He couldn’t have been over six years old. Dirty face, barefooted, torn T-shirt,
matted hair. He wasn’t too different from the other hundred thousand or so
street orphans that roam Rio de Janeiro.
I was walking to get a cup of coffee at a nearby cafe when he came up behind me.
With my thoughts somewhere between the task I had just finished and the class I
was about to teach, I scarcely felt the tap, tap, tap on my hand. I stopped and
turned. Seeing no one, I continued on my way. I’d only taken a few steps,
however, when I felt another insistent tap, tap, tap. This time I stopped and
looked downward. There he stood. His eyes were whiter because of his grubby
cheeks and coal-black hair.
“Pao, senhor?” (“Bread, sir?”)
Living in Brazil, one has daily opportunities to buy a candy bar or sandwich for
these little outcasts. It’s the least one can do. I told him to come with me and
we entered the sidewalk cafe “Coffee for me and something tasty for my little
friend.” The boy ran to the pastry counter and made his choice. Normally, these
youngsters take the food and scamper back out into the street without a word.
But this little fellow surprised me.
The café consisted of a long bar: one end for pastries and the other for coffee.
As the boy was making his choice, I went to the other end of the bar and began
drinking my coffee. Just as I was getting my derailed train of thought back on
track, I saw him again. He was standing in the cafe entrance, on tiptoe, bread
in hand, looking in at the people.
“What’s he doing?” I thought.
Then he saw me and scurried in my direction. He came and stood in front of me
about eye-level with my belt buckle. The little Brazilian orphan looked up at
the big American missionary, smiled a smile that would have stolen your heart
and said, “Obrigado.” (Thank you.) Then, nervously scratching the back of his
ankle with his big toe, he added, “Muito obrigado.” (Thank you very much.)
All of a sudden, I had a crazy craving to buy him the whole restaurant.
But before I could say anything, he turned and scampered out the door.
As I write this, I’m still standing at the coffee bar, my coffee is cold, and
I’m late for my class. But I still feel the sensation that I felt half an hour
ago. And I’m pondering this question: If I am so moved by a street orphan who
says thank you for a piece of bread, how much more is God moved when I pause to
thank him—really thank him- for saving my soul?
"No Wonder They Call Him the Savior, Max Lucado, 1986, Word Publishing
Nashville, Tennessee. All rights reserved."
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