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Thirty first-graders sat in a circle on the floor. One by one, they each shared tenderly.
“I love Marcos because he is a great soccer player,” Shanté shared, fighting back her emotions.
“I love Marcos because he sometimes doesn’t hit me when he’s mad,” Lucas remarked.
“I love Marcos because he makes us laugh,” Diego reflected.
It was Marcos’ last day in 107, my wife’s classroom. And his fellow first graders shared their favorite Marcos memories as a tribute to the boy who was with them for the first half of the school year. They spoke candidly, not skirting around the reality: Marcos wasn’t well behaved. In fact, he was a full-on troublemaker. But he was “107”. He was a friend. And they knew Marcos for who he was, not the trouble he caused.
He lugged a heavy reputation with him to his first day of school. It was his first day in 107, but not his first time in first grade. He had been held back for another go around. And he quickly lived up to his billing—chucking chairs, hitting students and disregarding Mrs. Horst’s instructions with regularity.
Marcus has lived through more pain in six long years than I have my entire life. As a child, his father pitted him against his older brother in the cruelest of ways. He would often provoke Marcos and his brother to physically fight each other for a bag of Doritos. Like a cockfight, he heckled as the two punched and wrestled each other.
In and out of foster homes, Marcos carried so much pain into 107 that first day. And many times, he acted out of his wounds. Wounds deeper than any little boy should have. Behind the tough guy façade, though, Marcos was still a little boy. And a very tenderhearted one at that.
While many days were tough, the glimpses of hope surfaced increasingly through his semester in 107. I remember Marcos fondly. Once, I brought our two-year-old son, Desmond, in as a surprise classroom guest. Marcos and Desmond hit it off instantly. Marcos read book after book to Desmond, disregarding instructions to return to his desk because of how absorbed he was in the stories he read. He was Desmond’s hero that day. And mine too.
During his last-day tribute, Marcos’ foster mom brought cupcakes for him to give to his classmates. He handed them out with pride, forgetting to even serve himself. As he proudly hugged each of his fellow students on his way out, the mood was somber, yet hopeful. Marcos was 107. And these were his friends.
This is what we should be about. Marcos arrived with a label, but left with a strut. He belonged. He didn’t leave with straight laces, but he left knowing he was loved. At our best, Christians reclaim what the world says is not worth the trouble. We are never without hope. We look past what is and see what could be.
It might be in a classroom, with a sensitive troublemaker like Marcos.
It might be in a thrift store, where people coming out of prison and homelessness are given a chance to work.
It might be in real estate, where a developer pieces together underused properties and brings a bold new use to the land.
It might be in the delivery room, where parents lovingly welcome Down syndrome children, a choice made by just eight percent of parents with Down syndrome babies.
It might be in Jesus, who cobbled together a rough-hewn team of fishermen, tax collectors and hotheads to start his Church.

Barry Clark - Weston Snowboards

Barry Clark – Weston Snowboards


Or, it might be someone like Barry Clark, a friend and entrepreneur who saw opportunity where others saw ruin. I am excited to share Barry’s story. It’s a classic story of American small business, with a healthy dose of Colorado blended in. But more than that, it’s a story of a Christian seeing hope where others saw desolation. I encourage you to read it. And to see the beauty amidst the brokenness in your classrooms, commutes and communities.

The drive up Interstate 70 through the Rocky Mountains is almost apocalyptic, the sprawling forests lining the highway appearing lifeless. The mighty lodgepole pines normally paint a grandiose evergreen backdrop, but today they stand dead in their tracks. Foresters call the killing of Colorado’s pines in recent years a “catastrophic event.”
But fire is not the culprit. Pine beetles consumed millions of acres of Colorado’s pine trees over the past ten years. With their food source now mostly depleted, the beetles are gone, but a visible reminder of their feasting remains.
I-70 spans the Rocky Mountains, guiding visitors to Colorado’s charming ski towns. Outdoor enthusiasts the world over gape at the devastation caused by the pine beetles. But Barry Clark, who has traversed this highway weekly for over 25 years, sees more than ruin.

Read the full story at Christianity Today.