When Carlos offered me a smoke from his makeshift pipe, I said no.  The boys laughed as he lifted the pipe toward me, and their laughter was dark, like the shadow of the tree they were under.

There was no way he’d come to the teen events later that week, even if he did act like he wanted to come.  He was high, caught in the coils of a snake he couldn’t escape.

I left Carlos shaking my head.  I’d known him for years.  We played baseball when he was seven, but he wasn’t that little boy anymore.  I tried to shake it off as I walked to the school to join the others.  The younger boys were beginning to play baseball with the rest of the men on the mission team while the Mexican sun brought its heat.

Then, something beautiful happened.

Dark clouds formed.  A cool breeze blew across the playground, and then big drops splashed on the hot concrete.

Carlos was still down the street under that tree, and I could see him straining to watch us.

The rain started pouring, and the younger boys pointed at each other, laughing at their soaked t-shirts.  They kicked puddles and rolled in the mud.  Some of them lifted their heads toward the sky and tasted the rain.  There was wonder in their eyes, a wonder Carlos had lost.

“I prayed for cloud cover,” Pastor Steve said laughing, “but I guess I didn’t specify about no rain.”

One of the last days of the week, we planned to have a bonfire with the teenagers, but the night before the event, I couldn’t sleep.  Details ran through my mind.  Did we have enough wood?  Should we play bucketball?  What if the kids don’t like the games?

Walking up the dirt road that night with all the teenagers, I couldn’t find Carlos.  I wanted desperately for him to come to the bonfire and for it all to go well, but I also knew God wanted me to trust Him and let go.

We got to the field, and our first game was the water balloon toss.

“Everyone grab a partner and a balloon!” I shouted, and Isabella translated.

Kids formed a line at the cooler to get balloons.  Then, one of the adult leaders walked up to me.

“We don’t have enough balloons,” she whispered.

My heart sank.  I pictured all the disappointed faces.

“Okay,” I shouted, taking a deep breath, “let’s actually get in groups of four!”  I figured it might be lame, but at least they could take turns tossing the balloons in teams, and again Isabella translated.

Each group of four got a balloon, but just before we started tossing them, Meghan, one of the leaders, began walking up to each group.

What’s she doing? I wondered.

Then I saw it.  She was passing out more balloons!  She handed one to the group in front of me, and they split into pairs.  Then, she went up to another.  And another.  Pretty soon, everyone was in pairs with one balloon.  Like Jesus feeding the five thousand with bread and fish, water balloons came out of nowhere.  It was a water balloon miracle!

“Uno, Dos, Tres!” we shouted together, and everyone tossed their balloons.  Kids shrieked with laughter as they tossed their balloons back and forth.

The sun was setting behind the soccer field stands.

I watched the silhouettes of those kids against the pink sky, teenagers from the United States and Mexico.  They were laughing together, playing a crazy game like children, and in that moment, like the refreshing gentle breeze blowing across the field, I knew the Spirit of God was moving among us.

He was there, and there was freedom to do what I knew He wanted me to do all along—trust Him with the details and enjoy the moment like a child.

We all eventually moved to the soccer field stands to hear Daniel speak.  He was only 14, but he spoke about a Father who gave everything so we could know Him.  I didn’t understand all his Spanish, but the heart behind his words was clear.  There were tears in his eyes, the tears of a boy who knew God loved him.

Daniel finished, and we all walked to the bonfire.  Andy and Ben had already gotten it going.  It burned bright as we walked up to it, crackling against the darkness, and the kids lined up at a table to get their sticks, marshmallows, graham crackers and chocolate.  Most of them had no idea what s’mores were, but they didn’t care.  They stuck their marshmallows in the flames and laughed as they caught fire.

Then someone tapped my shoulder.  I turned around, and my heart skipped a beat.

“Hola Carlos!” I shouted.

“Hola,” he said.

His smile was illuminated by the firelight, and I gave him a hug, but then he did something I didn’t understand at first.  He pointed at his roasting stick.

“Por favor,” he said, and then I understood.  He wanted help making a s’more.

The two of us walked to the table and slid a marshmallow over the tip of the stick.  Then, I pointed him in the direction of the fire.  I figured he knew what to do from there, but he motioned for me to join him, so we walked to the fire together.

Oh, I thought, he wants the whole tutorial.

So we roasted the marshmallow; we went back to the table and got a chocolate bar to slide between two graham crackers.  And then I watched him eat it as the chocolate smeared on the edges of his smile.

It wasn’t until I was walking home that night that I realized what Carlos was doing.  He wanted to be seven again.  It wasn’t really about the s’more.  With his dad not around, he just wanted to be seen by someone who loved him.

Carlos is from Mexico.  He’s seventeen and loves motorcycles.  In some ways, we couldn’t be more different.  But after that night, I could see we both have one very powerful similarity–we want love.  And not just any love.  The Father’s love that sets us free from the suffocating coils of the world to be like children, so we can bask in the wonder of His attention, and, when the storms come, play in the rain.

That’s all for today! Thanks for reading.  Do you like these stories? A great way you could show your appreciation is by forwarding this email to someone else who might enjoy them. Or did someone forward this to you? Sign up here to get a story like this twice a month. Thanks for your support!