It was day four of our mission's trip in Acũna, Mexico, and I was on my way to chapel. As I approached the front doors of the building, the Faith Mission's coordinator, brother Ealers, approached us. "Your ticket to get into chapel will be one Hispanic person," Brother Ealers exclaimed! I skimmed the crowd of Americans for just one Hispanic person. When I finally found one, I grabbed his hand and led him to the door. "Como te llamos," I asked him? "Me llamo es Guarrẽll," he said. Guarrẽll is 5' 10", he has brown hair, brown eyes, and a caramel colored skin. The skin on his face, hands, and arms is very worn from hard mannual labor that he does for very little pay. His hands are very leathery and show many scars, they reveal the past, of his many sacrifices and selfless acts.
             As I glance around the room, I notice one person in particular. He is a middle-aged man, he seemes to be somewhere around the age of 36. He is walking with a cane. As I slowly walked closer, closer to the man I noticed that his, once bright blue eyes, now have a glazed-over look to them, sort of like that of an older man. Brother Ealers places his hand gently on my shoulder, "he is blind", he says. I nodd and quietly walk back to my awating hispanic guest.
             As the time slowly passes by, we eventually transition into prayer time. My guest immediatley rises to his feet and races to the front of the room where the prayer is being held. Guarrẽll seems as though he is in some sort of race, and the prize is a priceless gift of some sort. I suddenly feel as though I do not belong there, like something of a greater power is leading me to turn around and walk to the other side of the room. As I turn around I notice the blind, hispanic man from earlier this evening standing up straight with his arms streached towards the heavens. I walk over to him and begin to pray. I have never fe
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