Somehow, it seems both like yesterday, and also lifetimes ago. Somewhere in Zambia, at a school and near a blacktop basketball court, I drifted away from the crowd. What I found was a game of soccer, being played by children with the joy that only children possess. Given the choice between a covert mission to preach to students learning to play basketball, or kicking a ball with those who could not speak the language I knew, I chose the latter.

Immediately I noticed that the ball which was in play, was made of plastic bags. Tightly wound together and made of necessity, but with great skill. Skill was something I lacked when it came to the game of soccer. None of the children away from the “planned activity” for my day spoke great English. But, I was a tall guy from another country, so they entertained my interest and laughed at my inability.

Play was stopped on more than one occasion, by a two year-old boy, who kept wandering onto the makeshift field. Patiently, but with a sense of urgency, the players ushered him off the field. Mostly for the flowing of the game, but also with some concern for the boys safety. Eventually, the game just stopped, as the smaller child walked up to me, dragging a sweater across the ground.

He stood there, him being two feet tall and my standing over six feet. Staring at me with some knowing. I returned the stare with the same knowing. I still search my heart, soul, and mind for that knowing.

The...