We drive down the wide, winding road among the flow of traffic leaving the ancient stadium. Faded lines flank the road, segmented at random intervals by black streaks of tar that dissect the street into lonely gray islands. Old, paint-peeling houses line the left side of the street with chain-link fences and weed-ridden yards. Someone stoops on the front porch in front of almost every house, coffee or worse in hand. On the right side of the street a massive closed factory runs for about two hundred yards, almost every window broken and every brick faded. About six stories tall, I can’t help but remember the old shoe factory from the original Jumanji. Unidentifiable trash litters the lot out front, sprinkling the somber feel to the building with nothing new. This town sure needs a lot of help, a hope we are willing to give.I shift in the seat and give a quick shiver as the chilly morning air drifts through the halfway open windows. The old but comforting crossover cruises down the road, seats soft yet stained. Queen floats out of the stereo up front as Matt drives, the four of us students singing along from the back. The roar of the murky Ohio River amplifies as we reach the bridge. Thick, low-lying mist retreats for the nearby mountains, running tall and long a half mile over the bridge. Finally shining through the air, the sun paints the sky purple and orange on the horizon as it bounces off of the impenetrable mist. A light blue blanket chases the beautiful colorations out of the sky in a war as old as time itself. 

Fire as bright as the sun burns in our hearts, motivated to do good as the powerful words of the speaker we just listened to bounce around our heads. With the Mission Trip newly in sight, excitement jolts through our veins. We fly through the countryside, following the mountain line until we reach our destination. It’s a hot, sunny day in Southern Ohio. The smells of the early morning dew, still thick on the grass, float through the air, reminding you of the sticky summer humidity coming later in the afternoon. An unoccupied playground gleams in the sun, the freshly cleaned slides and bars shooting straight for your eyes, the sun their ammunition. Bright flowers of pink and purple line the landscaping, painting a picture too beautiful for words. The only sound beyond our slight chatter is the low rumble as cars cruise along  the road, leaving a deep yet peaceful silence on the surrounding country. 

The smell of fresh cans of paint, oily and thick, hangs in the air. I push and pull, push and pull the paint roller up and down the chain-link fence. Every now and again, when I push too hard, metallic silver droplets fly through the air and find their home all over my clothes, leaving them splotched and shiny in unique patterns. An oxidized smell, the smell of rusting, subtly overrides the odor of the paint. The cheeriness of the group only amplifies as we work hard amongst one another, singing away as we sweep down the lengthy expanse of chipped metal. At this point, my entire being has been blanketed with droplets of paint, so I work all the more careless of how much I get on me. My shoes, so new they still smell of the box, are absolutely blanketed in paint. Part of me fills with worry as I wonder how my Mom will react, but another part of me thinks they look sweet. As I look down at my “new” kicks, I am filled with a sense of fulfillment, deep and overflowing, overwhelming yet weightless as we paint the day away.  Nearby, our youth pastor works alongside us just as hard as we do. As time goes on, he cracks joke after joke, lightening the mood and staving off the hot sun for just a little bit longer after every joke. He is a seemingly unremarkable man, your average Joe, nothing that stands out for better or for worse. From humble beginnings in this poor town, he seems like your typical run of the mill pastor. It’s when you get to meet him, though, that you realize he is unbelievably amazing. He is always happy, telling jokes and making the darkest of moods seem bright. He can pull meaningful conversation out of thin air, always knowing what to say and when to say it. I have never met a kid who was unable to relate to him. If you need help with your deepest, darkest mistakes, he knows exactly what to do. He tells you what you need to hear, not what you want to hear, balancing perfectly between empathetic compassion and constructive authority. Like the parable of the mustard seed and the kingdom of heaven, sometimes the least outstanding things are those that end up meaning the most.

We head back to the school, sticky and dirty. The mid-afternoon heat settles over everything, filling us with the desire to take a nap. I take off my painted shoes and head into the gym to lazily shoot a few shots on the basketball hoop. The smell of tacos floats in through the cafeteria door nearby. As I shoot along, a million thoughts fly through my head. I realize, I really am lucky to be able to serve others as I just have. I have more than I will ever need, allowing me to be able to give to others as much as I can. I am surrounded by a youth group that loves me as if I am family. We have had fun the whole trip, and even though my clothes and shoes were ruined, I grew closer to my friends in the process. Every day I look down at the old, splotched shoes, remembering the people I grew so close with. If these relationships weren’t worth the hundred dollars, than I don’t know what is.