Before my son was born, my husband and I discovered a little Mexican restaurant in a less than desirable location. However, the food was excellent and we started to go there nearly ever Saturday morning for breakfast. Along came our son a year or so later and so we would bring him in his carrier and set him on the table until he grew out of the carrier. Each time we went, we got the same waiter and he always remembered us; we always ordered the same thing. Over the years, this waiter saw us develop more wrinkles and saw our son grow taller, but he never changed and he never seemed to age to me, either. He was always kind to us, and very professional. We never asked him about himself or had any conversation beyond what we were ordering. We never reached out to him or asked him how his family was. We never got past that invisible barrier that sometimes exists.

One day last year, he went into his garage and hung himself. As the story was told to me, his hope ran out after his wife left him. Until we heard the news, we never even knew his name. I now know that his name was Juan.

Juan had a story, a life, a family, and problems, but as often as we went to that restaurant, we didn’t know about any of those things. We only knew that Juan brought us a large soda without asking him because he knew what we wanted and we knew that Juan was good at his job. Juan lost hope that horrible day and no one was there to help him through it. That just makes me so sad.

I know it was never my job to save Juan, but I can’t help but feel like I somehow failed him. I know that I didn’t really know him, but I wonder if maybe I should have. After all, the waitress at a Thai restaurant we love had cancer last year and we prayed for her. When she came back to work, we told her that she had been in our prayers.

There are things that I wonder about Juan. I wonder if one person had been there to tell Juan that he was going to get through the pain, if it would have made a difference. I wonder if one kind word here or there might’ve made a difference between life and death for him. I wonder if we all should feel responsible for every Juan who loses hope.

In our ministry to convalescent homes, we call ourselves New Hope Road and we believe that we are giving hope to many seniors in convalescent homes, but I saw Juan more times than I can count and yet I didn’t even know his name. Juan slipped through the cracks in my life and I wonder how many other people’s lives he slipped through the cracks with as well.

I think that most of believe that we don’t have a lot of impact on the lives of others, but I believe that we all are in the business of impact. Each of us remembers a defining moment of a sentence or word spoken that changed our lives and the course of direction that we took. Why, then, do we casually pretend that we don’t have a positive or negative affect on those around us?

I guess this is sort of my tribute to Juan. It is also the beginning of my quest to try to stretch myself in breaking the invisible barrier that prevents me from building relationships with the people who are right here within my reach. I believe that if everyone could do that one thing, we might throw out a wide enough net and maybe prevent a terrible tragedy. It’s a dream, but I have to believe that it’s possible because–well, because I have hope.