There’s something strange about thinking you’re the one going to help—and then realizing you’re the one being helped.

I thought I understood what service meant. I thought showing up with a giving heart was enough. I packed my bags for Guatemala with good intentions and a soft place in my heart for the kids I’d meet.

I’d grown up with everything: safety, support, school, family, and more comfort than I ever really noticed until I left it behind for a while. I thought I was going to give something—love, time, maybe hope. But what I didn’t expect was how much they would give me.

From the moment I arrived, it was different than I imagined. There weren’t a lot of toys or clothes. Beds were shared. Meals were simple. But what they did have—joy, presence, connection—it was something I hadn’t seen in a long time.

They didn’t need me to fix anything. They just welcomed me in.

One little girl grabbed my hand and started braiding my hair without saying a word. Another pulled me into a soccer game I didn’t know how to play. Someone else sat in my lap like they’d known me forever.

They didn’t care about my background. Or how “good” I was. They weren’t asking for credentials.

They just wanted someone to sit with them.

And somewhere in the simplicity of those moments, I felt something shift in me.

I started to notice how rich they were—rich in the things that actually last.

Faith that didn’t waver. Laughter that echoed louder than anything I’d been worried about. Gratitude for every small act of kindness. Trust that ran deep, even in kids who had every reason not to trust.

They had nothing, and yet they had everything.

And I—who had so much—suddenly realized how little I’d been paying attention.

We sang songs together under open skies. We prayed before meals in three languages. We played the same games over and over again, and somehow, they never got old. And when it was time to go, I didn’t want to leave.

Because I didn’t just visit a place. I was changed by people.

People with open hands. Open hearts. People who had learned to love without holding back.

That’s when it hit me: I didn’t come to bring light. I walked straight into it.

And it wasn’t flashy or loud. It was gentle. Steady. Real.

God was already there—loving His children through the hands and hearts of people who show up, day after day, not to impress, but to serve.

And that’s what I want to do now.

Not just “volunteer.” Not just “give back.”

I want to love the way they did—with my time, my attention, my presence. With my hands. With my heart.

Because I thought I was going there to help.

But I came back with more than I could ever carry.

Joy. Perspective. Faith. And the quiet knowing that sometimes, the ones who seem to have the least are the ones who give the most.

And I’ll never forget that.

Ever.