Her smile made me smile

On Friday night I was teaching the first communion class about the story of the Good Samaritan. I like it when kids identify with what they're learning, so I asked them to draw a picture of when they felt or would feel alone (just like the injured man in the story).

The kids set to work, and after I had finished my picture (a stick-figure version of me falling off my bike this summer in Saint Paul), I started making the rounds. I saw pictures of walking alone on a road at night, of swimming alone, and even being locked in the bathroom. And then I came to a girl, about nine years old, who hadn't drawn anything yet.

"I can't think of anything," she told me.

"That's fine," I told her, "You can make something up. I can tell you're a creative person."

I kept moving around the room, admiring everyone's work. I had all but forgotten about what I had said to Cielo, when I felt a tug on my sleeve. There she was, with a quizzical look on her face.

"I have a question," she said. "How did you know that I'm a creative person?"

"Because I can see the sparkle of creativity in your eyes," I said, hoping it wouldn't sound too cheesy.

"Gracias," she said, her wide smile telling me that I'd made her night.

Again after class, right as she was leaving, she asked me: "What was it that you could see in my eyes?"

"The sparkle of creativity," I told her.

"The sparkle of creativity," she repeated back to herself, as though she wanted to remember it forever.

"Gracias," she said again, and went to meet her parents, who were waiting for her just outside the gate. As they walked away from the church, Cielo turned back and waved to me. Still smiling.