It’s our first Tuesday evening in Chiang Mai.

We follow one of our contacts, Steve, on his way to the nearby slums, hidden behind an array of street vendors and markets, where we know soccer balls wait to be kicked, fingernails wait to be painted, and little hearts wait to be filled with a real love.

We arrive at the small concrete slab that acts as a pseudo-soccer field with tires at each end that serve as the goals.  The boys there recognize Steve from his previous visits and quickly organize a game.  Thai versus farang (or “white foreigner”).  I’m standing off to the side to give my teammates some room and a little boy runs up to me, grabbing my hand.

“Back, please!”

I don’t understand at first what these two little words mean.

“Back, please!”

He insists as he tugs on my arm, and I realize he wants a piggy back ride.  With a combination of broken English and charades I realize he wants to play a sort of fruit-based game of tag.  As we’re playing, through shouts of “Banana!” “Mango!” “Pineapple!” I see her.  We’ll call her “M—”.   Her adorable, grinning face runs up and joins our game.  Her laugh is infectious.  She pulls me aside and we play rock, paper, scissors.  We play some hand-clap game she expects me to know.  We laugh, we tickle, we try to communicate without words, we cuddle, she climbs my back, my heart soars.

It’s time to leave, and she walks me to the end of the slums where she lives, talking to me in Thai the whole way back.  She never lets go of my hand until the last moment.

Her precious face doesn’t leave my mind for the 48 hours until we return to the slums.

We walk up to a group of boys again playing soccer.  Not as many people as before are there, including my precious M–.  I nonchalantly kick the ball when it reaches my feet, but my eyes never stop searching down every street for her tiny face.  I abandon the game to walk around and hopefully see her, in vain.  We leave, and I hold back the tears, wondering if I’ll ever see her again, not allowing myself to think about how many little girls like M— are sold from slums like these into trafficking.

Day three in the slums, I focus on the few children around who skip, play games, get lifted high in the air and swung around.  We spin, we dance, we tickle.  And yet, I can’t keep my eyes from searching the horizon for M–.  After much time, I see a little dress off in the distance.  I can’t be sure.  But then she sees me.  With wide eyes full of excitement and a mouth dropped open in awe, she runs straight for me and grabs my hand.

“Back, please!”

I gleefully consent, but only for a moment.  Our time is already up and we have to leave the slums for the night to find dinner.  I leave once again broken hearted, feeling as though I saw her just a few minutes too late and I don’t know if she’ll be there when we come back.

Day four of the slums it’s raining.  We arrive at the concrete slab to find it empty of children.  No smiling faces.  No balls being kicked.  No giggles.  We decide to abandon our expectations and prayer walk through the streets.  We turn the corner and I see M– with a couple boys kicking a ball around underneath a covering at the Buddhist temple nearby.  My heart leaps with joy as I join in the game.  For hours we kick balls, play monkey in the middle, make faces at each other, and laugh like always.

From then on she knows we’re coming.  As we walk to the square, I see her begin running from far away until she’s at my side, grabbing my hand.

“Back, please!”

I love that.  I love every day I’m with her.  Every piggy-back ride.  This little girl has my heart a thousand percent.

So why do I share the story of M–?

Our contact, Pi Emmi, told us during our training at the beginning of the month to find our “one person”.  That one person who God lays on your heart.  That one person to whom you can pour out God’s love, and really be His hands and feet.

Pi Emmi also told us a story of when she was a young girl.  A missionary woman came to her village, pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and helped her brush her teeth.  It changed her life forever to know that someone cared about her.

M— is my “one” this month.  No doubt in my mind.  I don’t know if my time with her has any purpose.  But maybe, just maybe I can be that person that, 20 years from now, she’ll tell the story of the missionary lady that came and kicked a ball with her, made faces at her, played with her, and changed her life forever.  I will probably never know the ending to the story of M—-, but I pray every day it’s a good one.

Original post by Rebekah Burney 
World Race- U Squad (2nd Generation)