The plight of the schoolteacher is at times overwhelming. In many classrooms a teacher is assigned children on multiple levels of achievement. Because of this, a class size of 22 means any lesson you teach is akin to a three-ring circus. A decade ago, in addition to my regular fourth-grade teaching duties, I had an additional assignment as the gifted and talented specialist, which meant my students were all over the map skill-wise. I was stretched to the limit.

Into this stressful picture came Rigo, a new student who joined my class well into the school year. He was the youngest son of a Mexican immigrant. Rigo lived most of his 12 years in rural Mexico. In the village where he lived there was no running water. His father, who spoke in broken English, told me in the way of an apology that Rigo's small stature was due to the scarcity of food in their village.

Rigo entered my classroom at 12 with no understanding of basic skills because he had been to this point unschooled. In the United States, even our "children of poverty" at fourth-grade level understood basic shapes and had some word recognition. For all practical purposes, Rigo could have moved here from Mars. It was never clear how he had acquired a very small amount of broken English, perhaps from his father.

I was so angry at this placement. How could anyone expect this of me? I had gone to great lengths to become a "gifted specialist." I had no clue what to do with a child like Rigo while meeting my obligations to my other students. For two days I complained wholeheartedly to my colleagues, who agreed with me. During that time I grudgingly gathered coloring sheets, found an old workbook, and did a poor job of keeping Rigo busy.

On the third day, while I was walking back from the lunchroom with my students, the school discipline officer called to me from across the hall, "Your Rigo is in the office. He was throwing rocks at recess." I shrugged it off and went back to my room with 21 children in tow.

A short time into my math lesson, Rigo returned. He stood in the doorway and I looked up. His eyes were welled up with tears. He said only, "Mexico okay." I knew that he was trying to tell me that rocks were toys in his village in Mexico. It was then that I saw a light shining through Rigo's tears. It was born of the pain of being ragged and poor and the shame of being in a world where you didn't seem to have the same instructions as everyone else.

I looked around the room and then back at Rigo. I was indicted and convicted in that one moment.

Christ's words echoed in my ears. "When you do it for the least of My brethren, you do it for Me." I went to Rigo in great humility and touched his shoulder. His face, I now realized, was the face of Christ for me in that moment. I took him into the hallway and we sat on the floor. He put his head on my shoulder as I embraced this small child. His pain burst forth like water through a dam, and he cried heavy tears onto my shirt.

I cried, too.

I was weeping for all the Rigos in the world. But I was mostly weeping for myself and all the Christians to whom Christ comes in a small frame like Rigo's and we hand them our leftover coloring pages, outdated workbooks, and discarded clothes, brushing them aside like an inconvenience.

I took Rigo's face into my hands and promised we would find a way to make his days full and meaningful. And, indeed, God opened doors for the two of us. His time in my class filled up quickly with mentors and Legos and children reading books to him. I first heard him laugh at the computer with another child learning the names of shapes. My heart leapt.

He was with me only three weeks. His family moved, chasing the elusive dream of survival. He left me with a lesson I hope I never forget. This is not the story of a teacher who did something wonderful for a child, but of a child who did something remarkable for a teacher.

Rigo vanished like an angel here for a brief visit. His tiny frame and fragile eyes will always remind me of another child, a small infant born helpless in a stable. The words of that infant repeat in my ears with new and glorious implication: "Love one another."

Julianne Bahlinger lives in Fredericksburg, Texas.

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