Saint Francisco

Francisco isn’t really a saint; he just acts like one. I had the pleasure of meeting Francisco on February 8, 2011. It is a day I will never forget.

We took a boat ride that day to visit some sponsored children living in a small lakeside village. From above, the village looks as if it could be a luxurious, lakeshore resort town. One need only get closer to take in the reality of this tiny Guatemalan town.

As would be the case in every town we visited, we were greeted by smiling, cheering, singing children and their families. They were celebrating us before our boat ever reached the dock. Each of us was once again taken by the hand and lead to where these humble people would entertain us with their songs, their dances, their customs. And, of course, their otherworldly smiles.

As we sat and watched what they had prepared for us, the townspeople seemed to collapse in around us. From every direction they came, women, men, children. They have a way in these small towns of welcoming strangers without saying a word. Their faces speak entirely for themselves. We were always welcome, and we were always treated with a kindness and a respect that I’ve never experienced before. Though I didn’t know it yet, somewhere in that bubbling crowd of people was Francisco, a child sponsored by the CFCA.

It wasn’t until we were lead to another beautiful table for another beautiful meal that I saw him. Francisco is only four years old, so if you weren’t looking down, you could miss him entirely. Thankfully, his smile made up for whatever he lacked in physical stature. There are few words in the English language to adequately describe the aura that surrounded young Francisco. The people in our group, myself included, were drawn to him like magnets. He emanated a peace, a love, and a joy that seemed to come from a place we all long to know. Francisco became a star; everyone wanted a picture of this child, the one with a smile that defied all reason. I watched as he went from camera to camera, pose to pose.

There is a peculiar thing about smiling Guatemalan children. They love to smile, and they do it continuously. That is, until you want a picture. As soon as a camera is lifted up, before the lens even has time to focus, their faces often become expressionless. Smiles could be a tough thing to capture, unless you were taking a picture of Francisco. His smile, it would turn out, was permanent. So I got in line, waited for my turn, and snapped my photo.



That is Francisco on the left, the one with a cowboy hat and a smile so broad I worried my camera wouldn’t capture it. Francisco’s face was stuck in a state of permanent joy. It was contagious, it was powerful, and it was so pure. When we sat down to eat, Francisco dissolved into the crowd and eventually disappeared.

We spent much of the afternoon there, and traveling through the town gave us a view of things that couldn’t be seen from a far away photo. The town stretches up the side of a steep mountain. It’s the same mountain that sent a landslide crushing through the town two years ago. Fifteen people were killed, including five sponsored children. The landslide left a thick, permanent scar through the heart of town. People who had nothing to begin with, were left with even less.



Their structures, their homes, have no foundation, no stability. These people are utterly defenseless against the weather. They have never had the security of a home that actually protects them, something we continuously take for granted. On this day, we would get to visit the home of a sponsored family for the first time.

Reaching the home would prove to be a challenge by itself. The village is a maze of battered sidewalks and steep climbs. Just to reach the entrance of the home we went to visit, we had to climb a steep hill of rocks.



I climbed to the top of those rocks and moved to the side. There was hardly room for a family, let alone a large group of visitors. The house consists of two non-connected rooms, each about eight feet by ten feet. There are two beds, neither of which have a mattress. A tiny, barely covered kitchen stands separate from the rest of the “house.” There is no door to the kitchen. When it rains, the kitchen will know it. The family shares a restroom that is nothing more than a covered hole in the ground.



This tiny, battered home with its two beds is inhabited by a mother and her six children. I choked back tears. I wanted to scream at the only thing my eyes were able to see: the poverty, the injustice. I didn't scream though, and I didn't cry. Because standing there, with a smile that saw so far beyond poverty and so far beyond injustice, was little Francisco. I was standing in his home, and his spirit devoured me.

He stood before us, an indescribable ray of hope. And he was so proud. Proud to have us visit his home, proud to show us all that he has, proud because his eyes and his heart were able to see that which I could not.

Francisco’s father passed away two years ago, leaving his mother alone with six children. She explained to us that Francisco wears traditional Mayan clothing, unlike most boys, because that is what his father used to wear. The cowboy hat perched so proudly on his head belonged to his father. With every word, his impossible smile grew. His mother explained how her entire family is supported by Francisco’s sponsorship. As always, she promised us her continued devotion to prayer on our behalf.

I stood in the presence of this mother and child, soaking in the lessons they were teaching. Slowly, very slowly, Francisco began to make sense to me. The joy that he so effortlessly carried and the love he so freely shared came from the very source of true joy and true love. It came from God. Francisco does not see the things that he does not possess. He can’t. What Francisco sees, the very things we so often miss, are the only things that ever matter – faith, hope, and love. He possesses an uninhibited, unspoiled, pure, and relentless love. It’s this love, I believe, that springs forth in him an overwhelming joy. I believe it because I saw it, I felt it. And because Francisco has nothing, nothing gets in the way.

We can possess that same love. We can be a beacon of that same joy. If only we can rid ourselves of all the things that don’t matter. Because we have everything, everything gets in the way. If Francisco can be happy, why in the world can’t we?

Before I left Francisco’s home, I took one last picture. I wanted to remember that smile. I wanted to remember what true love and true joy look like. For as long as I draw breath, I will never forget that little boy.

Francisco may not be a saint. But I think he should be.