Pete—Little Girl with Yellow Flowers
Growing up, my resume wasn’t exactly bursting with prestigious employment. I had the usual teenage gigs—mowing lawns, painting houses for neighbors—nothing that would impress a career counselor. My payment usually came in the form of gift cards to Wawa, a regional chain of gasoline/convenience stores that got its start in Philadelphia. Sports dominated my schedule: soccer claimed fall, wrestling owned winter, and baseball ruled spring. Somehow, summers became a whirlwind of all three. So it felt natural when my first real paycheck emerged from athletics—a counselor’s position at our local baseball camp.
At fourteen, ambition coursed through my veins. The camp operated under our high school’s varsity baseball coach—the same man who would oversee tryouts come fall. In my teenage strategy, this wasn’t just a job; it was an audition. I imagined my leadership acumen would blind him to any shortcomings in my actual skills on the diamond.
Reality arrived wearing Velcro sneakers and gap-toothed grins. My charges were kindergartners, their energy cranked to superhuman levels by morning sugar rushes and dreams of becoming the next Sammy Sosa. Organizing them felt like herding caffeinated butterflies. These five-year-olds reimagined every piece of equipment—batting helmets became dodgeballs and athletic cups transformed into superhero masks.
Somehow, we survived the morning gauntlet of wiggly stretches, chaotic base-running drills, and pop flies that mostly found earth instead of leather. When snack time rolled around, the headcount sent ice through my veins … we were one short. Buck had vanished. The golden rule of camp counseling echoed in my head: never lose a kid. My varsity baseball dreams began evaporating before my eyes. Maybe the tennis team was recruiting?
I mobilized my pint-sized search party, their high-pitched voices calling “Buck!” across empty dugouts and behind bleachers. With each vacant field, my heart rate climbed another notch. Then a shout pierced the humid air: “Found him!” We sprinted toward the voice, cleats aerating freshly cut grass, to find Buck in his moment of glory—pants bunched around his ankles behind the dugout, proudly autographing the wall in a meandering yellow stream. My group erupted in delighted chaos, celebrating both his artistic expression and surprising penmanship. I could only lean against the chain-link fence, relief flooding through me, grateful that Buck’s impromptu masterpiece had preserved both my job and our team’s spirited unity.
* * *
Pete’s stories carried that same Bad News Bears charm, but his played out through a nonprofit sports ministry called the Chicago Eagles. Their mission statement cut straight to the heart: “We play a game to change the world.” They recruited talented players nationwide, Pete among them, to act as soccer camp counselors in underserved communities. Pete had enjoyed the sport his entire life, eventually receiving a scholarship to play at the collegiate level in Tennessee. His crew wove spiritual guidance into athletic instruction, which included teaching precise footwork between whistle blasts and faith during water breaks.
Soccer, as Pete and I agreed, was the perfect conduit—a language that needed no translation. The peculiarity wasn’t lost on us; we might stumble through small talk with a stranger in an elevator, yet seamlessly coordinate ninety minutes of complex teamwork with those same strangers on a soccer field. French journalist Jean Eskenazi captured this phenomenon in 1954, describing soccer as “the only denominator common to all people, the only universal Esperanto ... a world language, whose grammar is unchanging from the North Pole to the Equator.”[1]
This universal appeal manifested clearly for Pete and his fellow Eagles counselors in the summer of 2011. The program assembled forty counselors—split evenly between men and women—with each bringing their own unique flair to the pitch. Pete’s six-foot-three frame and years of competitive experience made him a natural leader, especially given his collegiate background. The summer offered him a dual opportunity to maintain his physical conditioning while testing his newfound Christian faith in the real world.
Their schedule pushed human limits. Days overflowed with camp activities and community outreach, while evenings brought summer adult league matches. Between endless drills, shepherding excited campers, and liberal applications of Icy Hot on aching muscles, the counselors barely had time to catch their breath. But before diving into Chicago’s summer heat, the Eagles had one extraordinary preseason tradition; their journey would begin five thousand miles south in Rio de Janeiro, where soccer permeated every street corner and conversation as naturally as breathing.
* * *
Landing in Brazil for a soccer ministry felt like stepping into a living highlight reel. This was hallowed ground, where superstars Pelé, Ronaldo, Neymar, and Kaká had first learned to dance with a ball at their feet. The experience might have approached perfection if not for their lodging situation—though given their shoestring budget, luxury wasn’t in the playbook.
After enduring a marathon of layovers that left them bleary-eyed and stiff-jointed, the team finally touched down in Rio. Their accommodation revealed itself as the second floor of a weather-worn stone church. Amenities proved sparse: no air conditioning, just the whisper of evening breezes through ancient windows, and a single shower that alternated between arctic and scalding. Yet their spirits remained buoyant, helped along by the building’s quirky charm and an unexpected alarm clock: a passionate rooster with questionable timing.
Pete’s first encounter with his roommate embodied their surreal adventure. Exhausted from travel, he claimed one of two thin mattresses scattered across the cool concrete floor, his bundled sweatshirt serving as an impromptu pillow. Just as sleep began to blur reality’s edges, Josh appeared—a towering redhead and team leader whom Pete had never met. Their introduction stuck to travel-weary basics: a subtle nod and a mumbled “sup,” before both collapsed onto their respective mattresses.
The silence stretched until Josh suggested they pray over their upcoming journey. Pete, hovering in that space between wakefulness and dreams, offered to lead. As his “amen” dissipated into the humid air, he felt quietly satisfied with his words. Then Josh broke the stillness with an unexpected groan, followed by something even more unusual: “All I can see right now is a little girl wearing a pink outfit with yellow flowers.”
Pete lay there, stifling laughter, uncertain whether his new roommate was experiencing jet-lag hallucinations or testing Pete’s reaction. The statement hung in the air like the church’s lingering incense until Pete feigned fatigue and called it a night. Still, Josh’s strange vision echoed in his thoughts.
Morning arrived with renewed purpose as both men tackled their first real day in Rio. After a breakfast of strong coffee and fresh bread, they headed to a nearby park for their inaugural scrimmage against Brazilian teenagers. The match proved humbling; the young Brazilians moved with liquid grace, their synchronized play making the Americans look like they were reading an instruction manual. They celebrated each goal with infectious joy. While Portuguese remained a mystery, the universal language of soccer and good-natured trash talk bridged the language gap.
Twenty minutes in, Pete subbed off the field and joined Josh on the sideline. Taking a long pull from his Gatorade bottle, Pete noticed his roommate frozen in place, transfixed by something in the distance. Following Josh’s gaze toward the packed wooden bleachers, Pete spotted her—a young girl, maybe four years old, wearing a bright pink sweatshirt. Her smile seemed to catch and reflect the morning sunlight. As if orchestrated, she threw her arms skyward, scattering dandelions that had dotted the field’s surface, their yellow petals dancing in the gentle breeze. A girl in pink with yellow flowers ... exactly as Josh had described.
The two men shared a wordless moment of wonder, letting the strange beauty of the “coincidence” settle over them. The rest of their day took on a different quality, each moment charged with possibility and anticipation.
That evening, as the counselors gathered in a circle on the church’s worn wooden floor to share their experiences, Josh prepared to recount his story. Before he could begin, Mandy, the women’s team captain, stood up. She described speaking with the local girls’ team after their own game, sharing her testimony through a translator’s careful words. One of the Brazilian players was so moved that she stepped forward, quietly accepting Christ right there on the soccer field. They couldn’t have asked for a better start to their journey.
Later that evening, Josh found Mandy and praised her story. When he asked what the girl looked like, Mandy described her simply. She was still in uniform, cleats caked with red Brazilian clay, but she had one very memorable detail: wrapped around her waist was a bright pink sweatshirt, adorned with yellow flowers.
* * *
“Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven” (Matt. 18:4).
When Pete shared this story with me, he emphasized that the girl in the bleachers and the player who accepted Christ weren’t the same person. But that detail didn’t diminish the moment; it amplified it. I asked what he thought the whole experience in Brazil was trying to teach him. He didn’t hesitate: “God was showing me that he’s present even in the ordinary moments, that there are miracles in the mundane if we pay attention.”
His answer stuck with me long after that conversation. We often expect divine intervention to arrive with special effects: oceans parting, mountains trembling, or voices booming from the clouds. Instead, Pete’s story hinged on a little girl tossing dandelions at a soccer game. No thunder, no lightning, just quiet moments that clicked together like puzzle pieces.
What strikes me most is how children keep appearing at the heart of these stories. There’s Buck behind the dugout, the talented Brazilian teenagers, and the girl in the pink sweater. The Bible talks about “childlike faith,” a phrase I never quite understood until recently. These kids weren’t just being carefree; they were showing us something essential. They celebrated freely, spoke honestly, and approached each moment with genuine openness. They weren’t trying to be profound or accomplish some ulterior motive; they just were.
Maybe that’s what Jesus meant in Matthew 18:4. Heavenly greatness isn’t about grand gestures or careful calculations. It’s about approaching life with the same unguarded authenticity these children showed us, whether they’re spelling their name in urine or scattering dandelions across a Brazilian soccer field.
[1] Laurent Dubois, "Why Soccer Is the Most Universal Language on the Planet," Literary Hub, June 20, 2018, lithub.com/soccer-the-most-universal-language-on-the-planet.
