Tag Archives: Children

Creativity, Education, Organizational Development, Rural development, Visioning, WPF partners

When We Learn

March 10, 2015 Steve Sheppard Leave a comment

I caught a segment on the news today that captured my attention. The piece had to do with the issue of memory loss and whether there are practices we can use to slow down the seemingly inevitable loss of memory that afflicts so many of us. The discussion included several lifestyle factors which can affect memory strength: exercise, sound nutrition, sufficient sleep, stress control and mental stimulation such as encountered in learning something new. This last category is the one which struck me with special impact.

I’m not sure how many retirement-age people seek out new fields of learning in their later years, but I suspect that it’s a significant number. It may not be learning in the sense of a new language or taking up a musical instrument- as suggested in the story- but some retirees are inclined to delve into topics that they never had the time to explore when working vocationally. The availability of extra time is simply too valuable to leave unfilled.

And what gifts such opportunity provides! In addition to mental and memory sharpening, learning can launch the acquisition of new skills, discovery of new outlets of expression, permit an unfolding of a new worldview, and further enrich lives that may have previously been thought to be static. Even new careers are launched from the base of educational re-birth. As long as the energy and desire to learn are present, transformation can happen, and at any age.

The recognition is a happy one for someone like me, on the upper fringes of middle age (whatever that is). But following a week in Nicaragua during which our emphasis again was education development, such awareness exposes an uncomfortable inequity, another one of those troubling realities which has seemingly few avenues for redress and yet massive consequences to us all. For in Nicaragua, like many other developing nations, access to education is limited, at best, and at every age.

At the time when Nica children are most eager and receptive to the lessons of life from the neighborhood academy, they are all too often denied entry. Too many are needed by their families to work in order that living necessities can be met, or they are unable to access a school with books and teachers, or they cannot afford the niggling costs of a uniform and materials. As a result, rural Nicaraguan children have very small chances of remaining in school past the third grade, and the statistics are not improving. Another generation of so many uneducated children is an enormous burden that the country simply cannot absorb successfully, no matter how strong the optimism or how deep the denial.

Last week, WPF visited the Fe y Alegria vocational school in Somotillo, located in the far west corner of the country. Like so much of the country, it’s a remote, rural sector, featuring high heat and ever-higher winds, few opportunities outside of “street” jobs, and a place where kids have few chances to learn much about their lives and what they could be. In fact, most of them come from destitute families or no families at all; the street is not only where they work, but where they live.

The Somotillo Technical School is an oasis in this context, where children ranging from pre-school to high school can be exposed to the possibilities in life, away from the streets. Young people are introduced to trades like welding, furniture-making, sewing, baking, electricity and computers. (In one class, I inspected this computer made by the students from old parts. Could you do that? On my best day I could not.) As importantly, they are taught life skills, things like respect and healthy relationships, personal hygiene, lifestyle choices. But most importantly, the kids are given the chance to absorb what they crave: learning and self-actualization. Melby, perhaps as old as twelve, said it for himself: “I have done baking from my lessons in

the class and it has allowed me to sell and generate a little money for my everyday needs.” With no one else available to do so, this free school- the only free technical school in the entire region- is helping Melby to learn the basics of self-sufficiency.

Our world requires all the collective knowledge, innovation and insight that we can possibly muster and the under-education of our future generations might be one of the most self-defeating postures ever assumed by humankind. Issues of poverty and justice, climate change and energy, war and peace, demand intellect and vision beyond what we have at our disposal presently. The answers to the great dilemmas of humanity may well lie in the untapped mental fertility of those for whom education is a great unknown, a process only to be dreamed of, or perhaps even feared, but never to be personalized. The notion is frightening enough to conjure a particular vision of Hell, where humans there discover that they had all the answers to life itself within their collective grasp, but failed to see them due to their own shortsightedness.

Truth and irony abound in this education tale. The truth is that the capacity for learning- indeed, the love of learning- never goes away during our lifetimes. It may become dormant for lack of use or opportunity, but it is as central to our beings as the heartbeat itself. The irony is that while most in this country have endless access to even the narrowest fields of learning, we tend to take such privilege for granted and are willing to forego such capacities in favor of less dynamic pursuits. And meanwhile, many of the young children of Nicaragua are desperately seeking even the smallest chance to advance their understanding of the world around them. It creates an immense imbalance, one that would seem worthy and capable of address, if we were collectively motivated to do so.

Leave it to a week in Nicaragua to teach me a new perspective. I am grateful for the gift of life-long learning, a gift intended for all….

Children, Children

Happy Birthday

December 14, 2014 Steve Sheppard Leave a comment

I spent this weekend with my grandson, Noah, in celebration of his upcoming first birthday. Naturally, I think Noah is one of the cutest, most remarkable little people ever, and I relish every chance I get to be with him and to see him grow. What a difference a year has made, as his actions and verbalizations come to have deeper content! Soon he will be philosophizing.

The birthday party arranged for Noah turned out to be a stellar combination of family and friends, enough to fill the living room of Noah’s proud parents. I took a few pictures. Well, truth be told, I clicked no fewer than 87 photos during just the 2-hour party, in addition to many others before and after. In fact, cameras were flashing and clicking all afternoon, as each of us sought to capture a precious instant in young Noah’s life, a split second in time which might provide a pleasant moment in each of our lives. This gathering was truly a happy event for both the honoree and his guests.

As I later reviewed the scenes of gifting and birthday cake squishing and young adults in full expression of true joy, I started thinking about the context of something as simple and commonplace as a birthday party such as this.

Noah does not understand nor can he appreciate the wealth of feelings that surround him in these early months of his life. But on this Saturday afternoon, more than a dozen admirers came together in a statement of generosity, commitment, support and love for this little boy. Likely, he will be embraced by the presence of their care for his entire life. And there will be many others, as yet unknown, who will enter this circle of presence in Noah’s life.

For the moment, he has been blessed with an array of gifts that teach and entertain and prompt his curiosity, that will provide companionship to him as he learns to stand and to walk, to develop and to talk, in the fullness of his immense capacities. And for his reflexes we got him best nerf gun of course! He has every advantage that a child’s doting parents could ever imagine. The playthings most certainly will be matched by nurturing, encouragement, opportunities, enduring friendships, deepening love. And Noah will absorb all of it in becoming the boy, the young man, the adult he is destined to become. It’s what all of us in the living room want and expect for him. It’s an awesome picture to behold, and it is there among the stills in my camera.

The vision of it ignites my entire being. I am uplifted and encouraged and hopeful at the trajectory of Noah’s young life and future. I am warmed by the gladness that he has already engendered in his family’s circle of acquaintances and the prospect of joy that he will spread throughout his life, in reciprocation of the blessings he receives. It’s a beautiful notion, and even if I admit to a certain dreaminess about it, I love its texture and storyline.

Inevitably, such dreaming leads me straight back to life’s realities, many of which are very different for little one-year-olds elsewhere. As I visit the rural outreaches in Nicaraguan countrysides, I have met parents with tiny babies in arms, loving mothers who are my daughters, determined fathers who could be my sons, extended families who intensely seek the promise of fulfilled lives for their children. In the eyes of the Nicaraguan child I see Noah and all of his potentiality, everything that he might become, every good thing that he might bring to our world. But too often I have walked away from a village or barrio saddened by the realization that the possibilities which reside deep within that precious child face tremendous obstacles to release. There may be too little food or home life, not enough chances to learn, insufficient dreaming, a minimum of adult support for high aspirations. To the same extent that I soar with the image of Noah in unfettered ascent, I also sense the grief of elemental lives incomplete. There’s nothing new in this reality, just a stark affirmation of it.

By the end of the afternoon I had experienced at least three other affirmations of truth. I was struck by the recognition of how even relative strangers can so easily come together over something as common as a little boy’s birthday. I noted the mirrored feelings of guests- despite their disparate circumstances and different ages- in how they absorbed in love and expectation the promise of a child’s growth. And I felt again both the privilege and the obligation to be part of a child’s well-being.

If Noah’s life and welfare are that important to the people who attended his birthday party, then I can only conclude that every child’s circumstance carries the same importance, the same need, and the same potential. In a world that is broken and hurting in nearly every way, we are desperate for the health, wisdom and love of every one-year-old boy and girl….

Immigration, Poverty, Poverty

What Should We Do With the Stranger?

September 30, 2014 Steve Sheppard 1 Comment

I read many reflections, blogs and printed materials over the course of each week, mostly having to do with Nicaragua and various forms of aid and development work being done there. Some are very good and others less so, but I came across one a few days ago that I think bears repeating here. It is taken from the newsletter published by the Center for Development in Central America (CDCA), which has worked in Nicaragua for the past twenty years as of 2014. CDCA has worked tirelessly on behalf of impoverished Nicaraguans on many fronts, and Winds of Peace has been able to work with them on several projects over the years.

I have reproduced reflections from their newsletters in the past, and I do so here with an analysis for your consideration which gets straight to the heart of a major U.S./Central American policy issue, the immigration of Central American children.

There are many issues around the response of the government of the United States and many of its people regarding the children crossing the border: immigrants vs. refugees, corrupt Central American governments (and yes they are still propped up by the U.S. government as they have been for 100 years), drug trafficking, gangs, Democrats vs. Republicans.

So many issues bandied about and yet- in reality- the only issue that exists is: do we welcome the stranger? The child? Or do we not? That’s it. Simple. Clean. Do we or do we not?

People frequently ask us why we like living in Nicaragua. Well, this is one reason: Nicaragua DOES welcome refugees. Let’s face it, people fleeing their poor countries have to be mighty desperate to come to Nicaragua, the second poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. But they do come and they are coming and Nicaragua, more than any other Central American country, affords them more access to their social safety nets- such as they are.

What does that say when the second poorest nation is receiving refugees while the richest is turning children away? What does that say about the soul of the richest nation?

The leaders of the Nicaraguan government, who are not perfect by any means, understand what it means to live under dictators, death squads, terror and horror, and they translate that understanding into action by welcoming others who are living it now.

Why would you send your children on such a dangerous journey with strangers? Mine are grown, and the only reason I would send them thousands of miles away, riding on top of trains, would be if I thought…no, if I KNEW…they would die if they stayed. Do the people in the States who debate this “crisis” and advocate deporting the children really believe in their hearts that Central American families love their children less than they love their own?

Frankly, the only actual crises are the crises in the nations from which the children come… not in the U.S.

In Honduras, the city of San Pedro Sula has more murders per capita than any other place in Honduras, which has more murders per capita than any other country in the world. During July alone, in this small country, 87 teens and children were murdered, some tortured, and the vast majority of the culprits were not found.

And this is where the first nine children were deported to… San Pedro Sula. Depending on accounts, 5 or 7 of the nine were killed soon after landing. Killed. We, the U.S., sent children back to be murdered. Does this mean that the deportation will stop? No, it does not.

Choosing whether or not to welcome these refugees is easy. Choosing whether or not to deport these children to die is simple. This is not a complicated issue… we are not in muddy water here, folks… it is a clean issue, because there is really and truly only one right place to stand… with the kids… we need to stand with the kids.

Who are the strangers we encounter? And what should we do with the stranger….?

Wasting Lives, Wasting Lives

Missing Pieces

July 25, 2014 Steve Sheppard Leave a comment

For twenty years I’ve worn it, very aware of the message that it carries and the people from whom I received it. It never comes off (except for this photo), in part due to the eternal message of it. It’s a hopeful, optimistic, positive message, but one which seems a bit tarnished today, like the silver of the bracelet itself.

When I first received it and began wearing it, this Christmas gift from my children generated more than occasional teasing from friends and colleagues, who seemed to be of the mindset that somehow “real men” didn’t wear bracelets. In fact, once when a young Mexican boy was admiring the thing, a colleague playfully pulled the boy away, saying that he shouldn’t be looking at “girlie things.” (Twenty years ago, attitudes about many things were quite different from the present, as evidenced by the endless variety of bracelets, jewelry and other adornments worn by men of all ages and stations today.) These days, I’m more inclined to be asked where I found such a piece.

Of course, the bracelet is special to me because it was gifted from my kids, and at a time when they still carried around with them an air of innocence and joy. But it also carries a legend, this bracelet. Its circular shape represents the earth, the wholeness of the place where we live. But because the earth is broken- with conflicts and environmental degradation and wildly disparate conditions of life- the circle of the bracelet is not complete. There are pieces missing.

The four brass segments on the circle represent my kids. They each have a special place in the world, as do all children, and their duty is to help the earth back to a state of wholeness, to fill in the missing places as best they can, along with every other member of the human race. The earth will not be whole and healthy until the circle is complete. They and all of us have our own parts to play in the restoration, and each solitary piece is essential to the integrity and strength of the whole. It’s a notion of both hope and healthy interdependence.

Today there are sadly more missing pieces to this puzzle of life that we lead. Following a celebratory Saturday night in Managua, where thousands of people joyfully remembered the overthrow of the Somoza dictatorship 35 years ago, hundreds of peasants from the countryside boarded buses for the long and uncomfortable ride back home. Along the way, two buses were attacked by anti-Sandinista sympathizers. Gunfire was sprayed at the buses, and five people died. There was no confrontation. There were no demands made. Simply bullets unleashed at innocent peasantry, resulting in the deaths of parents and children who had only sought to remember an important and exciting time in the life of Nicaragua. There are precious few things to celebrate for many in this country; a populist and public commemoration should not have been too much for them to experience without tragedy. As a result, there are now 5 new pieces missing from the completion of the circle that is represented by the bracelet. Among them, perhaps the one who would develop the medicinal properties of a rural Nicaraguan plant that would lead to the cure for prostate cancer.

Meanwhile, other senseless tragedies were being played out on far more “newsworthy” stages. A commercial airliner from The Netherlands and bound for Kuala Lampur was shot down by anti-Ukraine rebels, with 298 souls lost, and many still not found as of this writing. Among the perished, several would-be participants at an upcoming AIDS conference who might well have posed the solution to the AIDS epidemic facing our world. And so still more spaces will not be filled along the lines of the bracelet.

And in the Middle East, hundreds of Palestinian and Israeli lives- hundreds of them children- have been lost to the incessant bombing precipitated by the terrors generated by both sides of the insanity. Among the dead, perhaps, were the two young women who would have devised the plan of Middle East peace which eventually would have been accepted by all parties. And the spaces in the bracelet grow wider still.

The week has been a grim one, both in terms of the sheer number of lives lost and families rent apart in anguish, but also in consideration of those pieces of the worldly puzzle that are now lost forever. As we destroy each other with bombs and bullets, we diminish the planet and its finite capacities to discover the answers to our dilemmas. It is still true that often we do not fully understand or appreciate what we have within our grasp, until it is gone.

I love the bracelet for its symbolism of my children and their importance to this earthly community. They are universal children, whether I understood that at the time of their birth or not. But their solid presence on that broken circle at my wrist also reminds me that they- and each of us- possess a unique and important place in this complex place called earth….

Interdependence, Interdependence, Interdependence, Making An Impact, Making An Impact, Making An Impact

Feeling Sick

June 29, 2014 Steve Sheppard Leave a comment

I’m feeling sick and trying hard to get over it.

Normally I wouldn’t use this venue to talk about an illness, but it has bothered me enough to compel my address of it. It has even hampered my ability to compose entries here in recent weeks. But I’m compelled to write about a disease that has become omnipresent, a low-grade ache that I cannot seem to shake and which even keeps me awake at night. Aspirin doesn’t help. In the midst of my best years, I am finding myself hampered from enjoying my days to their fullest. Worst of all, there seems to be no forthcoming cure. I find myself wondering whether I’m simply relegated to suffering through the symptoms, which are like some unrelenting fever.

I can trace the earliest signs of my discomfort to a visit in Nicaragua. I tried to ignore the feeling because I didn’t really have any idea what to do about it there. (Lots of people become sick when they’re traveling and it just seems easier to try to forget about the knot in your stomach than to seek treatment from someone who doesn’t even speak your language.) I remember being in a conversation with a group of Nicaraguan producers who spoke of their children leaving the country, in search of work and opportunity, and the anguish that it was causing the parents and community. I can’t recall too much about the specifics of what they were saying because of my growing ache; that was my first awareness that something wasn’t right.

I felt a bit better after I returned home. At first I thought maybe it I just needed to get back to the comforts of my own home, diet and routines. Every once in a while the distress returned, sometimes for a short time and on other occasions for days on end. The symptoms always subsided, however, and I was able to resume my daily activities without being slowed down. I just kept hoping that it would go away. Sometimes denial of a complaint seems like the best treatment for it. But the condition has worsened and ignoring it becomes more difficult for me every day.

I wish I had known about this disorder earlier and that I had acquired some awareness of its potential severity. Like most of us, I found it easier to pay no attention to what was happening until one day I came down with it. For a long time, I don’t think people in the U.S. talked too much about the extent of the malady. Lately, though, I hear more conversation from those who have been affected. A friend of mine even forwarded a blog that someone had written about the problem.

It seems strange, but “misery does love company” and I gain some sense of hope from the increase in the numbers of those who are experiencing the same festering that I am. Long-term remedies often come about only when a significant number of people are afflicted and calls for relief can no longer be denied. I know that our Federal government is aware of the problem, though I’m not aware of any significant work that is being done toward developing a cure as yet.

I never envisioned myself becoming much of an activist in the eradication of an epidemic. I guess I never thought I’d become a victim. But I’m hoping that by speaking out on something that can be rightfully considered the early stages of a pandemic, I might encourage others to help find a way toward a more successful treatment.

Of course, to treat the symptoms, we’ll have to get to the viral cause of the ailment. And that will necessitate a full-out humanitarian effort to embrace the nearly 60,000 illegal migrants- mostly young boys and girls- being warehoused after apprehension on the southern border of the U.S. For their circumstance is the source of my discomfort. From Nicaragua and many other points south, refugees are risking their lives to cross our borders, not for nefarious reasons but for their outright survival. And their plight is making me sick.

There is a recognition in the wellness community which holds that we can never attain our own maximum well-being as long as those around us are not well. I can think of no more dramatic example of such truth than the border tragedy, which in time will infect each of us. It’s time that we stopped denying the symptoms and dealt openly with the disease….

Life in the U.S., Life in the U.S., Life in the U.S., Life in the U.S., Mother's Day

Moms

May 11, 2014 Steve Sheppard 1 Comment

It’s nearly impossible to overlook Mother’s Day today. In the U.S., stories on the news, on the Internet and incessant commercials on television have been constant reminders that we all owe an enormous debt of gratitude to our mothers and we’d better pay off a portion of that debt today! Such reminders are frequently followed by suggestions of gifts to bestow on our moms, ranging from flowers to diamonds. (Personally, I’m not sure what my own mother would have thought about receiving a diamond bracelet from me on Mother’s Day, although I suspect that she would not have accepted it.)

Mother’s Day is a world phenomenon, with versions of it having been observed for centuries. Its United States version was created by presidential proclamation in 1914 and we’ve been buying greeting cards ever since. In a sense, it’s too bad that we need a day to show gratitude to our moms. In another sense, we’re grateful for the official day to remind us to do so. If my Mom was still alive, she’d be hearing from me, as she always did.

Of course, motherhood is one of the undeniable, universal ties that binds us together, men and women alike. Not all women become moms, and no dads (that I know of) have become moms, but we all have a mom and thus a shared experience. As different as our cultures may be around the world, the connection with our moms is one of the great equalizers of humankind, transcending borders and customs alike.

I watched a news program last night, the final story of which had to do with Mother’s Day. It featured an entire classroom of six year-olds engaged in the task of creating handmade Mother’s Day cards. As adorable as the children were to watch, their sentiments were even more precious to hear. Each recited thanks for a special gift from their mothers that made these moms so wonderful. “Thank you for getting me breakfast every day.” “Thank you for letting me watch movies.” “Thank you for cooking dinner.” “Thank you for making lunch for me.” “Thank you for loving me.” And one little boy reflected on the fact that when thinking of his mom he thought of chocolate cake.

As I listened to this litany of gratitude from the hearts of little kids, it occurred to me that not all little boys and girls around the world would necessarily be thanking their moms for such blessings. While Nicaragua will not celebrate Mother’s Day until the end of this month, the gratitudes expressed on that day are likely to be quite different from those heard on the news segment: breakfast, lunch, dinner and chocolate cakes are less frequent amenities in Nicaragua than they are in the U.S. But while the specific thanks might be dissimilar between the countries, one thing is not. The hopes and aspirations of the mothers are very much the same.

Nica moms love their kids, have hopes for a better standard of living, aspire to see their children be able to read and become educated, pray that their young evolve into decent people, and envision lives for them that are free from the exhaustion and indignity of poverty. I can imagine hundreds of mothers in Nigeria today whose visions for their children reach far deeper than breakfast, lunch and dinner. As well as in Ukraine. And Syria. Motherhood in such places is not the same as in the United States.

If the dreams that are dreamed by Nica moms are the same longings as U.S. moms, the likelihoods for those dreams are not. For U.S. moms, dreams still hold the very real possibilities of becoming true, and kids can and do grow into their mothers’ yearnings. For far too many Nica moms (and Nigerian, Ukrainian and Syrian moms), their dreams are the gift to their kids, because there are limited chances of such hopes ever becoming reality. It’s the most and the best that they can do.

If the sentiments of Mother’s Day are shared across cultures, the context of life and the future are not. As we celebrate the love and sacrifices of those who brought us into the world, we artificially limit our regard for motherhood if we do not acknowledge the love and sacrifices of all moms….

Personal Notes, Personal Notes, Reflections, Reflections, Reflections, Reflections, Reflections, Reflections, Reflections, Reflections

Fernando

April 3, 2014 Steve Sheppard Leave a comment

I was asked recently about my most memorable encounter in Nicaragua. I didn’t really have to think very long about the question, despite the fact that I have traveled there several times each year since 2006 and had experienced an earlier introduction to the country in 1990. I have had many wonderful, frustrating, inspiring, motivating and sad moments during those visits. But there is one that stays with me like no other. It’s a moment from my earliest visit that will be in my heart and mind forever, one of those transforming moments that further shapes who I am. I relate it frequently when I speak on behalf of the Foundation and I share it here for your consideration:

The back end of the pickup truck was absolutely filled with kids. They sat scrunched and huddled there, seemingly glad to be done with the outdoor church service we had just attended, and eager as could be to learn something, anything, about the North American visitors who had come to their community. Not many of us had come to this part of Nicaragua, perhaps. For some of the littlest ones- maybe three or four years old- perhaps we were the first gringos they had seen. But they hung on every word we spoke through rough translation and pounced on every question we asked as if it belonged to each of them alone.

I had connected with one young boy in a special way. We had greeted one another earlier in the day, in a location very distant from where we now stood. Yet, when I climbed off the bus which had brought us to join this neighborhood church service, suddenly there he was, hand extended again, a friend from an earlier hour. I had no idea how he came to be at this place.

Fernando was maybe ten, but certainly more shrewd than his years. We talked and joked in gestures. And seated in the back of that pickup truck among so many other little faces, Fernando finally asked me if I had any children of my own. With great pride I pulled my wallet and flipped to the pictures of katie and our kids. The entire truck sagged to the back end as the children strained to see the pictures. They laughed in delight. But Fernando sat back, his face serious in thought. Amidst the laughter, I wondered what was on his mind.

He leaned forward after a bit and put his fingers to his eyes, as if to appear Asian. It had not escaped his notice that all four of my children are Korean-born. He puzzled over it because Katie’s picture clearly showed that she is not Korean.

I explained, as best I could, that my four children were akk adopted from Korea, but my children nonetheless. He asked if I loved them. I said, with all my heart.

Then, he pierced my heart. He asked whether I would adopt him. That his mother and father would not mind, as long as he was going to a better life. That he was a good kid. And that he was sure that I could love him. He didn’t know the half of it. Looking into the dark eyes and faces of those children, I could have been seeing the beautiful, dark features of my own kids. I was chilled to think of them in this impoverished environment. Perhaps as Fernando’s own parents were. The idea that Fernando believed his parents would be accepting of his adoption in order to find “a better life” has haunted me for twenty-four years.

A fellow adoptive parent once said about our kids, “Well, you know, they are not really your children. They are universal children, belonging to all of us. As all children are.” In one very real sense, he was absolutely correct. We- you, me, all of us- are responsible for the lives and the well-being of our kids. And I came to truly know the truth of it in the face of a little boy called Fernando….

Uncategorized

The Boy On A Bus

March 3, 2013 Steve Sheppard 3 Comments

Nicaragua is a country full of wonders for travelers. The natural beauty is never-ending, no matter how many times one might have the pleasure of taking it in. The history is both enchanting and haunting; it is a past of great cultural beauty, spirituality and perseverance. But the real asset of the country is its people, of course, and I feel remarkably blessed in having opportunities to come to know many Nicaraguans. I wish that I could know more of them. Especially the kids. As an adoptive parent myself, I have little difficulty envisioning any of the beautiful Nicaraguan children as my own.

So maybe it wasn’t that unusual for me to think long and hard about a boy I saw during my travels in January. I saw him, literally, on top of a bus. We were traveling along a road under construction, one that desperately needed the makeover. The depths of some ruts and holes of this road might have been more easily measured in feet rather than inches, and traveling it was a slow process even without the construction work. The bus wended its way directly in front of us, tossing its passengers up and down with each bounce from the road, stopping suddenly with each construction interruption, likely desperate in its search for a flat terrain. And standing atop the lurching yellow bus was this boy.

Whenever the construction traffic controller would halt us with red flag, the boy scampered down the back of the bus in order to chat with construction workers or others watching the process of road-building. It seemed as though he knew everyone along the route. Laughing and engaging in horseplay with apparently anyone who would reciprocate, he seemed the embodiment of that ebullient mixture of energy and exuberance that so often identifies 16 year-olds. As soon as the bus would start on its journey again, the boy would scamper back onto the back end and climb back up to the top, like a cowboy astride some mammoth, rocking bull. Rarely did he sit or even kneel. Nor hold on to anything to steady his ride. His message to all who could see was that he had conquered the bus to ride it his own way. With each new bounce from the road, I expected him to be catapulted off the top and onto the dirt below. But the ride never bested him, a fact which perhaps added to the width of his smile as we navigated the construction zone. Mark and I both commented on his risk, his perceived invulnerability, the danger of such an adrenalin rush as this, and we might even have added a shake of the head or two. It was dangerous, foolhardy and exciting to watch, all at the same time.

At the time, I wondered to myself whether the boy might represent a sort of Nicaraguan “everyman” of youth. I mean, here he was, clearly a youngster, deep in the countryside, headed who-knows-where on the bus, seemingly carefree and maybe even responsibility-free, out of school, perhaps with little or no work to demand his attention. I thought to myself that, whether my attributions were correct or not, here could be a profile of many boys of Nicaragua: someone full of life and liveliness, with untold and untapped potential, a kid who might conceivably hold the key to unlock decades of impoverishment and economic hurt, or perhaps discover the cure for some deadly disease. Watching him cavort on top of that bus, I imagined that he might well have possessed the courage and the vision to withstand bumpy rides of an important sort. But I also recognized that he would likely have few chances in his life to realize those possibilities, that like so many other uneducated or undereducated boys of Nicaragua, the potential would have few opportunities to bloom. Riding atop the bus could be the most exciting and notable event of an entire life. I mused this way for the better part of an hour, and long after we had bypassed the bus with the boy on top.

My impression of that boy has returned to my consciousness several times since January. Always, I begin by recalling his air of immortality, his utter belief in his ability to withstand each and every jolt that the bus encountered. Then I invariably reflect on the wasted potential which he embodies. But over time, I have shifted my understanding of what he represents to me, to that of someone more deeply representative of not only underprivileged Nicaraguan youth from the countryside, but of a broader base of humanity. I’ve come to see myself on top of that bus, along with every other person on the face of this earth. It turns out that we are all riding along that bumpy road, trying to maintain our balance in the face of ruts and holes while showing our contempt for its consequences. We live as though we can be immortal, never-ending, and in that mindset we miss the opportunities that are absolutely within our power to embrace. The missed opportunities of a young life are no different in content or importance than the ineffective stewardship of our own lives.

When we’re not careful, not thoughtful enough, myopic visions can lead us time and again to condescending conclusions about people we never even knew, while blinding us to the reality of our own condition. I find myself tickled at the memory of the boy on the bus, also hopeful that his destination is reached in safety and with full purpose. And it’s the same fervent hope and vision I have for all the rest of us, who sometimes aren’t even aware that the bus has left the station….