A NASCAR driver would find it a major challenge to drive in Guatemala City. The man-made lanes defied logic and police regulations. When there should be two lanes, there are three or four. The biggest vehicle is king of the road—the diesel spewing buses that rip and roar like a lion, as they move in and out of the lanes. Goals were to beat the other buses, and to make good time picking up more passengers, at the risk of everybody else’s safety. People totally ignore the turn signals but I learned an unwritten law; the power of the hand. The hand goes out the window with a waving motion to signal a need for a lane change. When a few inches are given, you make your move with words of prayer on your lips. When I began to drive in the City, I had to pry my fingers loose from the steering wheel when I reached my destination. I’m sure the indents are still there.

We were out to see the city and stopped at a busy intersection. Swarms of street children came running toward us. It was a three ring circus at its best. Dirty faced and ragged clothed children juggled oranges or little balls, with some simple acrobats, and then slapped the window for a donation.

“Chicles, chicles only for one quetzal. Candy? Please lady, give me some money.” There were more taps on the windows as kids pleaded their case. I saw this same scene over and over. The heart grabber was usually in the mix. A young girl, of about eight or ten years old, carried a baby on her hip. “Señora please give me some money to buy milk for my sister.” Chances were great that they were not sisters and the money would not be used for milk.

Teens would try to woe drivers at night by breathing fire. A sip of gas, a small torch, and one quick and hard exhale made a plume of fire. Was the few quetzals worth the pain they endured? These kids were fighting for survival. This was the reality of their world and inside I screamed, “This is not fair. They are only little children.”

It appeared to be a good thing to give them money so they could buy food, but the system did not work that way. I found out later that these children worked for somebody and they were expected to bring in a certain amount of quetzals each night. If not, they paid a brutal price. Their bodies bore the evidence of that. Questions formed in my mind as I looked into the hollowed eyes of these children. Where did these children go at night? Did they have families? Did they earn enough money to eat? Who protected them? I had many unanswered questions that weighed on my mind. The biggest question being, Could I do something to help even a few of these youngsters? Who was I to take on an age old problem? I wanted to gather these kids up and take them home with me. Like a parasite, the hopelessness I saw wormed its way deep into my heart. I knew the God of hope and love. That He had some answers for my questions. He loved these children more than I could ever imagine.

Later, I pondered over my calling to Guatemala to teach missionary children. I refocused my mind, and set the other concerns aside for the time being. I knew the Lord would open doors for ministry, but in His time, not mine. This world-wide problem needed the collaboration of many to be able to touch the lives on the streets. Again, I found myself praying for God’s plan to show me the way.

I know many of you have been in similar situations. You wanted to do something and yet the answers seemed off in the distance. I’d love to hear of your experiences and how you dealt with these feelings. What revelations did you have as God guided you through these heart breaking times?