his name is israel

Remember the starfish story? The one about the girl who walks along the beach throwing starfish back into the water trying to “make a difference to that one”? To be honest, some days here in Nicaragua, I don’t feel I’m making a difference to anyone. I don’t have a lot of "starfish stories" to tell. But maybe tonight I do.

You see, I left a friend’s house pretty late after a dinner party and being a weeknight, the streets were almost empty, I spent 10 minutes unsuccessfully trying to hail down a cab (they all had male passengers or were headed the opposite direction from my house).

Until Israel came along. After negotiating my fare and getting in, I begin my usual round of questions. “So how much longer do you have to work tonight?” “What part of Managua are you from?” “Do you have a family?”

Come to find out, Israel is 23, finished secondary school, but can’t afford to go to the university, although he would like to, and has been a cabdriver now for about a year. Tonight he probably thought he was done for the night, until he agreed to take me across town, the opposite direction from his wife.

“Are you Christian?” I ask.

“Yes,” he replies. “I belong to the Assembly of God church. I’ve gone there all my life.”

I tell him I am Christian too, and try to explain as simply as I can what Presbyterian means.

Israel asks me about why I am in his country, whether I like it here, and marvels at the traveling I tell him I’ve done. He speaks animatedly about his pastor and the new school they are hoping to start, frequently looking at me through the rearview mirror with a genuine smile. I can tell he is enjoying himself, even though it’s late and he is probably exhausted.

“What a blessing to meet a brother in the faith,” I say. Suddenly I feel guilty for negotiating what amounts to 15 cents off my fare. Right before we arrive at my house, I pull another bill out of my purse.

“Thank you so much, Israel, for your spirit of service. I want to give your family and your church a small offering.” I hand him an extra 20 cordobas (about $1), which he accepts with grateful surprise.

“Muchas gracias, Pamela, oiga.” (People say “oiga” for emphasis when they want to make sure you’ve heard what they’ve said.) “Buenas noches. Hasta la proxima vez.” (Good night, until the next time).

As I unlock the porch door, my heart breaks and my eyes water thinking about how many other bright, talented, and hard-working young men are barely scraping by in this country of 5 million. But maybe, just maybe, I gave Israel a little bit of hope and encouragement tonight to persevere and not give up on his future.

Maybe, just maybe, I made a difference to that one.