How can a little girl you’ve only spent 5 hours with impact you so greatly? How can someone you barely got to know bring tears to your eyes every time you speak of them? How can so few words mean so much? I don’t know, but she did. This is Veronica’s Story.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw her. It was in La Esperanza, one of the poorest areas in the Dominican Republic. We were going there for 2 hours to teach a bible lesson and then just play with the kids. After finishing the lesson (held inside a small tin church), we went outside where a new church was being built. The walls were only about 8 feet high so we played games with the kids out there. She was quietly sitting in a circle with a bunch of rowdy kids playing pato, pato, ganso (or as we say it in English, duck, duck, goose). All the other kids were hollering and jumping about, hoping to be picked next, but not her. She sat a little farther apart from everyone else and just observed. She looked to be 5 (I would later get this assumption confirmed) and there was nothing extremely different about her that I noticed, excluding her quiet demeanor. She had tons of tiny braids that fell around her head, the white beads at the end falling just below her chin. I don’t remember observing her clothes; I believe I was too captivated by her eyes. To be honest, nothing I can write will be able to properly describe them. They seemed to contain the child-like innocence that every kid has, but beyond that there was wisdom and knowledge of things no kid of 5 should ever have. I know that statement sounds like an oxymoron, how can someone be filled with innocence and yet have knowledge of so much evil? But yet- she was. I had no doubt in my mind that she had seen things in her 5 years that I would only read about in my whole lifetime.
I walked over to her and sat down quietly, not wanting to disturb her seemingly intent interest in the game. As I placed myself beside her, she leaned towards me and gazed into my eyes, hers sparkling like the ocean during a sunrise. She flashed me a smile and then went back to watching the game. After a moment of silence between us I leaned over and whispered in Spanish, “What’s your name?” She whispered gently back to me, “Veronica.” I repeated back to her, “Veronica” making sure I had gotten her name correct. She nodded and then continued to watch the kids run around screaming. I waited a moment for her to ask my name, unsure of why she hadn’t. All the kids generally would ask your name before you got the chance to ask theirs, but Veronica? She didn’t. When I realized she wasn’t going to ask me, I once again leaned towards her and said, “Mi nombre es Paige,” (my name is Paige). Like before, she nodded at me and went back to watching the game. Her indifference at what I had just said confused me. Why was she so intent on observing silly game such as duck, duck, goose when nobody ever picked her (it was as if she didn’t exist) and yet learning my name didn’t matter? It was as if she already knew. I know this all sounds a bit prideful, but you have to understand that all the kids down there were desperate to speak with the “Americanos,” and then to have a kid not care at all was quite bewildering.
When I realized she didn’t want to be engaged in conversation, I gave up and walked away to play with some of the other children, my mind, however, never left her. As the remaining hour passed by, I kept my eye on her. When the game stopped Veronica stood up and leaned against the wall by herself. Any other kid there would’ve been upset that no one was paying him or her any notice, but Veronica? She wasn’t. She simply stood there, watching the kids per usual. The hour passed quickly and soon it was time for us to go. Our group began to shuffle out of the partially built church and begin the walk through the village to the bus. Kids swarmed all around us, desperate to spend those last few minutes with us before our departure. As I stepped out of the church, I felt a little hand slip into mine. Looking down, I once more gazed into Veronica’s sparkling eyes. She didn’t say anything, neither did I, we just walked. Soon, two other children came rushing over to me fighting over who would hold my other hand. Both of them grasped my hand, meanwhile attempting to shove the other away from me. This persisted throughout the whole walk from the church to the bus, but neither of them ever touched Veronica. At one point however, Veronica stopped us and had me lean down. She pointed towards the house directly to our left and whispered in Spanish, “That’s my house.” It was just like every other tin shack there with dirt floors and barbed wire fencing all around. Then without another word she tugged on my hand for us to continue walking. When we reached the bus, Veronica let go of my hand in unison with the other two girls. I hugged the two squabble-ers and then turned towards Veronica. Kneeling on the ground, I whispered to her in Spanish, “I’ll be back tomorrow.” She nodded at me and I was certain she understood what I said. I gave her a quick hug, and then she slipped away from my embrace and began to skip back in the direction we had just come. As she rounded the corner out of my view, I began to focus my thoughts on getting back to Las Colinas II (where we were staying) and getting ready for dinner and church that night.
The next day when we arrived at La Esperanza immediately Veronica and I found each other. Pretty much the whole two hours there I spent with her, holding her hand or giving her a piggyback ride. The only time we really talked was when I asked her in Spanish how she was doing and she responded with, “bien” or good. To me, it felt like I was disturbing her peace, so I vowed myself to silence after that. When it was time to leave a truck pulled up to take us back to where we were staying. Like the day before, I leaned down and hugged her goodbye. I repeated once again that I would be back the next day, (not knowing that it would actually be two days before we returned). She nodded and we embraced, then she disappeared in the crowd of kids trying to crawl onto the truck.
We almost didn’t come that last time, but I praise God we did. You see, the second time we came the number of kids doubled from the first time. Along with a larger size, their rowdiness seemed to increase with shards of pottery being thrown about a bit more recklessly then before. Older kids had come too, a group of guys stood all around the inside of the new church walls making sexual comments in Spanish about the ladies in our group. This final time that we came was unlike either of the previous two. We were told not to bring anything, no cameras, gifts, bracelets, etc. They were afraid we might get mobbed by the kids. I spoke with a few of the leaders and explained how I was close to one girl there and asked if it might be possible for me to bring a bracelet in my pocket. I told them that if everything went well, I would like to give Veronica the gift right before we left, I would make sure no other kids saw me. Much to my surprise, I was given consent.
Most all the guys were asked to come and we had such a large group that we ended up taking two truckloads of people there. When we arrived, there were only fifteen or so kids waiting, nowhere near the uncountable number we had two days prior. Things started off slowly, and my heart was uneasy. I glanced at each of the kids, my dismay growing each time I realized that the kid I was looking at was not Veronica. More kids showed up, along with the second truckload of people, but still no Veronica. I sat down on the ground, frustrated with God. How could He not have her be here? I looked around me and noticed a small boy not more than 3 feet away from me. He had bags under his eyes, cuts and scratches all up his arms, bruises coating his legs. One of my friends had played with this boy on the first day in La Esperanza, but today his attitude was much different. Instead of the wild jumping, kicking, and playful biting, he sat on a piece of wood refusing to make eye contact with anyone. I prayed over him and attempted to talk to him, but he just ignored, as if I wasn’t there. Even more annoyed, I got up and walked away. As I was walking across the church, I suddenly felt a tug on my arm. Looking down, I saw her. Tears filled her eyes and she tugged on my hand, beckoning me to lean down. She whispered something in my ear that I didn’t understand. I asked her to repeat and she did, but to no avail- I didn’t understand. Picking her up, I found our translator and once more asked Veronica to repeat what she had said to me. After a moment, the translator nodded and turned to me, “She said she was looking for you and couldn’t find you.” My heart broke. The fact that this child might cry over not being able to see me was so touching. I asked the translator to tell Veronica that I too was looking for her and was dismayed at my inability to find her. Veronica squeezed my hand and smiled at me as the woman repeated what I had just said in Spanish.
I walked away, holding Veronica close to me trying to ignore the nagging thought of leaving. I knew this was my last day in La Esperanza and that I would have to tell Veronica of this too. Tears filling my eyes, I explained to her that the next day I was going far, far away back to the United States and I was very sad. I then told her that this was the last time we would see each other, but at this she vehemently shook her head and then pointed towards the sky.” Heaven,” I murmured quietly in English and she nodded yes.
At just that moment a little boy ran up to us, nearly colliding with my leg. He looked at me, then fixed his gaze completely on Veronica and screamed, “PRINCESS”. In English, I asked Veronica if she was a princess. She smiled shyly and nodded yes to me. I laughed to myself, this little girl was in tattered clothes and probably hadn’t eaten in a while, but yet she definitely was a princess in God’s eyes and I think she knew it. Not ready to ask her more about God, I spoke in Spanish asking how old she was. She responded with, “Cinco” (meaning 5.) I then followed up with the question of when her birthday is, to which I got the response of, “enero diez” (January 10th). I held her in silence for a few minutes, not sure of what else to talk to her about with my limited knowledge of Spanish.
After a few moments of silence, one of my friends came up to me. She told me that there was a little boy she was worried about and she wanted me to see him. I walked back across the church with her to where I had been sitting earlier that hour. There lay a little boy squirming around in the dirt, the same little boy I had prayed over. Veronica still in my arms, my friend and I discussed what could be wrong with him, he seemed almost possessed. Mid sentence, she stopped me. Pointing to Veronica, my friend said, “She seems as if she understands exactly what we’re talking about.” We both gazed at Veronica for a moment, and she looked back at us. Finally, gathering the courage I asked her in English if the little boy was okay. She shook her head. I asked her if she knew where the boy was being taken because during our conversation another child barely older than the sick boy picked him up and carried him away. Veronica again shook her head. I then asked her if she understood what I was saying, and to my astonishment she nodded her head yes. My friend and I stood there for a moment, stunned. I then carried her off, wanting to talk to her more in private. Not believing what had just happened, I again questioned Veronica in English. I asked her what her favorite color was, if she liked green or blue. Continuing to shock me, she responded in perfect English, “I really like the color green.” I held her closer, my heart beating fast. I knew I only had about ½ an hour left with her. I needed to speak with her more. Mind racing, I quickly asked her if she knew God to which she responded, “Jesus is my Savior.” Tears beginning to stream down my face, I tried to think of something else to say. Half of me wanted to ask her every question imaginable, but part of me also wanted to just stand there enjoying the silence. I picked the later and regretted when not more than two minutes later a little girl came running up. She reached up, tapped Veronica on the foot and then ran out of the church. Veronica immediately wiggled free from my grip, jumped to the ground and ran off, following the girl without saying a single word. I desperately called after her, but there was no response, not even the turn of her head. Tears of surprise quickly turned into tears of sorrow. Bitterness welled up inside of me, like a jack in the box ready to pop. How could God not let me say goodbye? How come I didn’t get a chance to talk to her more, to give her my bracelet? Why was this so unfair? I walked around the church, avoiding talking to members from my group asking me about why I was crying. I didn’t want to talk to them now, I wanted Veronica back.
I began to ask numerous groups of kids in Spanish where Veronica was, but I always got the same answer. “Veronica? We don’t know a Veronica.” It confused me, La Esperanza wasn’t that big of a village, if every kid didn’t know each other at least SOME of the kids should know who she was. She had even pointed out to me where she lived. I asked two of the teens that were our guides, one of them was from La Esperanza and the other just visited there a lot because his dad was a pastor. Their answer was the same as the kids though, no Veronica lives here. I took a few of the kids aside and pointed towards her house which you could just see a little bit beyond the church, but my attempts to learn anything about her were futile. The kids merely shook their heads and said no, she didn’t live there then they pointed to some other kid that they claimed did. I gave up. Standing in a corner, tears began to stream down my face. Our ride arrived, ready to pick up the first group of people, but I resisted. I wanted to stay for the second ride because there was a chance that maybe, just maybe Veronica would come back. I was wrong. The truck left with the first load of people, then came back for myself and a few others. Saddened, I began to climb onto the truck. As I looked back one last time, I saw her standing about 30 feet away. I quickly jumped off the truck and screamed her name, running towards her. She hesitated for a moment, then came running towards me. Despite the piles of children nearby trying to climb on the truck, I pulled the bracelet out of my pocket. She lifted her wrist towards me and I tied it on. A group of girls nearby watched me, but with no interest. They seemed to look right through me as if I was just another one of them, not some American giving out a gift. I embraced Veronica tightly and whispered “te amo, te amo” repeatedly in her ear. She responded to me with five words. “Thank you, I love you.” I heard my name being called, so I gave her one last squeeze and ran for the truck. As I climbed in, I looked back and saw her waving and blowing me a kiss. Not one of the kids seemed to notice her, or the bracelet tied around her wrist.
As I look back, I notice more and more things that stand out about her, but one thing above all bothers me. Out of the hundreds of pictures taken by approximately 15 different people at La Esperanza, none of them have Veronica. I’ve searched and searched, but only find more disappointment. Nobody seems to know she existed. But me? I do.
) and my season in the DR has come and gone. Maybe I will go back soon, maybe I will go back in a few years, or maybe I will never return. I don’t really know what God has in store for me, but I place my trust in Him and Him alone. I’m sure those of you who have been around me the past few weeks are wondering why the sudden change in attitude. I mean I pretty much complained about my desires to return and how I wasn’t appreciating American life 24/7. I realize now how childish I was acting…
