Compassion International, Peru 2012


She is wiping her brow, and her expression tells me our arrival is a surprise.

The door is wide open and she is welcoming us in, but her other arm motions to the ground, points to the pile of trash, and ends up on the unmade bed on the far side of the room.

I know what she is saying. I’ve done it many, many times myself.

Come in, please…come in.

I wish I could have made it more beautiful for you.

I begin to shake my head before the translator gets a word out, and as he confirms my suspicions I smile and nod at her, assure her that her home is beautiful and we are grateful to be in it.

She wipes her hands on her shirt, explaining that she was just about to leave for the market. I wonder if they forgot to tell her we were coming, or maybe, like me, she’s just lost track of time.

In any case, it doesn’t look messy to me. It’s dotted with stray posters advertising popsicles and bargain prices. Most of them are in English, and she explains that she doesn’t know the words but she wanted to have color on the walls.

She strikes a match and lights a stick of incense, and immediately the room fills with a musty, perfumed scent. She waves her hands, willing it closer to us as a smile finally drifts across her face.

Her son Anibal is 12, and he has the kind of grin that will no doubt make girls weak in the knees one day. I can tell he has a little mischief in him, which I love. He is undeniably charming, gentle in his mannerisms, and shy enough to make you work for sustained eye contact. In other words: a challenge I accept.

His mother begins talking about his animals, and I decide I won’t make the same mistake I did yesterday, when I urged my girls to look at the precious guinea pigs caged in the backyard, only to then have to explain that they aren’t so much “pets” as they are “ the main course.”

I ask him about the animals and he explains that he has a quail, a dog, and a duck. His mother, now straightening the bedsheets, tells us that he made her promise that she wouldn’t kill the duck. She shakes her head as if to say “how ridiculous,” but the corners of her mouth tell me she loves his antics. Little did she know at the time that this was a pretty resilient duck, and is now four years old and fit as a fiddle.

As we leave the house to see the backyard area, I catch a glimpse of the duck running and Anibal smiles at my surprise. He points to a small cage housing the quail, and as I get closer he lifts the fabric higher up so I can see in.

“What’s it’s name?” I ask the translator.

He asks Anibal and then tells me that it doesn’t have a name.

I tip my head like I’m giving an exaggerated lecture and tell him that any animal he takes care of should have a proper name. His dimples crease in agreement. We smile at each other for long enough for me to see a glimpse of what he might be, and I fight tears because it’s not a photograph anymore.


She pushes the window open, and then the door.

She’s still apologizing with her body language, no matter how many times we reassure her. She tells us about her other son, a younger boy, who is also in the Compassion program. He receives special services for what they believe to be severe learning delays, and she tells us she doesn’t know how she would do it without Compassion.

One of the other team members begins to ask about the boy’s sponsors: Where are they from? Do they write? What are their names? Does he save the letters?

She motions to the bunk bed where the three of them sleep. I don’t know how long it has been since their father was there, but years at least. She walks quickly, tapping Anibal on the back and urging him in the direction of the bed.

There are moments where you watch with your eyes and know that later, in the quiet, you will hear with your heart.

Her fingers move swiftly, raise the top mattress, and reach deep underneath. Clenched in her hands come letters, one on top of another, and she smoothes the pile and hands it to her son.

Her words run together and I wait for the translation. There are cabinets in the room, a tiny desk with drawers, a bookshelf…but the letters were here. Why? I wonder.

He tells us what she is saying and I feel my stomach lurch.

“She is saying that their house was robbed awhile ago. The men came and took their precious things, and many of Anibal’s Compassion letters were taken. So now, they keep them hidden here, where they won’t be found.”

I watch as he spreads them out on the bed, tracing the pages and telling us that he used to have a photo album of his sponsor family but it was taken.

I immediately remember the many faces we met working at the Compassion offices yesterday, men and women bright with life and joy. Eight of them, from one small office, had been sponsored children themselves once, and now work there because they want to see other people’s lives transformed the way theirs have been.

And these letters, pen on paper, every curve and dot…they tell a story of hope that Anibal needs to hear.

When the sun falls down and the house grows dark, his head rests on the prayers and promises of a man he will likely never meet.

His mother tells us he wants to be a chef one day.

Then she giggles and shakes her finger at him playfully. The translator explains that she is telling him he needs to cut onions even though they make him cry. He shakes his head, smile wide, and looks away in mock embarrassment, hands still fumbling with his letters.


The quail has no idea we are discussing his potentially nameless fate, but he stares curiously through the cage bars, twitching his head from side to side.

“Well, I just think he should have one.” I tease.

Anibal smiles in return, eyes lifted from the floor for an instant, and says a few more words.

The translator laughs and tells me that Anibal wants me to name the bird, and he will call it by that name forever.

Hmmm…” I say, finger exaggerating a tapping motion on my chin while my eyes squint with possibility.

“What about Esperanza?” I ask. “Doesn’t that mean hope?”

They chat for a moment and more laughter comes.

“He says that you just tried to give his boy bird a girl’s name.”

Now we’re all laughing.

I hear a rustling noise behind me and turn to see the death-defying duck, poking it’s way across the dirt.

“Ah! Your duck!” I walk closer to it, turning to the translator. “Would you mind asking him to tell me more about the duck? Like, why he wanted it? I want to know the story.”

As he answers, I pick up four or five words that bring me back to ninth grade Spanish, but not nearly enough to piece it together.

“He tells me that one day he was walking and the duck just followed him. Whichever way he turned, the duck turned too. He wanted to keep it because it seemed to want to be with him.” the translator explains.

“And so he kept it.” I look at Anibal while my thoughts chase a story.

For four years he has fed, cared for, and loved an animal that made him feel like he was worth following.

Ink on paper, photos of faraway dreams, hiding under torn sheets and the reality of his life.

They tell him the same.

He trusts me more now, and gestures toward the duck, who clearly does not share his affection for me.

“He is saying that this one is a girl, and he would like to use the name you chose.” The translator’s eyes are dancing as he speaks, and the story pens itself before I answer.

I see a tall chef’s hat, perched on his head while his hands chop and tears pool in his eyes. He remembers his life, years ago, when he didn’t dare cut onions, and now he welcomes the sting because it reminds him he has a gift. Maybe he has children of his own, and a wife who opens the windows, smoothes the bedcovers and loves him enough to follow him whichever way he turns.

It comes to me in a flash, in a moment, in a prayer. I can taste his dreams, breathe them in as deep as incense. He may not see it yet, but God willing, one day he will.

“Well, then…” I whisper, more to myself than anyone in particular. Holy ground has a way of hushing us, doesn’t it?

I touch his shoulder, study his face, and thank the God who let me name her today.

“Esperanza it is.”


“You show that you are a letter from Christ, the result of our ministry, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts…” {2 Corinthians 3:3}


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  • Reply Krista November 14, 2012 at 11:58 pm

    Oh Angie. That is my favorite Bible verse. Thank you for giving life to people that are so easy to see as just a picture. <3

  • Reply Alexis November 15, 2012 at 12:22 am

    How beautiful! It reads like a storybook! 🙂

  • Reply Kristi Ottmar November 15, 2012 at 12:31 am

    my heart is breaking as my overweight dog lay sleeping on our leather couches….
    we have so much. Jesus show us your love for these you love so.

    Thanks Angie for giving us a glimpse of the world you are walking in during this time

  • Reply Heather Paul November 15, 2012 at 1:05 am

    Well written. Through your words we have a glimpse of Anibal’s life… And now, I can remember him and his family in my prayers. May more sweet encounters come your way for you and your girls this trip.

  • Reply Through Their Eyes « com·pas·sion [kuhm-pash-uhn] November 15, 2012 at 1:15 am

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  • Reply Steve Jones November 15, 2012 at 1:21 am

    You kill me lady! Why are those last few sentences always blurry for me?

    • Reply Lisa-Jo Baker November 15, 2012 at 9:37 am

      Yes exactly – what Steve said, exactly.

    • Reply Jill Foley November 15, 2012 at 9:56 am

      They were blurry for me, too….she must have changed the font at the end. : )

  • Reply Jen Gash November 15, 2012 at 3:24 am

    This girl is happy to see their great beds! Love you. Praying for you and the team!

  • Reply Jenn November 15, 2012 at 7:31 am

    Thank you!!! For going, for seeing, for loving, and for sharing with all of us

  • Reply Michelle Wright November 15, 2012 at 8:11 am

    My heart is with these children and my mission and my blog are both dedicated to helping sponsors understand the importance of their letter writing ministry. It is an often overlooked part of sponsorship and yet it is so important. I’ll be sharing this post, for sure. Hopefully sponsors will understand that their letters are treasures.

  • Reply Casey Springer November 15, 2012 at 9:52 am

    I’m sitting here in tears in a library reading this story. I had to stop in the middle and go write a letter to my Compassion child Tuyizere in Rwanda. God Bless you Angie that you put aside the fear and you got on that plane with your two beauties and you are there…..naming ducks. What a blessing!!!

  • Reply Laura November 15, 2012 at 10:10 am

    Tears. Just beautiful. You have such a gift with words. Thank you for sharing something so profound and important.

  • Reply Keely Marie Scott November 15, 2012 at 10:12 am

    “Holy ground has a way of hushing us. . . ” absolutely beautiful. And I echo Steve those last few lines were blurry for me too. 😉

  • Reply Nancy November 15, 2012 at 10:15 am

    Like you said- a Holy hush

  • Reply Kelli Martin Stuart November 15, 2012 at 10:36 am

    Whew. This one got me. My eyes are burning and my throat is tight. Hushed.

  • Reply Teena Price November 15, 2012 at 10:36 am

    Wow! Yes. Hope. Thank you for pouring your heart out for us….

  • Reply Tonya Salomons November 15, 2012 at 10:40 am

    “It comes to me in a flash, in a moment, in a prayer. I can taste his dreams, breathe them in as deep as incense. He may not see it yet, but God willing, one day he will.” —> This has me undone and has me reaching for pen and paper to bleed hope with ink for my own Compassion daughter… Thank you!

  • Reply Aimee November 15, 2012 at 10:46 am

    Wow, this is another beautiful one! Thank you, Angie… for bringing me to Peru through your words!

  • Reply Robin Dance November 15, 2012 at 12:01 pm

    Angie….oh, my.

    You’ve penned Anibal’s story with the heart, his, yours and everyone whose path crosses these words. A holy union.

    Praying you, loving you from a world away. Thankful that your words bring us close.


  • Reply Karrilee Aggett November 15, 2012 at 12:04 pm

    I am off to write my own letters this morning… to our girl in Ethiopia and our boy in the Dominican Republic! I’m with Tonya Salomons… that portion got me too!

  • Reply Misty Krasawski November 15, 2012 at 2:48 pm

    Gulping tears. Thank you, again. Praying blessings to Anibals family today!

  • Reply Julie November 15, 2012 at 3:15 pm

    “For four years he has fed, cared for, and loved an animal that made him feel like he was worth following.”

    This. Breathtaking.

  • Reply mindysue November 15, 2012 at 7:19 pm

    Holy ground – right there beneath your feet in Peru – a world away from your home. God is there. And He is good.

  • Reply Amy November 15, 2012 at 11:12 pm

    So beautiful. Thank you for being eyes and ears in a place I can’t get to right now. I love that you’ve taken your girls with you on this trip, and can’t wait to do the same some day with mine. I’ve been so encouraged by the grace & truth your blog since I stumbled on it months ago… thank you for that as well. 🙂

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  • Reply Judy November 16, 2012 at 9:14 pm

    It is not easy to bring gentle humour to this kind of hardship, or to tell it well after the event, and you have achieved both. To see beyond the circumstance and capture something of Anibal’s personality, and to grace him with the dignity of personhood in this way is a gift both to him and to us. Lovely.

  • Reply Laura Young November 18, 2012 at 8:15 pm

    Angie, wanted you to know that me and my husband made the commitment to sponsor a child in Peru today – I had sponsored another child a long time ago as a teenager and had to give him up due to being a struggling college student. Now, we are able to sponsor a child again and I could not be happier! Love this ministry and how God is moving in Peru. Thanks for allowing God to use you.

  • Reply Becki November 19, 2012 at 7:19 pm

    So beautiful. My aunt has lived in Peru as a missionary Nun for over 25 years. Those faces are so familiar to me. So full of life and love. Thanks for sharing this. God Bless!

  • Reply Gail Olson November 20, 2012 at 9:17 am

    Weeping as I am reading this. It is as if i was really there visiting with the family, child. May we never forget how simple acts of kindness can encourage, bless others. Esparenza, beautiful.

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