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HOME » ABOUT PASTOR VON » STORIES FROM MY JOURNALS » BOOK 08 LITTLE ANGEL PIN: Some time ago our Spectrum volunteers were sorting through some boxes of donations and one of our sorters found a little pin and gave it to me. It was a cute little gold and porcelain angel. I looked at it and placed it in my pocket intending to give it to some little girl in Mexico later that week. Days passed into weeks and I would pull the little pin out of my pocket from time to time and then put it back, just carrying it around with me. The pin wasn't high on my priority list and giving it away always seemed to slip my mind. The little angel just quietly waited in my dark pocket until ... Last week at Barrio Pana I noted a little girl, she wasn't a very pretty girl but she was cute and looked like she needed something special. I suddenly remembered the little angle pin and sure enough it was there in my shirt pocket just waiting for her. I smiled and walked over to the little girl and showed her the little pin, then I pinned it on her blouse. The smile she gave me made my day! The last I saw of her she was showing her mother and all her little friends her beautiful angel pin. I wonder if you realize how much the love that you pass on to us through these donations means to these little kids. Colorful clean clothing and shoes mean so much. Even if it's small piece of love, like a little Angel pin, it really counts, especially if it's pinned on personally. Thanks to so many of you that send us kids clothing and you who are closer to us and bring in children's clothing and little trinkets that kids would like. Which of you gave us that little pin? Thanks! Indeed little things mean so much. I CAN'T FIND MY MOTHER: There's a photo on my desk that I look at often. It brings to mind the following story illustrating a little of what we're all about. Several years ago we were leaving camp. My seven passengers from Las Palmas orphanage were piling into my little Volkswagen van, tucking their blankets, old clothes and towels into whatever space they could find. We were leaving a great weekend at Camp Agua Viva, heading back to their orphanage. Victor, about thirteen, pulled me aside and asked if we could stop by a cemetery near Ensenada on the way back. He wanted to see his mother's grave and place some flowers on it. He said he knew where the cemetery was even though he'd been much younger when he had attended her funeral. I agreed to take him there even though I was puzzled as to why he would want to visit his mother's grave. I'd known Victor since his arrival at the orphanage and occasionally, when I shampooed his hair, I saw the many scars on his head. One day I asked the orphanage director about those scars. She said his mom had abused him in many ways. Those scars, she said, came as a form of punishment. Victor's mother would make him sit in a chair as she placed a burning cigarette on his head. She'd keep it there until it burned out. Each instance left Victor's head with a long blister and eventually, a scar. This had been one of the reasons for Victor's placement at the orphanage. As we were driving toward the cemetery I saw some flowers and pulled over and stopped along the side of the road. Victor and his buddies got out and picked some yellow and white flowers, putting them in an old can they'd found. About twenty minutes later we arrived at the cemetery. It was a cemetery for the poor, meaning that no one kept it up. Mostly dirt and rocks, some graffiti and broken beer bottles, punctuated with crosses of every material, size and shape. Many markers were simply little two-piece wooden crosses on which the name was no longer visible. Where was Victor's mother located? All of us hunted and hunted, but were unable to find her grave. I took a photo of Victor holding his little can of flowers searching in vain for a mother who never loved him. He finally came to me with tears in his eyes ... "Von, I can't find my mothers grave, what should I do?" We were standing along the dirt roadway and I looked down at a little old wooden cross of a man who died many years ago. "Victor, why don't you place your flowers on this man's grave? Look, he has had no flowers for many years. No one has been here to love him." Victor, still teary-eyed, placed his rusty can of roadside daises at the foot of the old man's cross. We slowly walked to my van and left. Victor never looked back. DRIVING TJ: We drive in a daily world of traffic that would scare the best US driver. Even a seasoned New York cabbie would be in for a surprise. If you've been a passenger in a vehicle, or worse yet, the driver on a busy traffic day in Paris, Rome, Tokyo or Caracas you might understand the world of difference facing us as we drive across that magic line into Tijuana! I kid you not! The moment you enter the country it's every man for himself. You had better be alert, fast, aggressive and ready for adventure because that's what's ahead! Driving in Tijuana often consists of swerving around chuck holes and open man-holes that could swallow a wheel as you try to spot the small "Alto" signs (stop signs) that are nailed to a tree while you're calculating the kilometer speed limit signs into miles per hour, wondering if the police car driving behind you is running the same math. A one-way street sign tacked to a telephone pole may be as small as ten inches and as far away as twenty feet from the street corner. Mexican drivers are macho with a capital "M"; translate that to courageous, aggressive drivers in older, beat-up cars and trucks that have seen previous action. Most could be classed as missiles. All of this can be quite intimidating to the novice driving a nice car. Buses and taxis stop literally anywhere to pick up and discharge passengers. Double-parking and often triple-parking is quite normal here. A driver on your right can suddenly decide he needs to make a left turn and will cross three lanes of traffic to make that turn. Signals are optional. There is always someone who's got to make it through the red light. Pedestrians don't generally cross the lanes unless they are physically fit and able to run well. If they are not quick, they are dead. Many dogs lying along the side of the roads prove that point. Then there are the glorieta's. A Mexican 'glorieta is the same as an English "roundabout" which is a whirling traffic merry-go-round. Entering the speeding counter-clock-wise traffic takes a good sense of timing and guts. Spinning out on the right street is pure chance. Something else I find unusual about driving Tijuana is how close their cars get to each other. At peak traffic time in the afternoon three lane highways suddenly become four lanes. Because the lanes are very narrow, we drive in close formation. It's remarkable how fast you can go in formation. (A little like the "Blue Angels" on asphalt.) Let's put it this way; no one would be dumb enough to drive with his elbow out the window, not in Tijuana. And look, there are no barriers between lanes going in opposite directions, only a four-inch yellow line indicating you're coming within five feet of each other and closing the gap at fifty miles an hour. Talk about a real Baja race! Bottom line, one major accident, our fault or not, and we all go to jail! Often, to jail first; then to the hospital. THE 45 PISTOL: Thursday afternoon while heading home I had gotten into Tijuana traffic. Stopped at a light while waiting for the light to turn green, to my left, I noticed the driver in a white car in front of me arguing with the passenger in the car next to him. Both of their windows were down. Road rage isn't that uncommon so I was sort of expecting that things might get hot. As I watched, one driver threw some trash at the window of the other car. The light turned green and both cars started moving ahead when I saw an arm and a 45 pistol come out the window of the car to my left—aimed at the driver of the car ahead of me. Wow! This looked like a bit more than road rage. At the same time, I noticed to my right a police car with his lights on. Fortunately, both drivers realized that this just wasn't the right time and took off to settle their score on down the road. I continued driving around the 'glorieta' and on toward home. Another close one ... another unsolicited adventure in my Tijuana world. JULIO'S THICK GLASSES: Ola von. I looked up from my work and Julio stood next to me smiling. No more a little kid taking a shower, he was now a young man. He just dropped by to say "hi" and thank me. Julio still had his thick glasses but now he was able to take care of himself. I remember many years ago when I met Julio as a young boy. As he stepped into the little shower stall he handed me his glasses. I looked down at his glasses, The lenses were thick and scratched. The glasses were large for his face and hanging together with three band-aids sort of draped over his nose and ears. Every three weeks he would come with his little brother for his shower and have me hold these pathetic glasses. How could this poor kid even see? At best he was legally blind. One Thursday I asked for his glasses and took them across the border to Lens-Crafters in San Diego. I was proud of Lenscrafters for looking the "other way" as their policies and procedures would not allow them to make a pair of glasses from the old ones. But they did! Not only did they make me a pair but they didn't charge me when they found out the situation. Julio was thrilled with his new glasses! They were made of tough twistable plastic. He could see now! He went out of the shower room with a big smile. Three weeks later Julio and his brothers came in for their shower. He apologetically handed me his new glasses all scratched and broken. It seems when the gang found out about his new glasses they knocked him down, pulled off his glasses, threw them around and proceeded to grind them into the cement with their shoes then pulled them apart and handed them back to Julio laughing. (Our world is a cruel world) JESUS INCOGNITO: Yes, I believe in the doctrine of Jesus incognito! Matthew 25) I had an interesting incident that happened to me years ago. I was in a hurry trying to get to "Henry's" market to do a quick buy for some US stuff to take with me to the missionaries in Bolivia. My trip was coming up on the weekend and I was to speak that evening at Grupo Mexico. A Bible study on the subject of love. I was running late and needed time to prepare. Well, I was rushing from the market toward my car with my stuff when I was motioned over by a little balding older man with a walker. He asked, in a British accent, "Mister, I'm a little tired ... if you're going my direction, would you mind helping me home? I don't live far from here." And he motioned toward the opposite direction then I was planning on going. Well, I hesitated ... then told him the truth, that I was indeed headed in the opposite direction and had a lot to do. Then I thought "he probably needs the exercise anyway." (This is Pastor von speaking), Well, it was legitimate, after all I did have a study on "love" to prepare for. He smiled and said, "I understand, no problem. I'll make it O. K." So I said, "thanks, I'd love to but..." turned around and headed toward my car, when it was like God hitting me on the side of my head! Whap! "What are you doing you fool!?" I quickly turned and went back to him and said "I'll be glad to help you!. Now it was he who was apologetic ... "No! No! That's fine. I know your busy..." So I persuaded him to go with me and we walked "slowly" to my VW van. Ever so slowly. I assembled he and his walker in my van and drove three short blocks to "his house." Helped him get out and onto his walker and headed him down the sidewalk to ward the house. I'll never forget him stopping, turning around with a smile and a wink, saying ... "God Bless you!" It was then I recognized who I'd helped on the way. Good to chat with you. Wish you well on the road. Don't bend to political correctness. THE FEDERALES: Yesterday afternoon after work I was climbing into my SUV, ready to drive across Tijuana and up to the border toward home. As I started my engine, Aaron called to me, "Hey von, the 'Federales' (Mexico's Federal police) are shooting it out below us and so you'll need to take a different route to the border." Good advice! So it took a little more time to hit the border yesterday. Indeed, the "Federales" were blasting away at a big drug cartel house. Bullets were flying everywhere. The Cartel had executed six men inside the house and were holding off the Federal police as best they could. Everybody in the neighborhood was being told by radio, TV and a big helicopter to shut their windows, lock their doors and stay inside while the shootout continued. And they did. At times like these you don't mind taking a little detour. There isn't a day when we drive Tijuana that the "Federales" aren't present in some form. Men dressed in black with black masks covering their face and holding loaded automatic weapons isn't the most positive picture. Every time a big Federal pickup, loaded with six armed men seated in the back passes you on the road, you are reminded that you're no longer in the USA. The "Federales" are known for their philosophy of "shoot first and ask questions later". On occasion I'm asked "Is it getting any better in Tijuana?" The truth is "No." In fact I think it's growing worse. In the poor barrios factors like family breakdown, immorality, poverty and drugs combine to create an environment of hopelessness and desperation resulting in even more violence. To be honest, in some cases there is really no reason to live leaving more and more teens and men open to anything ... even Jesus. INDEED A GOOD NIGHT: Last night was great; one of those nights you come home singing not sobbing. At times each of us has returned across the border grieving and frustrated over what we can do nothing about. So it was nice having a more positive return. Last night was an evening spent with the sixty boys at LaGloria orphanage - ages six through twelve. Most of these kids are not true orphans; but all of them are problem kids. Every month we have a LaGloria visit - a night of games, competition, food and a message. (Two weeks ago it was a mountain camping weekend for all the kids!!) Parking my car along the curbing, I got out and walked up to the high orphanage block wall and opened the metal door. As I entered the yard a kid saw me and yelled, "Here they are. von's here!" Can you picture a load of enthusiastic kids running down the cement ramp to greet you? It's literally a human tsunami that flattens you against the wall. Sounds like an exaggeration, but it's not. It's just a bunch of "hungry-for-attention" kids, ready for an evening with Spectrum. Wow! A little dangerous for a man my age. Yep! The Spectrum team was there! Soon, our older Mexican teens had five games going while Julian was in the kitchen making a big load of spaghetti to go with the pizza and fruit juice drinks. After a time of games and competition the boys filed into the big dining room and seated themselves along both sides of three long tables. Each had fruit juice and a paper plate with pizza and spaghetti. After singing and reciting a memory verse, they prayed for their food. Then it was the "eating" time, which they all were waiting for. I might add, they excel in eating! ANOTHER LITTLE HOUSE: Every little house we build is a house that's needed and every house has it's story. This little house was especially built for a single older lady named Maria and her teenage boy. Maria found little Gonzalo as an abandoned baby, took him home and cleaned him up. He became hers and she has been very good to him. I remember even as a child he was always clean and dressed in clean clothing. For years I have dug into my pocket for money to buy pampers for Gonzalo. That's my personal contribution. He's thirteen now and still using pampers. You see, Gonzalo, though an attractive boy, is severely autistic. He doesn't know her, nor will he ever know her. He doesn't speak. His attention and eyes are always focused on a something he is playing with or eating. Autistic! No question about it, she and Gonzalo needed a house. It was to be built and furnished in a day. This was a Spectrum project accomplished by our Mexican teenagers. It was a great opportunity for our missionaries to teach these street kids how to construct a house and they were as eager to help out as they were to learn. Take a look at one of the many little houses that you and these kids made possible by your gifts being built by our Mexican kids. It's sitting there today in barrio Trinchirasso, a community of very poor people EVICITION, TIJUANA STYLE: Early this morning I got a call from Aaron, "Von, I have some bad news. Ernesto just got a call from Edith, the director of an orphanage called "Tribe of Jesus" ... she and her kids are all out on the street and she needs help." It seems that yesterday Edith and the Tribo Jesus Orphanage kids (more than a hundred) were evicted. Everything and everyone was literally put out on the dirt road next to their former facility. (A pretty lousy place, I might add) Aaron and I had different plans for today but, considering their situation, we quickly adjusted to new plans. They have no money. Spectrum's general fund is so low that Aaron, our director, had to wait until the middle of this month to cash his salary check. What a time for this emergency! Often people don't like to commit to a general fund, but that's where the money for a situation like this comes from. Somehow, Aaron quickly scraped together $1,700.00 in cash and I took off to see the situation for myself and give the money to Edith (the director of the orphanage). I stopped at our dormitory in Tijuana to pick up Armando, then drove the dirt road to her involuntary campsite. In all my born days (I have many!) and all my time spent in Mexico, I have never seen an eviction of an orphanage. Over one hundred and twenty people and everything they owned—out on the street in a matter of a few hours! Then again, this is Mexico... Tijuana to be exact. When we drove up, I was surprised to see Edith sitting peacefully in front of the locked gate eating breakfast with several staff and a couple of kids. She was smiling. "God will provide", she said as she greeted us and told us what had happened. "Where are all the kids?", I thought. My answer came as she continued her story. This morning after a hasty "breakfast", she quickly shuttled most of the kids out to a variety of families and a church. Several were returned to their dysfunctional families. No real solution, just a temporary fix. How temporary? We don't know. As we said good-by we told her Aaron would be down in the afternoon. I'm ashamed to say it, but I don't think I would be as peaceful as Edith. To me, this seems to be a rather legitimate environment for worry—but not for Edith. She sits there trusting God. Wow! A HOUSE FOR GOZALO: Every little house we build is a house that's needed and every house has it's story. This little house was especially built for a single older lady named Maria and her teenager. Maria found little Gonzalo as an abandoned baby, took him home and cleaned him up. He became hers and she has been very good to him. I remember even as a child he was always clean and dressed in clean clothing. For years I have dug into my pocket for money to buy pampers for Gonzalo. That's my personal contribution. He's thirteen now and still using pampers. You see, Gonzalo, though an attractive boy, is severely autistic. He doesn't know her, nor will he ever know her. He doesn't speak. His attention and eyes are always focused on a something he is playing with or eating. Autistic! No question about it, she and Gonzalo needed a house. It was to be built and furnished in a day. One thing was different. This was a Spectrum project to be built by our Mexican teenagers. It was a great opportunity for our missionaries to teach these street kids how to construct a house and they were as eager to help out as they were to learn. Take a look at one of the many little houses that you and these kids made possible by your generous gifts to our general fund. It's sitting there today in barrio Trinchirasso, a community of very poor people. THE BIG TIGERS: I've learned that when you cross the border into Mexico, your plans often dissolve and you have to take a new direction. But I don't get disappointed any more. I just relax and drive across into my ministry—pretty well prepared for anything. Sunday, the Spectrum crew met at the CMI (Tijuana's jail for kids) and we met a new Commandante and a new format. Lunch was late and things at the institution weren't ready for us. Not unusual. The Commendante called me aside... "Pastor von, we want you to work in area three." I knew "Area Three". That's the "Hole" where they put the most dangerous and worst-behaving kids. No one but the guards can enter. This small brick building houses six cells or cages containing two to six problem-inmates in each cell. There are no windows. These very small cells containing four beds each are covered in the front with a heavy steel mesh which is hard to even look through. (We shake hands by, shaking the finger of an inmate as he sticks it thru the steel mesh). Each cell has a padlocked metal door and a very small padlocked door about waist high to push the food through. A five-foot aisle runs between the cells. I really never thought what I was going to do with these guys in the hole for thirty minutes. We knew that they would only let out five of the kids at a time. Julian, my young translator, and I followed the guard through the steel gates. The guard was big, dressed in black and wearing a bullet-proof vest. I turned to Julian and said, "Well, we're going in with the big tigers this time!" He looked a little apprehensive. We walked across the yard and into Area Three. He unlocked the steel door and we went inside. One at a time, the guard let out the five boys. Big, older boys. Heads shaved, tattoos and in their boxers. As the guard left the building he locked the outside door. We were alone with the tigers, the big ones. Fortunately, they knew me. Everyone in the CMI knows me and knows about Spectrum. Plus, the prayers of many were working on our behalf. I had to quickly design a thirty minute program on the spot! I told the five boys to sit down on the floor and listen. I asked the kids in the other cells to listen, also. They did. I then spoke to them about consequences! After the message we had a very creative game-time, giving a few chocolate candies to the winners. Each kid ended up with a few. (They love chocolates!) Fifteen minutes later the guard came back and released the next five... And that's how last Sunday's ministry in Area Three went. I guess the simplest way to say it is... we drive across the border with what we have, to do what we can. God loves these little tigers and big tigers who are serving their time in that hole. If He loves them, then so must we. We're His ministers in this dark sweaty world of prison. For about twenty years we've been faithfully sowing seeds at this CMI. I wish you could see it for yourselves. SIMPLE GRATITUDE IN A NUTSHELL: The kids from the orphanage lined up behind my SUV - waiting for me to open the back. There are always goodies there. They love pistachio nuts, so I carry a bag with me for such occasions. Nuts like these are good for the kids and better than sweets. The children waited with smiles of expectation, holding the bottom of their shirts out as I'd drop a handful of nuts into their makeshift bag. The kids would look up at me smiling, then at their shirt full of nuts, and walk away saying, "thank you". Well, many said thank you. I must admit I love playing practical jokes, and I thought to myself - this next little boy is expecting a handful of nuts like everyone else is getting... but I'm going to drop just one little nut into his shirt and watch his expression (and the expressions of the others). As I remember, the boy was about six years old. He pulled his shirt out and looked at me smiling, expecting his handful. I reached into my bag of pistachios and grabbed a handful as he watched me expectantly. Holding my handful of nuts high, I dropped one single nut into his little shirt. He looked in his shirt at the one nut, then looked up at me, then back down again at the nut. He waited a moment... sort of puzzled... then looked up at me and smiled. He even said thank you then slowly walked away with his lone nut while the rest of the kids laughed hilariously. I couldn't let this happen. This kid was so grateful for his one little nut! I called him back and smiled at him while he looked at me rather puzzled. "Hold your shirt out", I said. He did and I gave him two big handfuls of nuts. The happy little boy gave me a big broad smile and said thanks while walking away happily holding his shirt full of pistachios. As I was driving home that evening, I got to thinking about that little boy and his one pistachio nut. He was grateful for what he got, even though it wasn't as much as the others got. His sincere gratitude was what got to me. If God has emotions, and He does, isn't there a principle here? When one of His children shows gratitude even for the little blessings; God must want to bless them with even more. It just works that way, doesn't it? A little pistachio nut in a small kid's shirt taught me a lesson on gratitude I'll never forget. ORPHANAGE BLUNDERS: Ten year old Julio stood with a small group of boys looking at the floor while the orphanage worker told me he had bad blood. "Brother von, he repeated, he has bad blood!" According to the worker, "Julio would always be trouble and never amount to anything." He made this pronouncement in front of the boy's peers and myself, an adult friend of his. I know little Julio and indeed he's a problem kid. I also know that most of his immediate relatives have been in prison or are in prison now. The good looking boy is fatherless and from a rough neighborhood. As young as he is, we all know where he's headed. And it's people like this who help send and seal a boy into crime, and later say "see I told you so!" I find it hard to understand why an adult Christian worker could be so cruel. This short pronouncement did a lot of damage. It hurt a young boy deeply, set his future against the church, Christians and adults, set him against authority, demeaned him in front of his peers and distanced him from another adult whom he respected. Lets include the kids standing around Julio; what did they learn? The boy wants to run away. (and he will) And I can see why. But where will Julio go? The answer is painfully clear, there are a lot of streets in the center of Tijuana Well meaning orphanage staff workers can be so cruel and immature; creating the very antagonism and rebellion that frustrates them. This frustration makes them have to yell and beat the kids to get them to behave ... never realizing that they, the staff, are half the problem! (Edwardito ran to Trinchi 2/'09) A BOY ALONE: In the orphanage and after our evening talk the teenagers filed out and into bed, all except fourteen year old Fernando, we asked him to stay back. "Take a seat Fernando." It was lonely time! This young boy is a Mexican Indian, placed in the orphanage by the Government. He doesn't speak much Spanish. He sat uncomfortably straight and stiff in his chair; his eyes avoiding ours. I know Fernando, he's very quiet and not close to anyone. A loner in the true sense of the word. The kids call him "Indian." I was asked to tell him that his little brother was dead. No one wanted to tell him, neither did I. Fernando had asked about his little brother from time to time but the subject was always avoided. The Mexican Government had separated the two of them several years back, placing them in different orphanages. I knew about the situation but was waiting for information to come in as to what happened and where the young boy was buried. We only knew Fernando had no mother or father or even a relative, only his little brother, whom he loved ... and now his brother was dead. The government stonewalled us in trying to get the details. It was time to tell him. As we sat there, I broke the news to him as gently as I could. He took the news like the Indian he was, stoic; emotionless, his black eyes staring straight ahead. If he felt pain or loss, it didn't show. He had no questions ... I had no answers. I broke the silence by asked him if he liked it there at the orphanage, he paused and then whispered "no". "Fernando, if there was anything in the world I could do for you or give you, what would it be?" ... After a long pause he whispered, "I wish I had a family." He walked from the room ... truly alone. UNLOVED: I've never felt unloved. It must be a terrible feeling. Yesterday I took twelve year old Isidro shopping ... not for clothes or food but for an orphanage that he would feel comfortable in. I don't like that kind of shopping. What hurts most of all is that Isidro isn't a bad kid (yet.) He's a thin quiet boy who goes to school even though he isn't encouraged to. On off days you might find he and his buddy Luis working along a local dirt road, filling the big pot holes and hoping some drivers will give them a tip. The other day he proudly showed me his watermelon plant and tomato plant near the house. Twelve, the critical age. He knows I like figs, so he climbed a neighbor's fig tree and picked me a load of ripe figs, but I didn't return for about a week ... so much for the figs. To his stepfather Isidro is a threat; to his alcoholic mother he's a liability. It seems the only one who really loves him is his dog. At one point in the ‘shopping' tour we sat alone in an orphanage and talked about the changes he would experience becoming part of an orphanage. The freedom he would have to give up, and the rules and discipline he would have to accept. I told him very clearly; it's an orphanage or the street, you have to choose. Isidro sat looking into my eyes and listening. No questions. No emotion. In the afternoon we arrived back at the small shack he calls home, I told him to think things over and be sure of his decision. I'll be back Saturday, when he's to give me his decision. As we got out of the car, his mother met us on the street. "Why did you bring him back? I thought you were going to leave him at an orphanage!" How would you feel if you were Isidro? My world is full of unloved and worthless kids ... but who really cares? FACES: As I study the faces of kids here in the U.S. and compare them to the faces of my many kids in the poorer areas of Tijuana. I find a very visible contrast; an unsettling contrast. The expression on the faces of American kids seem to read dull, sullen and unhappy ... almost like the adults they're trying to emulate. Contrast that with the honest and animated face of boy-hood joy! I guess I mean to say that our U.S. kids don't act like kids. Boyhood fun today is a kid quietly sitting scrunched up in a corner playing with his little joy stick, vicariously playing out his life using an electronic game. He can be a successful criminal, boxer, a soldier or sports hero ... just a few dollars more and he can enter a new and different world of challenge. What happened? That's a good question; a more important question is how long has this movement into the vicarious been happening? Weak chubby little American boys with that electronic stare already on their faces. Their fast moving little fingers bring them victory in fighting the unreal. In my Mexico, where progress and technology are simply two words found in a Western dictionary somewhere, the kids show a youthful excitement, curiosity and joy of life. Happy-go-lucky bundles of boundless energy. You'll find them spinning tops, playing marbles or flying kites. Kids happily pushing old four wheel carts, riding crippled tricycles. Wow! That's fun. Even the poorest of kids in Mexico are a happy, energetic and noisy bunch. Why? They're normal kids; outdoor kids and as kids they are happy. And they don't have our technology ... yet! On the northern side of the border while our wealthy and sophisticated little American kids are busy staring into their addicting screens, our young teens are busy Googling out the forbidden fruits of ‘Adulthood' ... Adult shows, books, magazines, toys, games, parties, language ... teens way too young to know that there is no meaningful purpose in hedonistic pleasure. Where has the simple joy, freedom and happiness of youth gone? Is anyone really paying attention as to the direction in which our technology is taking us? Our youth have got technology, or worse, maybe our ever addicting technology has them. A bad scenario. PEPE'S NEW FRIEND: Roberto's home tragically exploded the other day and he ended up as one of the flying pieces. He had two choices, the street or an orphanage. It's hard to explain to a sobbing twelve year old what happened and why it happened. I reminded him what happens to young kids who try to make it on the street. He, like most kids in the neighborhood, knows the facts of Tijuana life. As we were settling him in an orphanage located near little crippled Pepe house, I asked him if he would like to take a side trip and go with me to visit Pepe. I thought seeing Pepe and his condition might temporarily take the sting from Roberto's own world of problems. He agreed and wanted to see him. Pepe was excited to see us, especially me as I always give him a little Hot Wheels car. The two new friends got along great, soon they were happily playing ‘cars' together. Pepe became thirsty so I asked Roberto to give him a drink of water. Roberto looked at me puzzled and then realized the situation, Pepe can't feed himself. He found a glass, walked over to the bottle of water and poured some water in the glass, placing a straw in the glass he walked back to Pepe. Roberto had to hold up the glass of water so Pepe could drink. It was sort of neat to see this. As we left Pepe's house I asked Roberto how he felt there with Pepe. "I like him, he's fun, I want to come back, he's my friend." "Roberto, did you forget about your problems while you were playing with him?" ... He thought for a moment. "Yeah, I forgot all about my problems..." An interesting sight. Roberto the rejected, helping Pepe the cripple. One way we can forget our own problems, is by getting involved helping others through their problems.

HOME » ABOUT PASTOR VON » STORIES FROM MY JOURNALS » BOOK 08

LITTLE ANGEL PIN: Some time ago our Spectrum volunteers were sorting through some boxes of donations and one of our sorters found a little pin and gave it to me. It was a cute little gold and porcelain angel. I looked at it and placed it in my pocket intending to give it to some little girl in Mexico later that week. Days passed into weeks and I would pull the little pin out of my pocket from time to time and then put it back, just carrying it around with me. The pin wasn't high on my priority list and giving it away always seemed to slip my mind. The little angel just quietly waited in my dark pocket until ...

Last week at Barrio Pana I noted a little girl, she wasn't a very pretty girl but she was cute and looked like she needed something special. I suddenly remembered the little angle pin and sure enough it was there in my shirt pocket just waiting for her. I smiled and walked over to the little girl and showed her the little pin, then I pinned it on her blouse. The smile she gave me made my day! The last I saw of her she was showing her mother and all her little friends her beautiful angel pin. I wonder if you realize how much the love that you pass on to us through these donations means to these little kids. Colorful clean clothing and shoes mean so much. Even if it's small piece of love, like a little Angel pin, it really counts, especially if it's pinned on personally.

Thanks to so many of you that send us kids clothing and you who are closer to us and bring in children's clothing and little trinkets that kids would like. Which of you gave us that little pin? Thanks! Indeed little things mean so much.

I CAN'T FIND MY MOTHER: There's a photo on my desk that I look at often. It brings to mind the following story illustrating a little of what we're all about.

Several years ago we were leaving camp. My seven passengers from Las Palmas orphanage were piling into my little Volkswagen van, tucking their blankets, old clothes and towels into whatever space they could find. We were leaving a great weekend at Camp Agua Viva, heading back to their orphanage. Victor, about thirteen, pulled me aside and asked if we could stop by a cemetery near Ensenada on the way back. He wanted to see his mother's grave and place some flowers on it. He said he knew where the cemetery was even though he'd been much younger when he had attended her funeral. I agreed to take him there even though I was puzzled as to why he would want to visit his mother's grave.

I'd known Victor since his arrival at the orphanage and occasionally, when I shampooed his hair, I saw the many scars on his head. One day I asked the orphanage director about those scars. She said his mom had abused him in many ways. Those scars, she said, came as a form of punishment. Victor's mother would make him sit in a chair as she placed a burning cigarette on his head. She'd keep it there until it burned out. Each instance left Victor's head with a long blister and eventually, a scar. This had been one of the reasons for Victor's placement at the orphanage.

As we were driving toward the cemetery I saw some flowers and pulled over and stopped along the side of the road. Victor and his buddies got out and picked some yellow and white flowers, putting them in an old can they'd found.

About twenty minutes later we arrived at the cemetery. It was a cemetery for the poor, meaning that no one kept it up. Mostly dirt and rocks, some graffiti and broken beer bottles, punctuated with crosses of every material, size and shape. Many markers were simply little two-piece wooden crosses on which the name was no longer visible. Where was Victor's mother located? All of us hunted and hunted, but were unable to find her grave. I took a photo of Victor holding his little can of flowers searching in vain for a mother who never loved him.

He finally came to me with tears in his eyes ... "Von, I can't find my mothers grave, what should I do?" We were standing along the dirt roadway and I looked down at a little old wooden cross of a man who died many years ago. "Victor, why don't you place your flowers on this man's grave? Look, he has had no flowers for many years. No one has been here to love him." Victor, still teary-eyed, placed his rusty can of roadside daises at the foot of the old man's cross. We slowly walked to my van and left. Victor never looked back.

DRIVING TJ: We drive in a daily world of traffic that would scare the best US driver. Even a seasoned New York cabbie would be in for a surprise. If you've been a passenger in a vehicle, or worse yet, the driver on a busy traffic day in Paris, Rome, Tokyo or Caracas you might understand the world of difference facing us as we drive across that magic line into Tijuana! I kid you not! The moment you enter the country it's every man for himself. You had better be alert, fast, aggressive and ready for adventure because that's what's ahead!

Driving in Tijuana often consists of swerving around chuck holes and open man-holes that could swallow a wheel as you try to spot the small "Alto" signs (stop signs) that are nailed to a tree while you're calculating the kilometer speed limit signs into miles per hour, wondering if the police car driving behind you is running the same math. A one-way street sign tacked to a telephone pole may be as small as ten inches and as far away as twenty feet from the street corner. Mexican drivers are macho with a capital "M"; translate that to courageous, aggressive drivers in older, beat-up cars and trucks that have seen previous action. Most could be classed as missiles. All of this can be quite intimidating to the novice driving a nice car.

Buses and taxis stop literally anywhere to pick up and discharge passengers. Double-parking and often triple-parking is quite normal here. A driver on your right can suddenly decide he needs to make a left turn and will cross three lanes of traffic to make that turn. Signals are optional. There is always someone who's got to make it through the red light. Pedestrians don't generally cross the lanes unless they are physically fit and able to run well. If they are not quick, they are dead. Many dogs lying along the side of the roads prove that point.

Then there are the glorieta's. A Mexican 'glorieta is the same as an English "roundabout" which is a whirling traffic merry-go-round. Entering the speeding counter-clock-wise traffic takes a good sense of timing and guts. Spinning out on the right street is pure chance.

Something else I find unusual about driving Tijuana is how close their cars get to each other. At peak traffic time in the afternoon three lane highways suddenly become four lanes. Because the lanes are very narrow, we drive in close formation. It's remarkable how fast you can go in formation. (A little like the "Blue Angels" on asphalt.) Let's put it this way; no one would be dumb enough to drive with his elbow out the window, not in Tijuana. And look, there are no barriers between lanes going in opposite directions, only a four-inch yellow line indicating you're coming within five feet of each other and closing the gap at fifty miles an hour. Talk about a real Baja race!

Bottom line, one major accident, our fault or not, and we all go to jail! Often, to jail first; then to the hospital.

THE 45 PISTOL: Thursday afternoon while heading home I had gotten into Tijuana traffic. Stopped at a light while waiting for the light to turn green, to my left, I noticed the driver in a white car in front of me arguing with the passenger in the car next to him. Both of their windows were down. Road rage isn't that uncommon so I was sort of expecting that things might get hot. As I watched, one driver threw some trash at the window of the other car. The light turned green and both cars started moving ahead when I saw an arm and a 45 pistol come out the window of the car to my left—aimed at the driver of the car ahead of me. Wow! This looked like a bit more than road rage. At the same time, I noticed to my right a police car with his lights on. Fortunately, both drivers realized that this just wasn't the right time and took off to settle their score on down the road. I continued driving around the 'glorieta' and on toward home. Another close one ... another unsolicited adventure in my Tijuana world.

JULIO'S THICK GLASSES: Ola von. I looked up from my work and Julio stood next to me smiling. No more a little kid taking a shower, he was now a young man. He just dropped by to say "hi" and thank me. Julio still had his thick glasses but now he was able to take care of himself.

I remember many years ago when I met Julio as a young boy. As he stepped into the little shower stall he handed me his glasses. I looked down at his glasses, The lenses were thick and scratched. The glasses were large for his face and hanging together with three band-aids sort of draped over his nose and ears. Every three weeks he would come with his little brother for his shower and have me hold these pathetic glasses. How could this poor kid even see? At best he was legally blind.

One Thursday I asked for his glasses and took them across the border to Lens-Crafters in San Diego. I was proud of Lenscrafters for looking the "other way" as their policies and procedures would not allow them to make a pair of glasses from the old ones. But they did! Not only did they make me a pair but they didn't charge me when they found out the situation.

Julio was thrilled with his new glasses! They were made of tough twistable plastic. He could see now! He went out of the shower room with a big smile.

Three weeks later Julio and his brothers came in for their shower. He apologetically handed me his new glasses all scratched and broken. It seems when the gang found out about his new glasses they knocked him down, pulled off his glasses, threw them around and proceeded to grind them into the cement with their shoes then pulled them apart and handed them back to Julio laughing. (Our world is a cruel world)

JESUS INCOGNITO: Yes, I believe in the doctrine of Jesus incognito! Matthew 25) I had an interesting incident that happened to me years ago.

I was in a hurry trying to get to "Henry's" market to do a quick buy for some US stuff to take with me to the missionaries in Bolivia. My trip was coming up on the weekend and I was to speak that evening at Grupo Mexico. A Bible study on the subject of love. I was running late and needed time to prepare.

Well, I was rushing from the market toward my car with my stuff when I was motioned over by a little balding older man with a walker. He asked, in a British accent, "Mister, I'm a little tired ... if you're going my direction, would you mind helping me home? I don't live far from here." And he motioned toward the opposite direction then I was planning on going. Well, I hesitated ... then told him the truth, that I was indeed headed in the opposite direction and had a lot to do. Then I thought "he probably needs the exercise anyway." (This is Pastor von speaking), Well, it was legitimate, after all I did have a study on "love" to prepare for. He smiled and said, "I understand, no problem. I'll make it O. K." So I said, "thanks, I'd love to but..." turned around and headed toward my car, when it was like God hitting me on the side of my head! Whap! "What are you doing you fool!?" I quickly turned and went back to him and said "I'll be glad to help you!. Now it was he who was apologetic ... "No! No! That's fine. I know your busy..." So I persuaded him to go with me and we walked "slowly" to my VW van. Ever so slowly.

I assembled he and his walker in my van and drove three short blocks to "his house." Helped him get out and onto his walker and headed him down the sidewalk to ward the house. I'll never forget him stopping, turning around with a smile and a wink, saying ... "God Bless you!" It was then I recognized who I'd helped on the way.

Good to chat with you. Wish you well on the road. Don't bend to political correctness.

THE FEDERALES: Yesterday afternoon after work I was climbing into my SUV, ready to drive across Tijuana and up to the border toward home. As I started my engine, Aaron called to me, "Hey von, the 'Federales' (Mexico's Federal police) are shooting it out below us and so you'll need to take a different route to the border." Good advice!

So it took a little more time to hit the border yesterday. Indeed, the "Federales" were blasting away at a big drug cartel house. Bullets were flying everywhere. The Cartel had executed six men inside the house and were holding off the Federal police as best they could. Everybody in the neighborhood was being told by radio, TV and a big helicopter to shut their windows, lock their doors and stay inside while the shootout continued. And they did.

At times like these you don't mind taking a little detour.

There isn't a day when we drive Tijuana that the "Federales" aren't present in some form. Men dressed in black with black masks covering their face and holding loaded automatic weapons isn't the most positive picture. Every time a big Federal pickup, loaded with six armed men seated in the back passes you on the road, you are reminded that you're no longer in the USA. The "Federales" are known for their philosophy of "shoot first and ask questions later".

On occasion I'm asked "Is it getting any better in Tijuana?" The truth is "No." In fact I think it's growing worse. In the poor barrios factors like family breakdown, immorality, poverty and drugs combine to create an environment of hopelessness and desperation resulting in even more violence. To be honest, in some cases there is really no reason to live leaving more and more teens and men open to anything ... even Jesus.

INDEED A GOOD NIGHT: Last night was great; one of those nights you come home singing not sobbing. At times each of us has returned across the border grieving and frustrated over what we can do nothing about. So it was nice having a more positive return.

Last night was an evening spent with the sixty boys at LaGloria orphanage - ages six through twelve. Most of these kids are not true orphans; but all of them are problem kids. Every month we have a LaGloria visit - a night of games, competition, food and a message. (Two weeks ago it was a mountain camping weekend for all the kids!!)

Parking my car along the curbing, I got out and walked up to the high orphanage block wall and opened the metal door. As I entered the yard a kid saw me and yelled, "Here they are. von's here!" Can you picture a load of enthusiastic kids running down the cement ramp to greet you? It's literally a human tsunami that flattens you against the wall. Sounds like an exaggeration, but it's not. It's just a bunch of "hungry-for-attention" kids, ready for an evening with Spectrum. Wow! A little dangerous for a man my age. Yep! The Spectrum team was there!

Soon, our older Mexican teens had five games going while Julian was in the kitchen making a big load of spaghetti to go with the pizza and fruit juice drinks. After a time of games and competition the boys filed into the big dining room and seated themselves along both sides of three long tables. Each had fruit juice and a paper plate with pizza and spaghetti. After singing and reciting a memory verse, they prayed for their food. Then it was the "eating" time, which they all were waiting for. I might add, they excel in eating!

ANOTHER LITTLE HOUSE: Every little house we build is a house that's needed and every house has it's story. This little house was especially built for a single older lady named Maria and her teenage boy.

Maria found little Gonzalo as an abandoned baby, took him home and cleaned him up. He became hers and she has been very good to him. I remember even as a child he was always clean and dressed in clean clothing. For years I have dug into my pocket for money to buy pampers for Gonzalo. That's my personal contribution. He's thirteen now and still using pampers. You see, Gonzalo, though an attractive boy, is severely autistic. He doesn't know her, nor will he ever know her. He doesn't speak. His attention and eyes are always focused on a something he is playing with or eating. Autistic!

No question about it, she and Gonzalo needed a house. It was to be built and furnished in a day. This was a Spectrum project accomplished by our Mexican teenagers. It was a great opportunity for our missionaries to teach these street kids how to construct a house and they were as eager to help out as they were to learn.

Take a look at one of the many little houses that you and these kids made possible by your gifts being built by our Mexican kids. It's sitting there today in barrio Trinchirasso, a community of very poor people

EVICITION, TIJUANA STYLE: Early this morning I got a call from Aaron, "Von, I have some bad news. Ernesto just got a call from Edith, the director of an orphanage called "Tribe of Jesus" ... she and her kids are all out on the street and she needs help."

It seems that yesterday Edith and the Tribo Jesus Orphanage kids (more than a hundred) were evicted. Everything and everyone was literally put out on the dirt road next to their former facility. (A pretty lousy place, I might add)

Aaron and I had different plans for today but, considering their situation, we quickly adjusted to new plans. They have no money. Spectrum's general fund is so low that Aaron, our director, had to wait until the middle of this month to cash his salary check. What a time for this emergency! Often people don't like to commit to a general fund, but that's where the money for a situation like this comes from.

Somehow, Aaron quickly scraped together $1,700.00 in cash and I took off to see the situation for myself and give the money to Edith (the director of the orphanage). I stopped at our dormitory in Tijuana to pick up Armando, then drove the dirt road to her involuntary campsite.

In all my born days (I have many!) and all my time spent in Mexico, I have never seen an eviction of an orphanage. Over one hundred and twenty people and everything they owned—out on the street in a matter of a few hours! Then again, this is Mexico... Tijuana to be exact.

When we drove up, I was surprised to see Edith sitting peacefully in front of the locked gate eating breakfast with several staff and a couple of kids. She was smiling. "God will provide", she said as she greeted us and told us what had happened.

"Where are all the kids?", I thought. My answer came as she continued her story. This morning after a hasty "breakfast", she quickly shuttled most of the kids out to a variety of families and a church. Several were returned to their dysfunctional families. No real solution, just a temporary fix. How temporary? We don't know.

As we said good-by we told her Aaron would be down in the afternoon.

I'm ashamed to say it, but I don't think I would be as peaceful as Edith. To me, this seems to be a rather legitimate environment for worry—but not for Edith. She sits there trusting God. Wow!

A HOUSE FOR GOZALO: Every little house we build is a house that's needed and every house has it's story. This little house was especially built for a single older lady named Maria and her teenager.

No question about it, she and Gonzalo needed a house. It was to be built and furnished in a day. One thing was different. This was a Spectrum project to be built by our Mexican teenagers. It was a great opportunity for our missionaries to teach these street kids how to construct a house and they were as eager to help out as they were to learn.

Take a look at one of the many little houses that you and these kids made possible by your generous gifts to our general fund. It's sitting there today in barrio Trinchirasso, a community of very poor people.

THE BIG TIGERS: I've learned that when you cross the border into Mexico, your plans often dissolve and you have to take a new direction. But I don't get disappointed any more. I just relax and drive across into my ministry—pretty well prepared for anything.

Sunday, the Spectrum crew met at the CMI (Tijuana's jail for kids) and we met a new Commandante and a new format. Lunch was late and things at the institution weren't ready for us. Not unusual.

The Commendante called me aside... "Pastor von, we want you to work in area three." I knew "Area Three". That's the "Hole" where they put the most dangerous and worst-behaving kids. No one but the guards can enter. This small brick building houses six cells or cages containing two to six problem-inmates in each cell. There are no windows. These very small cells containing four beds each are covered in the front with a heavy steel mesh which is hard to even look through. (We shake hands by, shaking the finger of an inmate as he sticks it thru the steel mesh). Each cell has a padlocked metal door and a very small padlocked door about waist high to push the food through. A five-foot aisle runs between the cells.

I really never thought what I was going to do with these guys in the hole for thirty minutes. We knew that they would only let out five of the kids at a time.

Julian, my young translator, and I followed the guard through the steel gates. The guard was big, dressed in black and wearing a bullet-proof vest. I turned to Julian and said, "Well, we're going in with the big tigers this time!" He looked a little apprehensive.

We walked across the yard and into Area Three. He unlocked the steel door and we went inside. One at a time, the guard let out the five boys. Big, older boys. Heads shaved, tattoos and in their boxers. As the guard left the building he locked the outside door. We were alone with the tigers, the big ones.

Fortunately, they knew me. Everyone in the CMI knows me and knows about Spectrum. Plus, the prayers of many were working on our behalf.

I had to quickly design a thirty minute program on the spot! I told the five boys to sit down on the floor and listen. I asked the kids in the other cells to listen, also. They did. I then spoke to them about consequences! After the message we had a very creative game-time, giving a few chocolate candies to the winners. Each kid ended up with a few. (They love chocolates!)

Fifteen minutes later the guard came back and released the next five... And that's how last Sunday's ministry in Area Three went.

I guess the simplest way to say it is... we drive across the border with what we have, to do what we can.

God loves these little tigers and big tigers who are serving their time in that hole. If He loves them, then so must we. We're His ministers in this dark sweaty world of prison. For about twenty years we've been faithfully sowing seeds at this CMI. I wish you could see it for yourselves.

SIMPLE GRATITUDE IN A NUTSHELL: The kids from the orphanage lined up behind my SUV - waiting for me to open the back. There are always goodies there. They love pistachio nuts, so I carry a bag with me for such occasions. Nuts like these are good for the kids and better than sweets.

The children waited with smiles of expectation, holding the bottom of their shirts out as I'd drop a handful of nuts into their makeshift bag. The kids would look up at me smiling, then at their shirt full of nuts, and walk away saying, "thank you". Well, many said thank you.

I must admit I love playing practical jokes, and I thought to myself - this next little boy is expecting a handful of nuts like everyone else is getting... but I'm going to drop just one little nut into his shirt and watch his expression (and the expressions of the others).

As I remember, the boy was about six years old. He pulled his shirt out and looked at me smiling, expecting his handful. I reached into my bag of pistachios and grabbed a handful as he watched me expectantly. Holding my handful of nuts high, I dropped one single nut into his little shirt. He looked in his shirt at the one nut, then looked up at me, then back down again at the nut. He waited a moment... sort of puzzled... then looked up at me and smiled. He even said thank you then slowly walked away with his lone nut while the rest of the kids laughed hilariously.

I couldn't let this happen. This kid was so grateful for his one little nut! I called him back and smiled at him while he looked at me rather puzzled. "Hold your shirt out", I said. He did and I gave him two big handfuls of nuts.

The happy little boy gave me a big broad smile and said thanks while walking away happily holding his shirt full of pistachios.

As I was driving home that evening, I got to thinking about that little boy and his one pistachio nut. He was grateful for what he got, even though it wasn't as much as the others got. His sincere gratitude was what got to me.

If God has emotions, and He does, isn't there a principle here? When one of His children shows gratitude even for the little blessings; God must want to bless them with even more. It just works that way, doesn't it?

A little pistachio nut in a small kid's shirt taught me a lesson on gratitude I'll never forget.

ORPHANAGE BLUNDERS: Ten year old Julio stood with a small group of boys looking at the floor while the orphanage worker told me he had bad blood. "Brother von, he repeated, he has bad blood!" According to the worker, "Julio would always be trouble and never amount to anything." He made this pronouncement in front of the boy's peers and myself, an adult friend of his.

I know little Julio and indeed he's a problem kid. I also know that most of his immediate relatives have been in prison or are in prison now. The good looking boy is fatherless and from a rough neighborhood. As young as he is, we all know where he's headed. And it's people like this who help send and seal a boy into crime, and later say "see I told you so!"

I find it hard to understand why an adult Christian worker could be so cruel. This short pronouncement did a lot of damage. It hurt a young boy deeply, set his future against the church, Christians and adults, set him against authority, demeaned him in front of his peers and distanced him from another adult whom he respected. Lets include the kids standing around Julio; what did they learn?

The boy wants to run away. (and he will) And I can see why. But where will Julio go? The answer is painfully clear, there are a lot of streets in the center of Tijuana

Well meaning orphanage staff workers can be so cruel and immature; creating the very antagonism and rebellion that frustrates them. This frustration makes them have to yell and beat the kids to get them to behave ... never realizing that they, the staff, are half the problem! (Edwardito ran to Trinchi 2/'09)

A BOY ALONE: In the orphanage and after our evening talk the teenagers filed out and into bed, all except fourteen year old Fernando, we asked him to stay back. "Take a seat Fernando."

It was lonely time!

This young boy is a Mexican Indian, placed in the orphanage by the Government. He doesn't speak much Spanish. He sat uncomfortably straight and stiff in his chair; his eyes avoiding ours. I know Fernando, he's very quiet and not close to anyone. A loner in the true sense of the word.

The kids call him "Indian."

I was asked to tell him that his little brother was dead.

No one wanted to tell him, neither did I. Fernando had asked about his little brother from time to time but the subject was always avoided. The Mexican Government had separated the two of them several years back, placing them in different orphanages. I knew about the situation but was waiting for information to come in as to what happened and where the young boy was buried. We only knew Fernando had no mother or father or even a relative, only his little brother, whom he loved ... and now his brother was dead. The government stonewalled us in trying to get the details.

It was time to tell him.

As we sat there, I broke the news to him as gently as I could. He took the news like the Indian he was, stoic; emotionless, his black eyes staring straight ahead. If he felt pain or loss, it didn't show.

He had no questions ... I had no answers.

I broke the silence by asked him if he liked it there at the orphanage, he paused and then whispered "no".

"Fernando, if there was anything in the world I could do for you or give you, what would it be?" ... After a long pause he whispered, "I wish I had a family."

He walked from the room ... truly alone.

UNLOVED: I've never felt unloved. It must be a terrible feeling. Yesterday I took twelve year old Isidro shopping ... not for clothes or food but for an orphanage that he would feel comfortable in.

I don't like that kind of shopping. What hurts most of all is that Isidro isn't a bad kid (yet.) He's a thin quiet boy who goes to school even though he isn't encouraged to. On off days you might find he and his buddy Luis working along a local dirt road, filling the big pot holes and hoping some drivers will give them a tip. The other day he proudly showed me his watermelon plant and tomato plant near the house.

Twelve, the critical age.

He knows I like figs, so he climbed a neighbor's fig tree and picked me a load of ripe figs, but I didn't return for about a week ... so much for the figs.

To his stepfather Isidro is a threat; to his alcoholic mother he's a liability. It seems the only one who really loves him is his dog.

At one point in the ‘shopping' tour we sat alone in an orphanage and talked about the changes he would experience becoming part of an orphanage. The freedom he would have to give up, and the rules and discipline he would have to accept.

I told him very clearly; it's an orphanage or the street, you have to choose.

Isidro sat looking into my eyes and listening. No questions. No emotion.

In the afternoon we arrived back at the small shack he calls home, I told him to think things over and be sure of his decision. I'll be back Saturday, when he's to give me his decision.

As we got out of the car, his mother met us on the street. "Why did you bring him back? I thought you were going to leave him at an orphanage!"

How would you feel if you were Isidro?

My world is full of unloved and worthless kids ... but who really cares?

FACES: As I study the faces of kids here in the U.S. and compare them to the faces of my many kids in the poorer areas of Tijuana. I find a very visible contrast; an unsettling contrast. The expression on the faces of American kids seem to read dull, sullen and unhappy ... almost like the adults they're trying to emulate.

Contrast that with the honest and animated face of boy-hood joy!

I guess I mean to say that our U.S. kids don't act like kids. Boyhood fun today is a kid quietly sitting scrunched up in a corner playing with his little joy stick, vicariously playing out his life using an electronic game. He can be a successful criminal, boxer, a soldier or sports hero ... just a few dollars more and he can enter a new and different world of challenge.

What happened?

That's a good question; a more important question is how long has this movement into the vicarious been happening? Weak chubby little American boys with that electronic stare already on their faces. Their fast moving little fingers bring them victory in fighting the unreal.

In my Mexico, where progress and technology are simply two words found in a Western dictionary somewhere, the kids show a youthful excitement, curiosity and joy of life. Happy-go-lucky bundles of boundless energy. You'll find them spinning tops, playing marbles or flying kites. Kids happily pushing old four wheel carts, riding crippled tricycles. Wow! That's fun.

Even the poorest of kids in Mexico are a happy, energetic and noisy bunch. Why? They're normal kids; outdoor kids and as kids they are happy.

And they don't have our technology ... yet!

On the northern side of the border while our wealthy and sophisticated little American kids are busy staring into their addicting screens, our young teens are busy Googling out the forbidden fruits of ‘Adulthood' ... Adult shows, books, magazines, toys, games, parties, language ... teens way too young to know that there is no meaningful purpose in hedonistic pleasure.

Where has the simple joy, freedom and happiness of youth gone?

Is anyone really paying attention as to the direction in which our technology is taking us? Our youth have got technology, or worse, maybe our ever addicting technology has them.

A bad scenario.

PEPE'S NEW FRIEND: Roberto's home tragically exploded the other day and he ended up as one of the flying pieces. He had two choices, the street or an orphanage. It's hard to explain to a sobbing twelve year old what happened and why it happened. I reminded him what happens to young kids who try to make it on the street. He, like most kids in the neighborhood, knows the facts of Tijuana life.

As we were settling him in an orphanage located near little crippled Pepe house, I asked him if he would like to take a side trip and go with me to visit Pepe. I thought seeing Pepe and his condition might temporarily take the sting from Roberto's own world of problems.

He agreed and wanted to see him.

Pepe was excited to see us, especially me as I always give him a little Hot Wheels car. The two new friends got along great, soon they were happily playing ‘cars' together.

Pepe became thirsty so I asked Roberto to give him a drink of water. Roberto looked at me puzzled and then realized the situation, Pepe can't feed himself. He found a glass, walked over to the bottle of water and poured some water in the glass, placing a straw in the glass he walked back to Pepe. Roberto had to hold up the glass of water so Pepe could drink. It was sort of neat to see this.

As we left Pepe's house I asked Roberto how he felt there with Pepe. "I like him, he's fun, I want to come back, he's my friend." "Roberto, did you forget about your problems while you were playing with him?" ... He thought for a moment. "Yeah, I forgot all about my problems..."

An interesting sight. Roberto the rejected, helping Pepe the cripple.

One way we can forget our own problems, is by getting involved helping others through their problems.