as the place I learned to say, “No gracias.” Over and over again, I said it. I will also remember it as the place where I learned humility from a child and his one simple question.

My dad and I were making our way through the market, looking to buy a gift we could offer to another sponsored child, one we were to meet the following day. My dad was wearing brown leather shoes, the type of shoes that attract dust far too easily. For the entire week, his shoes were filthy. Not only were his shoes dirty, they were also a welcome target for the men and children wandering Chichicastenango in search of the perfect pair of shoes to shine.

As my dad and I walked through the market, a young boy carrying a footstool and a shoeshine box approached us. He came straight up to my dad and asked, in English, to shine his shoes. My dad politely said, “No gracias,” and we tried to move on. A shoeshine, we knew, was useless. His shoes would be dirty again in seconds, and he would be right back to “no gracias.” This particular child, however, wasn’t going to give up easily. He attached himself to us, following at our heels wherever we walked and persistently offering a shoeshine. It was obviously a technique that had worked for him in the past.

When my dad entered a small shop, the young boy didn’t follow. Instead, he stopped and just stood there, right next to me. He looked at my tennis shoes and I could see the frustration on his face. I looked at him and felt my heart start to break once again. He wasn’t in school. He wasn’t with his friends. His clothes were dirty. He held onto his footstool and supplies like a lifeline, as if they were his only chance. He looked up at me with a face I will never forget. And then he spoke.

“Como estas?” he asked – “How are you?”

My mouth fell open, and my heart splintered. I stood there with a wallet full of money. My clothes were clean. In two days I would be traveling back to the United States, back to the land of opportunity. My home and its comforts awaited me. I had everything he could want; yet, he was the one to reach out to me. This poor child, wanting nothing more than to earn some money for his family, looked beyond himself and asked how I was doing.

I have never been more humbled or struck by a simple question in my entire life. I frustratingly tried to communicate with him the best I could. I told him that I was well, and I asked him how he was doing. He told me that he, too, was well, and that he was twelve-years-old.

I felt honored to be there with him. He wasn’t begging for money, he wasn’t asking for a handout. He was working. While most twelve-year-olds in the United States are playing with their friends or their Xbox, this child was on the street, trying to do nothing more than survive another day. I felt that this young man had probably worked harder in his twelve-years than I will ever work in my life. He was poor, but his shoulders were held high. That, I believe, was the strength of his God-given, human dignity. He smiled, said goodbye, and left me with my moment.

We left Chichicastenango shortly thereafter, but not before I found that young boy again. I smiled and said, “Adios,” pointing to the van we would be leaving in. Then I reached out and shook his hand, slipping the meager amount of money I had taken out just for him, into his palm. His eyes went wide, and he thanked me. Then, of course, he smiled. I pointed to my camera and he nodded his approval. So I took a simple photo and captured the moment.

As our van drove away, he smiled and waved. I watched him turn on his heels and return into the swarm of the Chichicastenango market. A twelve-year-old boy going back to work, trying for one more day to survive.