This didn’t start with a building.
It started with a prayer.
At first, we thought we were supposed to start an orphanage. The need was obvious. We saw broken families and vulnerable kids everywhere.
But as we prayed, God began to shift our thinking.
Instead of building a place for children after families fell apart, what if we could strengthen families so children wouldn’t need orphanages in the first place?
That changed everything.
So we started simple.
Every week we loaded supplies into the back of a truck and drove into at-risk neighborhoods. We served lunch. We shared a Bible lesson. We did crafts. We prayed. We encouraged kids who were spending most of their time in the streets.
It wasn’t polished.
It wasn’t fully funded.
But it was obedience.
And obedience is where this story begins.
As the political situation in Honduras worsened and many families began leaving the country, we asked God honestly:
“Why bring us back here when everyone seems to be leaving? Shouldn’t we just wait by the border?”
The answer we sensed was clear:
“Thousands are leaving. But millions remain. They need to see Me provide real miracles for real needs.”
That reframed everything.
We realized we were called to stay — to advocate, to serve, to connect people who want to make a difference with real needs where real impact can happen.
This was a bigger step of faith.
Kim left her job to dedicate more time to ministry.
We trusted God for our children’s bilingual education — and He gave us grace and favor.
Then we found it — our little pizza-shaped place in Colonia Los Exitos.
It wasn’t impressive.
It didn’t have shade.
It didn’t have buildings.
But it had possibility.
During that season, we built our first cafeteria and poured a concrete soccer court. It wasn’t just construction — it was dignity. It was structure. It was a statement that these kids deserved safe spaces.
For the first time, we weren’t playing soccer in the middle of the street. We weren’t borrowing corners. We had ground to stand on.
What started as an oddly shaped piece of land became a place of belonging, discipleship, and growth.
There was a day that marked us forever.
One of our boys came in emotional — sensitive, angry, easily triggered. When given a simple instruction, he exploded and ran out screaming that he would never come back.
We followed him and sat with him until he opened up.
He told us that he and his father — an elderly shoe repairman who survives day-to-day finding small jobs — had not eaten for several days. Work had been low. There was no money.
In desperation, his father made a heartbreaking decision: they cooked and ate their own cat.
The boy wasn’t just hungry. He was devastated.
That day we decided we needed to start a feeding program.
Not because we had funding lined up.
Not because it was part of a strategic plan.
But because we could not hear stories like that and do nothing.
If we were going to talk about God’s love, we needed to demonstrate it in a way that was tangible.
So we trusted that if the calling was real, the provision would come.
And it did.