Meeting Dahian – A Story from the Dominican Republic

As the children were filing into the morning assembly at the Bombita School, where I was scheduled to perform that day, the air buzzed with the sound of laughter and chatter — sandals shuffling across dusty concrete floors, uniforms slightly rumpled from the morning’s walk. The school itself is modest, with colorful walls that can’t quite hide the wear of time and weather. But there’s a spirit of hope there — you can feel it in the way the teachers greet the kids by name, in the way the students cling to their notebooks like treasure.

And then, among the sea of little faces, I saw him.

It was Dahian, our sponsored child.

He came in with his class, eyes wide and curious — and I recognized him immediately. He had no idea who I was. No clue that the person about to take the stage was part of the family who had been quietly supporting him from 850 miles away. But I knew him. His photo has been on my stand-up desk for nearly two years — a daily reminder to pray for him and his family, and to keep perspective on what truly matters. That moment — seeing him in person for the very first time — was surreal, emotional, and filled with quiet joy.

This was the smallest of the five schools I performed in during the trip — a humble campus tucked into the edge of the village. But what it lacked in size, it more than made up for in heart. The children were so sweet — wide-eyed, polite, and buzzing with excitement. Many of them had never seen a live show like this before. For some, it was their very first time experiencing the wonder of live show in person.
They sat cross-legged on the concrete, rows of neatly pressed uniforms and eager faces, leaning forward at every illusion, laughing at the silly moments, and gasping at the impossible ones. It was a joy to bring them joy — to use something as simple as sleight of hand to deliver a message of hope and remind them how deeply loved they are.

And in the middle of it all, Dahian — sitting among his classmates, unaware of the deeper connection we shared. Watching him laugh and clap with the others was a gift I didn’t know I needed.

It was also a powerful reminder that the art of wonder speaks across language barriers. Even without shared words, the experience of amazement and delight opens hearts — and sometimes, that’s all the opening God needs.
After the show, as the last few children were heading back to their classrooms, Dahian’s teacher and the school principal gently brought him over to where I was standing — and they introduced him to me properly.

By my side was my daughter, Rachel, who had traveled with me on this trip. She’s sixteen, full of compassion, and has felt a growing call toward missions for some time now. Before we left home, she had carefully packed a shoebox full of fun, thoughtful gifts — crayons, toys, a toothbrush, a ball, and other things a six-year-old boy might enjoy. She had prepared it just for him.