December 17, 2009
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I met this wonderful little boy the other day; he was about eight years old. He had the brightest blue eyes and the darkest brown hair that I have ever seen in my life. His name was Lucas. Just looking at Lucas, one could tell that he was a special little boy. He could hold an intelligent conversation with people of any age. His smile was more radiant than the early morning sun and his innocent laugh could make even the sourest of people smile. Lucas told me of how he loved to go to the retirement home down the road from him and sit around and talk with the elderly men and women because it made them happy. I couldn’t help but notice that the entire time I was with him, the young boy did nothing but smile and laugh. At first, I found this natural of a boy his age, but after some time, I became curious of how he managed to be so happy all the time. When I asked him, he told me this,

“When I was seven, so about a year ago, my mother and father went on a trip to the Philippines to help build houses for needy people. On the way there, their plane crashed and they both died.”

At this point I could help but cry. The small boy reached up and wiped the tear from my face.

“It’s alright, it gets better,” he told me. “After they died, I was sent to an orphanage until someone could find out where my grandparents were living. Once they found them, I came here to live with them. And most people don’t understand this, but I do not want to mope around and lead a miserable life. Why would I when I can make someone else’s life that is worse off than mine at least somewhat better? I just wish everyone understood that and would do the same.”

I looked at him, unable to resist smiling at this baby-faced little boy as he looked up at me with those bright blue, knowing eyes. “You’re one special boy, you know that?” I asked, hugging him.

“I try,” he said, giggling.

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