DAVID THE CLOWN: It was a big day at the CMI or children's jail of Tijuana. For seventy teenagers it was graduation day. Things were clean and colorful. There were large tent canopies and seats for parents and friends and a long table for the bigwigs. With the exception of the delinquent minors, everyone was there by special invitation

The graduating kids were dressed in nice blue denims with clean white tee-shirts and seated in a group to the right of the audience. After introductions, speeches and awards, there were performances by the inmates complete with humming and buzzing microphones.

David, 16, performed well in each of his two performances, especially the last one in which he and six other guys and gals were carried on stage, each in a dark green trash bag. These bags sat there unmoving until the music started. Then slowly the bags moved, little by little, and came to life. Ultimately, all of the kids shed their bag and came out as large babies complete with little bibs. It was quite a creative skit, and David starred in that performance. Suddenly he blossomed, smiling happily and appropriately immature. In everything there was applause. When the long program ended, there was an even more enthusiastic applause!

We all knew David, after all we saw him every week. He was the excited clown that appeared from everywhere at once and who knew just enough English to make himself a nuisance. He was the mess-off and a real pain when I wanted to get serious with the kids. Now he was leaving his barred home and the show was over.

Aaron and I mingled with the crowd and talked with the kids we knew so well. We went over to the big stage where David was standing alone and greeted him. "David, that was great!" "Thanks" he responded. Then he paused, looked up at us and continued in broken English, "My mother didn't come to see me; you guys are my parents." And he hugged us. As we talked with him and encouraged him his smile disappeared, his eyes began to tear up. We knew it was time to say good-by.

As we walked away and just before we slipped into the crowd of people, I glanced back to see David sitting alone on the edge of the stage, head bowed and hands over his eyes. The lonely clown. This was his big day. He had done his time but no one had come to applaud, no one came to get him and there was no one who really cared. Even worse, he had no home to which he could return.

I was talking with the head guard yesterday afternoon. In our conversation it occurred to both of us that the CMI's population has about doubled in the past few years. A growing group of kids like David. The state has no solution. The city has no solution. Only in Christ is there a solution.

One of the cook's helpers was talking with me Monday. He smiled and said "They say you're rich." "Rich?" I replied, "I'm not rich!" "Yes you are," he said, "You are rich in God." This caught me quite by surprise. Maybe it was because I was thinking in dollars or it might have been that he was a rough young teen. Maybe it was because he was an inmate. One thing for sure is that he was right on! In that sense I am very rich indeed.

DARK ZONA LESSONS: (11/'03) Zona Norte continues to be a challenge. The Zone is incredibly dark as we walk the streets. Having children and teens call to you from the shadows is an eerie feeling. One teenage boy called me from a dark stairway, "Remember me?" he asked. "I met you in jail." I walked back, smiled and asked if he was clean (without drugs). "No, Brother von." A girl at the top of the stairs called to him and our short conversation was over.

A few blocks later, I met young Sinaloa and he greeted me warmly. I asked how he was doing. "Not good Brother von." I asked when he was going to decide for Christ. "I'm not ready yet." We walked on.

I noticed a young man sitting on the curb in the shadows injecting himself, hoping to transfer into another world, a world without problems, a world of peace. Only a temporary fix.

The "American" boys walking with us that night were learning lessons they will never forget. Jesus taught on the road, it works! That's how disciples are made.

A week ago we were working in the Zone. About noon, Hortensia came to me and said, "Von, there is someone here to meet you." I walked out to the sidewalk where a father, mother and son met me and expressed their gratitude for our help in the surgery for their son. The boy, about eleven, shyly asked if he could hug me. "Of course," I replied. I wish you who made the surgery possible could have felt his tight hug. It made my day!

OUR WORLD IN MEXICO: (Sept. '03) I had known little Jonathan several years. I first met him and his brother at Emmanuel Orphanage when he was just a little tyke. More than a year ago he left the orphanage and headed to the streets. Aaron and I met him at Tijuana's CMI (children's jail) a few months ago. He was in there for a burglary charge. Like so many kids here in Tijuana, Jonathan is a neat kid but he is wired wrong.

After several months in the CMI, Jonathan and his friend, Louis Enrique, wanted badly to get out but no relative showed an interest in them or wanted to take them out. Working with the jail administration, we arranged that they could go to a shelter (El Poso), they would have to go to school. Both happily agreed.

Twelve year old Luis Enrique stayed at the shelter for a few days then left for the street and his drugs. Jonathan stuck with it for a few weeks but four days ago he too left the shelter. I asked the other boys why they left; they said Luis and Jonathan simply wanted money. Now the two of them are together working the streets; they're into drugs and have a pistol. Two twelve-year-old boys with a pistol and using drugs can be a fatal combination. Please pray that the authorities will catch them or that we will find them and be able to talk with them. Soon!

Our world here in Mexico is so different. On occasion we have to make sudden changes in plans. Juan called me late Friday and asked if I thought we should change our big staff meeting on Monday from his house, where we normally meet, to our dormitory. Of course I asked why and he told me the all too familiar story. Hector, Juan's young brother-in-law, had just shot two young men, killing one and critically wounding the other. This all happened a few houses away from our meeting place. Hector is on the run and his wife is scared and hiding in Juan's house. The families of the victims, a group called The Rabbits, have sworn to take revenge on Hector and any of his family. The police are trying to involve Juan in the shootings and want a substantial bribe to keep him from going to jail. It wouldn't be out of the question for the police to enter our meeting, round us all up, and take us in custody for questioning. In this case I didn't have to pray for wisdom when simple common sense would do I quickly made the decision in favor of the dorm so, yesterday we had our first staff meeting in the dormitory! Do pray for Juan that he might not have to undergo police questioning which is normally preceded by a harsh beating.

QUESTIONS HARD TO ANSWER: (Mar.'04) If there is a God, why did he let my father rape me?" The other day this question was asked by a little Tijuana street kid tearfully blurting out his deep hurt. Some of us, working on the ugly side of life, struggle along with these kids pondering our own questions that we can't answer. Indeed where are these kids guarding angels when the're really needed? Is God letting them down or is it really us? Why aren't there more Christians who can be found by the abused and needy? Why aren't there more of us willing to work in the world of the needy and neglected? (We challenge our visiting U.S teens on this same issue.)

Just another little kid on his way to becoming a God hater and a people hater. I'm reminded of a sight that I saw some years ago. A young man was beating a mirror into which he was looking; he hated himself! Another dangerous criminal in the making? Hate is a powerful and terribly destructive force.

Often we see the anger and hate in such young kids, willing and ready to take on their world. They're tough, cynical survivors. We enter their world. We are there to challenge their hate and change their anger by sharing the love of Christ and His solution ... the Gospel.

These kids don't confide in you until they trust you and feel you love them. That's the reason they confide in us; because they trust us but sometimes we just can't help enough ... this tears us up!

LEARNING TO HUG: (April '04) There are those of us who are into hugging and those of us who aren't. I'll be honest ; I'm just not a hugger. I'm always uncomfortable when Eva comes over, hugs me and gives me a little kiss on the cheek. And she does this faithfully every Thursday.

Eva has been with us for years. She is a tall, thin woman who was once quite attractive. A widow, she has a couple of children and little else. We give her groceries and fifteen dollars a week. Eva is one of those people who we could say is just plain "un-lucky." It seems everything always turns out wrong for her. Like the time she and the kids left to visit a relative down south. When they returned, their little shack and everything in it had been stolen. Just gone. We helped her with a new one.

Eva is older now. Many of her teeth are missing. Little by little facial cancer has taken over. She has only one eye. But she keeps on keeping on with out complaining. Attractive she isn't, but, in a sense, beautiful she is. True our ministry is with children but we can't overlook the many Eva's we have. I'm sure God places people in our lives for a divine reason. I needed to learn a lesson about hugging and loving the unlovable and showing it in a loving physical way. Eva was my lesson. She will be there tomorrow and I can count on her hugging me and kissing me on the cheek ... and yes, I'll hug her back.

MOTHER IS DEAD: Marcos is now thirteen. Thirteen going on twenty. Marcos is a typical street kid. I've watched him grow up in the red-light district, Tijuana's infamous "Zone." First he was sniffing rubber cement, and then he graduated to crystal meth*. He was in our orphanage for a while and doing well. Then one day he decided to walk back down into the Zone where he had left his life. Back on drugs, Marcos was in and out of children's jail several times. He escaped twice and was caught each time back in his neighborhood stealing for drugs.

Tired of his life, drugs and police hassles, Marcos returned three weeks ago to "The Well,"a small Christian children's home in the Zone. Again we saw a different boy, a boy that was clean, well fed, happy and loved. He's been doing well for more than three weeks, and that's pretty long for a kid like Marcos.

Last night while I was in the Zone, Chuy, the director of El Poso (The Well), came to my car with a serious look on his face. Marcos' mother died that day of a drug overdose, and Marcos had just been told. She was a woman of the night and not much of a mother to Marcos, but she was all he had. Now even his mother was gone.

Chuy asked the big question. "Von would you talk with Marcos, this could set him back on drugs." So Marcos and I went into the alley and talked it over. He didn't say much, he just hung his head and listened. It's times like this that every word you say goes straight to the heart. It's times like this we can talk about God, life and death in a natural way. Marcos didn't cry, he was too tough for that. When I was through, he looked up at me for a moment and then grabbed me tightly in a big hug. A long hug. For a moment he had a father and that's what he needed.

FATIMA'S WORLD: This is Zona (5/'04) Norte, the most northern part of Tijuana. The zone is the city's infamous red-light district, ten or fifteen dangerous blocks near the north side of the border. Cops and robbers is a 24/7 game here.

As we walk up the narrow sidewalk along the busy four-lane highway running parallel with our border we keep close to the buildings. It is impossible to miss the dead dog facing us lying between the lanes of fast traffic. He was hit so hard that his eyes popped out. I look back at the children on this sidewalk. Accidents do happen to kids and dogs in this packed city. We continue walking up the street to visit a poor family.

Less than a hundred yards from the US border, Fatima and her six small children live in their small room on the second floor of a shabby apartment building. Day and night she hears the traffic on the four lane highway below. The traffic of wealthy American tourists as they drive to and from Ensanada; not one of them aware that she and her neighbors exist in such poverty. The invisible poor.

Three of us turn left entering the ghetto and walk between several shabby buildings turning into one of the darkened doorways. We carefully make our way up the steep cement stairs. At the top there is a makeshift door to the left. This is Fatima's apartment. A couple of holes in the door are plugged with dark plastic; cardboard on the lower part of the door afford little privacy. The wire securing the door doesn't offer much security to Fatima's family inside. We call to her and in a short time she peers out the door, looks us over, then invites us inside her home.

The moment we entered the room we find ourselves standing next to the one bed where five of her children quietly study us. Fatima has been near the window washing the laundry in a cold tub of water, the dirty dishes sit on a shelf nearby. This one room is home to all seven of them. We as rich Americans stand and watch life as it is played out in the ghetto.

Fatima was racing the clock, she needs to be dressed and ready for work at one in the afternoon. Maria her little ten year old daughter pops into the room and stares at us. She will take care of her brothers and sister through the afternoon and night.

Here is one of the many poor families in Tijuana that misses the American dream by less than a hundred yards.

HORTENSIA, AN INCREDABLE LADY: (7/'04) I found Hortensia in front of the funeral home. She hugged me and said, "Thank you for coming Pastor von."

"Can we go somewhere to talk alone?" I asked. We went into the austere funeral home and sat on a bench in the hallway. She leaned over, grabbed me and started sobbing. Regaining her composure, she told me the whole story. Last night her son was killed; a victim of another senseless and unprovoked murder in her neighborhood. Another kid, too young to die ... dead!

He was simply talking with his friends near a small store in the early evening. A group of men and teens came down the street firing guns. Everyone scattered. Marico didn't run; he just stood there alone. One of the guys came up to him and shot him three times in his chest at point blank range. As Marico fell, they all ran and scattered. David, his younger brother, ran up to him and placed his jacket over him. He died on the way to the hospital.

Hortensia came as quickly as she could to the hospital but it was too late. The next few hours were a painful blur of police investigations, signing papers, answering questions, making funeral plans. She finally returned to her neighborhood around ten in the evening, tired, hurting and ready to be alone.

As she climbed up to the porch of her house, a young lady carrying a little boy came up to her. "Hortensia, I have been waiting for you. I have heard that you help people. Look at my little boy; he is dying of pneumonia." Hortensia said, "I was so exhausted and I didn't want to hear this, but I looked at the little child, struggling to breathe and was bluish in color. She spoke to the woman. "I just lost my son, he was killed a few hours ago." The young mother said, "I'm so sorry" then paused and added, "but here is my little boy dying, and he has a chance to live, won't you help us?"

Soon Hortensia was on the way down the hill and back to the hospital again, this time with a desperate mother holding her dying little boy. She saw to it that the child had a doctor and that he was placed in bed with an IV with the proper antibiotics. About one in the morning she asked to be excused. Soon she was home. It was a difficult sleep, a short sleep.

Later in the morning both mother and child appeared at her door again. "Hortensia," the young mother said, "I want to thank you for saving my little boy's life. Look at my son." The antibiotics worked and the little boy was breathing normal and had a good color. Then the hurt came back; her son, Marico would never recover.

Our conversation at the funeral parlor took a sudden change back into the reality of the moment, Hortensia apologized as she looked around, "The funeral will be a little late. My son's body isn't here yet, the police had a hard time finding the bullets. Pastor von, funerals are so expensive ... she said.

Now I know how the poor feel when their loss comes and they have to go into debt for years just to pay for the funeral."

In Mexico, when a murder or shooting occurs, the police comb the neighborhood and ask all kinds of questions about the people and family involved. The police chief greeted Hortensia and said, "You are a strong woman. Everyone in your neighborhood speaks highly of you and your boys." They say that "you have helped so many people. You are an incredible woman." Hortensia has been one of our staff workers more than twenty years. She adopted little HIV infected Roberto into her home. Like all of our staff, she is paid meager wages. She works for the Lord and the love she has for the poor around her; money is secondary. Indeed she is a rare find.

It seems in the dark areas of God's vineyard some of His workers stand out like brilliant lights. Hortensia is one of that kind of servant. We are privileged to have a person like this as part of our team.

TEACHING KIDS: 7/'04 I love teaching kids in Tijuana. Each month I teach at least seven different groups ranging in age from eight to seventeen. It's a challenge but I love it. The kids are so responsive. They love learning by listening to stories and watching object lessons. Of course there are exceptions, like the night I was teaching the kids at Casa de Emmanuel boy's home.

It had been a long day after camp and a little late. Some of the younger kids just couldn't keep their eyes open. I thought you might like to see the way some kids respond to my "dynamic" teaching. At the end of the lesson, I asked the group of kids to quietly move out and let me take photos of the three little sleeping beauties. Cute, eh? God has His ways of keeping a speaker humble. (See photos on other side.)

Our ministry creates so many significant teaching opportunities: challenging our American teens to make a difference in their world, encouraging street kids that God loves even them, sharing Bible stories with the orphanage children and barrio kids, sharing God's forgiveness to the teens in jail. It's especially true here in Mexico that when your audience knows you, loves you and respects you, the message sinks in like seeds in good soil. We are fortunate to have three other teachers equally loved and respected.

KIDS LIVES CHANGE: 8/'04 I'm often asked, "How many lives are being changed as a result of your efforts in Tijuana?" That's a hard question to answer. How do we really know what's happening inside a kid's heart because of God's using us? We have contact with more than a thousand children and teens each month. We track more than a hundred. Then there are a smaller number whom we are discipling.

Yesterday, I talked at length with three of our young teen boys. Very encouraging, considering where these boys were a few years ago. The three are Christians. Two want to be foreign missionaries and one wants to serve the poor in his own country. They happen to be working with us.

Yesterday was a hot, sweaty workday in Trinchirasso. Kids and their mothers filled the big basketball court, not the best place to talk, but that's how it happened. Alfredo, a nice looking teenage boy is from that barrio, and I was asking some questions about his life. After his mother died he elected to return to Emmanuel Orphanage and continue his schooling. "Alfredo, as you look around this old neighborhood of yours and see your old friends, what do you feel? What do you see?" He looked around and thought for a moment, then replied " Everything's the same, they're not going anywhere. They're stuck." Isaiah, another teen who lives in Trinchi with his parents bounced into the discussion. "Isaiah, are you still going to be a missionary?" I asked. "Yes, I sure am. I have to finish my schooling first though. Von take me down to Venezuela with you; I want to talk to the Indians." Julian, a bright teenager had several serious questions to ask. "Von, am I on the right track? My friends don't seem very serious about life." In his earlier years Julian had been a very good student and been given scholarships to advance in his schooling but his mother never came down to sign or even acknowledge the scholarships. "Julian", she would say, "why are you always studying? Why don't you get a job?" He decided to leave and continue schooling even if it meant the street. At that point we picked him up and he now lives at our dorm and continues in school. I assured him he was indeed on the right track. He too, will make a good missionary someday. (I often use Julian as my interpreter.)

Of course, it's rewarding to be a part of a day like this; to see these little Mexican kids from this poor ghetto having a great time. Clean and wearing clean used clothing, they are running around with a fruit bag in one hand and a snow-cone in another. What a day! Kids getting free haircuts. A line of mothers with their children and babies waiting to see our doctor for a free consultation. Mothers holding big bags of produce. US teens working hard to see that this all runs smoothly. Americans holding little ghetto children in their arms. Indeed this is rewarding but nothing compares with the rewards that we see in lives being changed for the good. We are after the permanent solution that only God can bring. God works from the inside out!

GRATITUDE TAUGHT: 9/'04 It might surprise you to find that those with whom we work, for the most part, are not a grateful people. They are hard tough survivors. They rarely thank anyone for anything. Indeed they have gratitude in their language but not often in their hearts. This attitude is foreign to man, it has to be taught and from the beginning we have taught the gratitude attitude.

For years on our big work days each week we have given away used bikes. One bike for a girl and one for a boy. Yesterday, eleven year old Jose got lucky; you could see his smile stretch from ear to ear. Armando said to me, "That's the first bike he has ever had." A very used and slightly abused bike met its new owner and was he happy but happy does not necessarily mean grateful. Jose looked at me smiling and Armando said to him, "Well, what do you say?" Jose looked puzzled for a moment and then said "Oh yeah. Thanks." We are very consistent in requiring a "thank you" from those who receive. Adult or child, a "thank you" is in order. I don't know how many times I have felt a little finger poke me in the back while I was at work only to turn around and find a happy kid holding a soccer ball or a little car. "Thank you, pastor von." Indeed I'm a very fortunate man. As director, I'm often the focal point for gratitude. I wish you were there. You're the one they should thank.

CHRISTMAS EVE: 12/'04 Christmas is played out differently all over the world, but Christmas Eve is pretty much a quiet family night, in the USA.

There are a few of us who like to bend Christmas Eve into a more practical occasion for giving. From a warm cheerful evening with a few close friends, we anticipate moving into a dark, cold and indifferent world of hundreds of strangers. With the border only minutes away and so many poor families unable to celebrate Christmas this special time makes a unique opportunity to minister to the needy. With that as our goal we wrap up and head in a short caravan across that magic line that separates the haves from the have-nots.

Preparations have been made in Tijuana. Our Spectrum "Cool Bus" has been loaded with hundreds of toys and blankets. Our cars have additional toys, jackets and blankets. Ernesto has ordered and purchased the fifty large pizzas, chips, gallons of punch, paper plates and cups and Paul Alvarado is ready with his guitar. Now its just a matter of driving into a night full of opportunity to do Christmas Eve.

Every one of the four main gates to the children's jail opened just like magic as we walked through them toward the kitchen while each guard greeted us. The three hundred and fifty inmates knew there was going to be pizza and they were excited. We set the long cement tables with pizza, chips and punch and like clockwork fifty smiling inmates dressed in grey jumper suits filed in holding their hands clasped behind them. They sat quietly while we had prayer. Then, as they ate, Paul played several songs on his guitar and I followed with a brief Christmas message, reminding them it's His birthday not ours. This went on in several different sessions until all the kids were fed. Yes, Christmas Eve is having convicts (and even big burly guards) hug you tightly and quietly say Feliz Navidad. Or maybe Christmas Eve is comforting a crying teenage girl that just can't take being without her family at this special time. Tonight there was an unusual freedom within those high steel walls of security.

From the jail, we drove across the city to a large remote area in the hills overlooking the ocean. It seemed the dirt washboard roads stretched on for miles. This new community has just started to build and has only a few families scattered around. At this point there is no electricity, water or sewer. There are no stores or schools for miles. The people were told we were coming with gifts for the children so they were all there quietly standing in the dark waiting for us. When we arrived we pulled out our big generator and set up lights now we could see several hundred adults and children some wearing blankets, some barefoot. The "Cool Bus" soon opened and lines of kids were let in one at a time where American teens showed them the toys; each could choose only one. To the kids it was as though a US toy store had suddenly appeared out of the darkness with free toys. The adults were so happy to get the blankets. With each toy and with each blanket came the message of Christmas in a little tract in Spanish.

Miles later we stopped in another location back toward the city. Las Carretas is a dirty and dangerous community that sits in the valley at the edge of the city dump. One access point leads to a long and winding dirt road past broken down shacks, piles of trash and pigs. Lots of pigs. When we stopped there was no one there but within ten minutes a line of thirty kids appeared from the dark. In twenty minutes there were more than a hundred. I guess these people could be called the untouchables of Tijuana. They too had a chance to get one new toy for Christmas. For many it was their only toy. All were friendly and well behaved.

From Las Carretas we found our way to Emmanuel Orphanage where they provided us with tamales, hot fruit drink and pastry laid out on a long table. The Orphanage children were sound asleep.

It was very late when we drove home. Interstate five going north had no traffic; few stores and restaurants were open. Christmas Eve was turning into Christmas day. Again, this year our Christmas Eve was something real special. Together we brought a little joy, happiness and warmth to the truly needy. We had another very special opportunity to show and share the love of Jesus Christ.

TWO LITTLE BLACK SHOES: 2/'05 It was getting cold as the sun left the muddy valley of lower Trinchi and we were still giving out toys to a small line of cold kids, some clad in short sleeve shirts and others barefooted. Little five year old Antonio was so happy with his pair of black shoes. We gave them to him as his Christmas gift from our bus full of blankets, toys and goodies. Each child could choose one gift. He quickly ran up the tire steps to his home holding tight to his pair of black shoes.

Two days later Antonio was crushed to death in a mudslide.

His parents' neighborhood is located on the hillside of a muddy valley. Like many neighborhoods we serve, it consists of poor "invaders" or homesteaders. The poorest of these families often dig out a shelf on a hillside and put up a shelter accessible by steps of old embedded tires. It doesn't take much to trigger an avalanche of mud after several days of rain. Mud is quiet. Mud is heavy. Mud is deadly.

There were only five at Anthony's funeral. The little boy laid in a small open casket. The family was poor so the mortuary did very little to clean up the boy where he laid swollen and bruised. With him in his casket were the two little black shoes he loved so dearly.

That same morning a few miles away ten year old Laura and her fifteen year old sister Erma were playing together in their small makeshift bedroom. Without warning, their lives were snuffed out by another mudslide.

Hortensia, two of their little girl friends and I walked a muddy road and through the trashy area to the site. I lifted the yellow caution ribbon and walked closer to the mudslide. The soldiers had scattered the families clothing and thrown the furniture away in hope that they would not return there to live. Any thing of value was stolen and they had nothing but their two dead daughters. The governor was there with the media and he expressed his condolences, but unfortunately the government hasn't the resources to be of much help.

Thanks for enabling us to step in where people like these fall through the cracks of bureaucratic idealism. This family needed help not promises. Hortensia represented us to both families and we helped pay for their food and funerals. Do the poor respect us? What do you think? The word gets around.

While little Antonio's pair of black shoes will never be worn, they will never be forgotten either. "Thanks to whoever donated them to us."

Thanks for your part in helping us help them.

LITTLE MUGRE: 2-'05 In the afternoon after our big workday and gift distribution in Pipila area I was busy getting photos of an assortment of little kids with their new Christmas toys. (I give these photos to the parents.) Hortensia came over and asked if I had taken a picture of little Mugre. "Mugre?" I asked. Mugre is a Spanish word meaning " dirty scum." "Who would be called 'Mugre?'" I wondered. "It must be the nickname for some dirty little boy." "Oh," Hortensia laughed, "that's that cute little girl over there." I looked across the way and there was little Mugre in all her glory happily held in the arms of a young American lady visiting for the workday.

"Hortensia," I asked, "who would name her child 'Mugre'? She looked at me and said " I don't know who would ever name a girl that." Indeed little "Dirty-Scum" was a cute (and now clean!) little girl. I hate to think about her future in that area with a name like that. I took this picture as she enjoyed her short moment of happiness with one who truly loved her.

Little Mugre is now simply a memory, another kid in thousands that help form the human statistics of poverty in Tijuana.

In some cases I have actually talked with those who think that "mugre" is an appropriate description for those with whom we work in Tijuana. We take a different view because God takes a different view. As we see it, every life is loved and valued by God and little Mugre is no exception.

The many thousands that comprise the very poor in Tijuana are not dirty scum. These are simply poor human beings trying to make it any way they can. They are called survivors, tough and cold survivors. Indeed many are caught and enslaved to drugs and crime but each has his own heartbreaking story. Dig deep enough into each life and it can bring you to tears.

EYES TALK: 5/'05 Hidel (Jairo) is a short, quiet little boy. His eyes communicate; they connect. It's almost as though he uses them instead of speaking. I've known him for most of his eight years. He is a loner. He fits into the background. He quietly comes. He quietly goes. For years we knew him as the kid who seldom talked and never smiled. Knowing more than I should about his life at "home," I sort of understood but there are some things you just can't change.

Two weeks ago as Hidel was standing in back of me next in line for a shower, for some reason he gave me a hug and looked up into my eyes. Several times now he has come to me and hugged me for no apparent reason. No comment; not even a smile. Just a hug. A lonely little kid simply looking for a friend.

Hidel has been changing lately. He is becoming a problem in school. He's getting poor grades, fighting and stealing from the other kids. Last week, when these problems came to a head with his teacher, he blurted out that he wanted to be like his big uncle, a drug addict and thief. "He gets along!" Hidel said. "No one gives me anything to eat; I have to take care of myself!" Then silence.

His sickly old grandmother always brought him to our work days and so we saw him regularly. Last week his grandmother died. He has no father. His mother and uncle are in a mental hospital.

It's difficult to find our part in all of this. Yes, we will help in whatever way we can.

I saw him today and called him over to my car "Would you like a little car?" I asked. He looked at me and smiled. I let him choose a model car, then he was off to his world.

EDGAR FINALLY MADE IT: 7/'05 It was Sunday afternoon and we had just finished working at the children's jail in Tijuana. I was putting things away in the back of my car when I heard my name. "Von, von!" I looked up and saw a young man running toward me in a uniform but the afternoon sun was in my eyes and I couldn't quite see who he was.

Before I knew it, there was Edgar! Edgar, in all of his glory in full uniform. He stood there smiling, proud as punch. "Hi von," he said! "Remember me?" Oh yes, I remembered Edgar. He was the kid who was always doing the dishes at the orphanage. He was the kid who would always run and hug me when I came to the orphanage. He was the kid who longed for attention when I had little attention to give. Edgar, well, he wasn't the brightest but he always had a smile and he did dishes well. And he tried.

Now here he was, years later, standing proudly in front of me in his security uniform. Edgar, a security officer!

"Wait von, wait just a minute while I go get my card," and he rushed off down the dirt road to get his business card. He returned a few minutes later out of breath. "Here's my card, von," and he shoved it into my hand. In bright red capital letters it read, SEGURIDAD PRIVADA (private security) Edgar Martinez Ruiz. He quickly pointed out his personal cell phone number on the bottom of the card.

To be honest I couldn't help but feel proud with him and for him because from all the mess of his life, Edgar Martinez Ruiz had made it! Better yet, we all had a part in it. He still has his smile, his young optimism and, yes, his uniform complete with a cell phone attached to his belt.

This is what Spectrum is, a collection of important little opportunities that all finally add up to ... well, another Edgar.

This site is maintained for Spectrum Ministries by David Pence/ACE Micro