It was a Wednesday afternoon and it was my first day out in the community solita (alone). I took 3 conchos (public transportation) from my comfortable middle class neighborhood in Santiago (La República Dominicana), directly into the heart of poverty. Wearing my favorite yellow dress, I walked the streets searching for a friendly face- someone to make a connection with, someone to direct me in how I could help. I said hello as I passed a man sitting along the street, but I received no verbal confirmation- only a harsh stare, as if to say “Why is this American here?” This process repeated as if it was a mechanical response. Doubt began to take route. “What AM I doing here? These people see me as nothing more than a privileged American. They don’t want my help. This is impossible.” Then I remembered the light an old woman once told me she saw come from me. I found the encouragement I was desperately in need of and began to pray, “Father guide me. Help me earn the trust of one person. Open a door and I will do whatever it takes to walk through it.”

Almost immediately I hear breaking glass and hash words. I was in the process of walking up a hill and could not see where it had come from. The butterflies in my stomach told me to turn around, but the tug of my heart told me that is was my opportunity. I continued to pray for the right words, the right actions, and for His light to shine through me. Within moments I had lost all sense of fear.

At the top of the hill there was broken glass everywhere. A car was missing its back window, a crowd of people were yelling, and a man with the eyes of a scared boy- who I visibly recognized to have both the heart and mind of a child- was in the center of it all. The crowd was yelling at the man, calling him bad names and threatening him while throwing rocks in his direction. The hands of the man were balled into fists and bloody. He was surrounded by people and scared- ready to break through and run for safety.

I felt a strong hand guiding me as I pushed my way through the people as one by one they began to notice the American girl in the pale yellow dress. Within seconds, the yelling turned into whispers and then settled into a silence tainted with tension. The crowd began to open and I was given a path directly to the man. My eyes were focused on his and his on mine. I could feel his gentle soul, the purity of his heart and the rawness of his emotions. I never took my eyes from his and through that connection I sent love and light. His hands relaxed from the tight fists, blood still seeping to the ground. His head cocked in curiosity, and the corners of his mouth slowly turned up into a smirky grin.

I could feel all eyes on me- wondering what I was going to do; who I was. The man was tall- at least 6 foot 4. His face, head, and arms were covered in scars and scabs. When I was toe to toe with him, I bent to my knees with great care and tied his shoe laces. A loud gasp went through the crowd which affirmed my intension- to show both this man and the crowd that we were equal. As I slowly rose to my feet I gently reached up and took his face in my hands. I could feel God in my words and helping me to speak with clarity.

- “My name is Maria. What’s your name?”

- “Ezequiel,” he calmly replied. “Are you my angel?”

- I smiled, feeling it reach my eyes. “I’m here to be your friend.”

- He laughed. “But you are American.” A simple thought loaded with meaning.

- “You’re right, I am. Can I clean the glass from your hands? I want to help,” I gently coaxed- never taking my hands from his face.

- “Will it hurt?” – His voice shook a bit.

- “I will do my best to make sure it doesn’t.” I looked hard into his eyes, so that he knew I meant to treat him with great care and any pain was unintentional.

- Ezequiel nodded his head in agreement.

I knew I already had the attention of the crowd, so I looked to the nearest woman and asked for clean water and cloth. I heard her call to someone else, “Girasol (sunflower) needs water and cloth.” It seemed like only seconds before they were in my hands. I took one of his giant hands in mine. It was easily twice as large. With great care I began to extract the larger pieces of glass as I gently spoke to him.

- “How old are you Ezequiel?”

- “22,” he cautiously replied while watching my working hands.

- “Me too!” I squealed. “We are the same age!”

- He stopped watching me extract the glass and devoted his full attention to our conversation.

- “REALLY?!” he said with a toothy grin. “Do you want to be my girlfriend?”

I took a moment to look into his eyes and with a smile I said, “I would love to. But, our first date has to be at the hospital. He silently agreed, looking content and protected.

I turned to the community and said, “Can someone please call a taxi, Ezequiel needs to go to the hospital.”

(There was too much glass and the bleeding was too steady to see it all.)

Following my request , I wrapped his hand securely with the cloth. Within moments, a man tapped my should and said, “Girasol- the taxi is here.” And I felt a rough hand put money into my hand while another man spoke with the driver.

In the hospital it became clear that Ezequiel was a regular visitor. He knew all the staff and showed me where to go to get stitched up. The doctors knew him by name. To distract him, we spoke about what had happened. He explained to me that the people were making jokes about him and he said that the anger made him hit the car. This was a two part problem in my eyes: Ezequiel’s anger outlet and the people not caring for one of their own. Ezequiel and I spoke of other ways to express anger and ways to make it go away. We settled on singing and we made a plan: Next time Ezquiel was angry and wanted to hit something he would calm himself down by singing. We practiced and went through different scenarios. The doctor just laughed as if it would never work.

When Ezequiel and I returned to the community a crowd was gathered waiting for us. Once again, I asked God to guide my words as I spoke to the people about caring for their own. I explained that Ezequiel may have the strength and stature of a man– but his heart and mind were that of a child. I illuminated that this is exactly why he is so special and valuable. As his community, it is their responsibility to care for him and protect him. The crowd listened intently.

After saying goodbye to Ezequiel, turned to leave and a woman caught me by the arm, confusion plaguing her face. “Why are you here Girasol?”

Here was my chance. “I want to serve your community. What can I do to help?”

“Our children,” she replied- relief replacing the confusion, “So many women here work as prostitutes. Their children have no one to care for them. Some are taken in by the neighbors, but they still roam the streets during the day. There is no money to send them to school.”

“If you help me find them– if you show your trust in me– I promise to love them.”

And with that simple trust and my commitment to love- my service began to a community that called me Girasol.