Over and over, a ball, which was a black plastic bag tied into a lopsided circle with twine, bounced slowly over the dust toward me. Stopping it with the toe of my flipflop, I kicked it back. At the other end was one of the cutest little boys I have ever seen. Hardly waist high, with sparkling dark brown eyes, he must have been around three or four years old. Our little game wasn’t something he took lightly. Before kicking the ball, he crouched down with a look of determination, stomped his feet, and flexed his arms before taking off at a run toward the ball. An exaggerated kick sent the ball bumping randomly over the dust and sent me running to catch it. A grin split his face as I cheered for him and was usually followed up by him running up for a high five. When I kicked the ball back to him, he wasn’t satisfied to stop it with his foot. Instead he ran towards the ball and stopped it with a football style tackle that kicked up the dust around us. I am not a huge fan of playing ball, but I’d play ball with him all day if I could. Walking home that evening, I couldn’t help but thank God for sending me to this island, to these children.