Picture this: You’re in El Salvador in the middle of summer visiting a newly opened child development center. There is a long line of mothers, fathers and children waiting to be registered for our sponsorship program.

You complete the enrollment paperwork for 4-year old Susie and ask her to go have her picture taken. Because she has never seen a camera before, she gets very nervous and a little scared when standing in front of the photographer. Her picture comes out with her looking unhappy.

Next, you meet Carlos, who is 8. When you send him to have his photo taken, he is so hot and tired that he doesn’t smile for the picture.

Then, at the end of the day you notice Maria standing at the end of the line with her parents. Her outfit looks very familiar. You realize that you have seen that outfit on many little girls. When Maria finally gets to the front of the line, you ask her about her beautiful dress. She says that she borrowed it from a friend so she could look pretty in her picture.

There are so many circumstances when picture-taking day comes around … and we are, after all, working with children who get tired, cry and have limited energy.

Fast-forward two years. It’s time for that same development center to update the pictures of the children enrolled in the program. With nearly 200 kids and just as many photos to take, things get a little out of hand for you.

You’re taking Alex’s picture and in the rush of the afternoon accidentally transpose his child number on your notes. The child number next to Alex’s picture is actually Hector’s number (you are human, after all).

Here in Colorado, we receive all the photo updates, upload “Hector’s” new photo to his file, print a copy, and mail it to Hector’s sponsor.

After about two weeks, Hector’s sponsor calls — the new picture looks nothing her child. She’s right, and after I review the pictures in Hector’s file, I agree and contact the country office to fix the issue.

Some of our mistakes have created really funny pictures, and we laugh at them, but most are handled without error.

I know it can be disappointing to receive a photo without a smile anywhere to be seen, but please remember that even though you can’t see it, it’s there. Here’s the proof. And no matter what the picture looks like, it’s the child in that picture that matters most.

My Account l Sponsor a Child l Help Babies and Moms l Crisis Updates

My Account l Sponsor a Child l Help Babies and Moms l Crisis Updates

After all, who was I? Some American who swooped in to pass around the good feelings before returning to vast shelters of wood, composite and stone? Someone who wanted to “do little good” and make himself feel better before returning to his consumer Christianity?

It’s possible all of this was on her face and in her four-year-old mind. Children are, after all, very perceptive.

But maybe I was projecting. Maybe my mind was simply painting my own guilt on her stoic face.

I stood in the courtyard playground of that child development center in Bonao, hours outside of Santo Domingo and less than a day after arriving in the Dominican Republic (DR), and the sun’s heat felt more like that given off by an interrogation lamp than life-giving warmth.

Why was I really here anyway?

I came to the DR to lead a men’s retreat with three others. Two other Compassion employees and one elder of a local church. Our host was an employee of the DR country office. The next day, we were to begin speaking at his church and leading what we hoped would be a revival for the men of Santo Domingo.

So I was there to speak. To challenge, encourage and uplift.

But even more, I discovered that I was there to listen. And to be challenged, encouraged and uplifted myself.

Our first day in the country was a Compassion day. A chance for three of us to see, for the first time, the results of the work of thousands around the globe working to further the cause of Christ.

It was a holiday in the Dominican Republic, so we didn’t receive the 300-child welcoming party I’d heard is often customary when visiting a Compassion child development center.

Instead, we were greeted by a handful of children. Several boys and, as I remember it, one little girl with a hard face, but who radiated sweetness nonetheless.

But from where? I wonder now what drew me so strongly to this sweet child, only present that day because her mother, Rosa, is their volunteer cook.

Perhaps it was the English.

Shortly after meeting Ana Maria, I knelt down to speak with her, with our friend and translator, David, at my right.

“Hello Ana. My name is Brandon.”

And before David could translate, she spoke.

“Hello,” she said, in English. There was a softness in her voice, one that smoothed her features and melted my heart.

“God bless you, Ana,” I said.

“God bless you,” she replied, again without waiting for David to translate. The center facilitator, who was sitting nearby, smiled.

“She wants to learn English.”

“That’s wonderful.” I looked back at Ana Maria and smiled at her.

She didn’t smile back, but the hardness I had seen at first was gone. Better yet, the image of hardness I projected on her face at the first was replaced with hope.

Cautious hope. And a desire to smile, but maybe not just yet.

Ana didn’t have a sponsor before that day. But by the time I left, she did.

I wonder sometimes if she remembers meeting me. If she recalls meeting an American man who would return home in days and slide unwittingly back into Western and indulgent living, but who now had a lifeline to need, reality and truth. A lifeline that somehow sustains both the giver and receiver.

I hope she does remember. Two years from now, my wife and I plan to return to the DR to visit Ana Maria and her mother. My wife will meet them for the first time, and I will see them once again. We’ll hug, pray, play and speak English and Spanish to each other.

And maybe, just maybe, we’ll smile.

Brandon Satrom is the Enterprise Applications Architect for Compassion. He works in IT evaluating both new and emerging technologies and helping Compassion IT make the best use of existing technologies.

My Account l Sponsor a Child l Help Babies and Moms l Crisis Updates

Even when I visited Haiti and brought him a soccer ball. No smile. He played soccer with me, ate lunch with me and never let go of the ball. But he never smiled.

It’s understandable. He lives in one of the most poverty-stricken places on earth. I’ve seen the devastation in that country, and I can’t imagine what he’s been through in his short life.

As I’m sure you can see, Youvens is a very sad, serious child.

This past January my friend Mark was going to Haiti and so I asked him to take a birthday present to Youvens.

A couple weeks later I got this photo.

That smile is all the proof I need that my sponsorship makes a difference.

My Account l Sponsor a Child l Help Babies and Moms l Crisis Updates