Once There Was a Boy

Over a decade and a half have passed since a young boy listened intently to the stories and songs being taught at an open-air children’s club near his home. These stories were like nothing he had heard before, speaking of a joy and a hope he had never experienced. His heart responded to the message of a sacrificial Father-love, one that would do anything to rescue and protect His children.

His own father had not protected him. In the years that I knew the boy, I only ever heard bits of pieces of his beginnings, but what I did learn greatly saddened me. His grandmother was a provider of witchcraft and séances, and in order to summon the dead she felt the need to include an “innocent spirit” into her gatherings. Thus the boy was forced to join the circle of hands and to experience the fearful darkness that resulted from her actions.

But all that changed when he heard the Gospel for the first time. Soon he had a joy in his life and a new family – a church family – and week by week he would faithfully walk unaccompanied to join them in learning the Bible and worshipping the Savior. The boy and I became friends and together grew into the youth group along with others our own age. His faithfulness continued for several years as he began to teach the younger children and to minister in other ways at church.

It was during this time that his interest and talent for drama began to blossom. At first, it was fun and productive, leading to well-done plays for Christmas and Easter and special youth events. But as he became more and more interested in this artistic medium, he became involved in a secular drama group that promoted strange ideas. He spoke to us about emptying his mind of everything and of the mental/spiritual exercises the group did together.

Shortly before this time, he and I and another friend had attended a week of Christian youth camp together. It had been a great week, hopefully a turning point. But nevertheless he started to withdraw from our circle of friends at church, and his attendance became sporadic. Soon afterwards I moved far away, back to the States for college. I saw the boy once more, while in Chile on Christmas break.

Something was very different about him then. My parents and I invited him home for dinner, and he and I talked. He spoke about the Bible and Christianity with doubts, no longer with the faith he had expressed and lived for several years. His manner and dress had changed, become faintly effeminate, and feelings of concern, discomfort, and sorrow filled my heart. We had once been good friends, growing up together and sharing memories and laughter. But I no longer knew how to reach him.

Years later, I spoke with the woman who had been our Sunday School teacher. She had also cared deeply for the boy, and her voice held much sadness when she spoke of their last encounter. She had almost failed to recognize him, standing on a corner in a rough part of town. He no longer looked like a boy. In fact, he was even dressed as a woman. Her heart broke for him, and since then no one has seen him again.

I still think of my friend. I think of him on days like yesterday, when I make a cake that was his favorite when we were teenagers. I think of him when I look at pictures from our week at camp long ago. I think of him now that I’ve returned to Chile and reconnected with mutual friends, all of us having grown up together in those simpler years.

I still wonder what we could have done differently. I wonder why I never asked him more about his family. I wonder why we kept our relationship so superficial, just fun times at youth events but never really asking one another how we were feeling or what was going on inside. I wonder why I didn’t ask him what I was really wondering during that last meeting many Christmases ago. I feel guilty that I didn’t do more.

I still cry over him at times (like while I was writing this entry.) I often wonder if he is alive, or if he has died from HIV/AIDS like so many others in this country. I think of his beginnings and how unfair it was for him to have to live through that as a child. And I wonder how that influenced who he became in the end.

I hope that he found Peace. When I begin to wonder if he was ever truly a believer, I have to hold onto the belief that he was and that some day he will remember the only Father who ever truly cared about him - the “One that would do anything to rescue and protect His children.”

Because once there was a boy … and once he was my friend.