I sat on the rough wooden steps of our house, tossing a rock in my hand. It wasn’t much of a house—just four rooms and a tin roof—but it was home now. At least, that’s what Mom and Dad kept saying.

I missed home—the real one. The one with soccer fields, sidewalks, and vending machines. Here, all we had were dirt paths, frogs that croaked so loud I couldn’t sleep, and a river that smelled like fish.

“Mateo!” Dad’s voice called from the shed. “I need your help with the generator!”

I sighed and shoved the rock in my pocket. The generator was always breaking, and Dad said we couldn’t do much without it—no lights, no fans, and definitely no charging my tablet.

When I got to the shed, Dad was already covered in grease, fiddling with the fuel line. I held the flashlight and tried not to think about the mosquito buzzing by my ear.

“Thanks, bud,” Dad said once the generator finally sputtered to life.

Later that night, I sat on my bed, flipping through my Bible. I stopped at Matthew 28:19—“Go ye therefore, and teach all nations.”

I thought about Tupa and the other kids who always followed me around. They laughed when I messed up their words, but they didn’t laugh mean. Today, Tupa had asked me why I prayed before eating. I told him it was to thank God for the food, but he just shrugged.

I stared at the verse again. Maybe Dad and Mom weren’t the only ones God sent here. Maybe I was supposed to tell Tupa about Jesus too.

The next morning, I stuffed my soccer ball into my backpack along with my notebook. If I couldn’t speak Tupa’s language yet, maybe I could show him something instead.

When I found him by the river, I tossed him the ball. He grinned, and pretty soon we were running and laughing in the mud.

And before we left, I showed him how to fold his hands and pray. It was just a small start—but I guess even missionaries have to start somewhere.