I ran into Fredy the other day.
We hadn’t seen each other in almost seven years.
What a thrill it was when he stepped off his motorcycle and pulled off his helmet. It took me a moment to recognize the young man before me. He looked at me for half a second, then rushed forward.
“Miss Natalie, is that you?”
The last time I saw him, he was one of my students. Bright-eyed. Eager. Full of hope.
Now he was no longer a boy, but a 22-year-old man. Still eager. Working hard. Still carrying his bright smile.
“Fredy,” I beamed, joy warming my chest at seeing one of my former students doing so well. “Look at you!”
He blushed. “I’ve been working hard.”
I motioned to the motocycle with a grin. “I can tell.”
We sat down on the concrete steps of the village church and fell into a cheerful conversation, remembering the good old days. The classroom, the jokes, the ordinary moments that didn’t feel important at the time and now were as valuable as gold.
The warm breeze rustled the pine trees above us. In front of us, kids ran across the dirt soccer field, kicking up dust, their laughter and shouts of glee rising into the clear sky.
I pulled out my phone and started showing Fredy pictures. He scrolled through them, and we laughed, pointing out his classmates, asking how everyone was doing.
Then he froze.
His finger hovered over the screen.
“That’s Victor,” his whisper came choked. He looked at me, eyes wide. “The boy who lost his fingers.”
I glanced at the picture. There was Victor, leading a Bible study
“Oh yeah,” I said with a grin. “He’s one of my good friends now.”
The light in Fredy’s eyes dimmed. The color drained from his face.
I could see that the past seven years hadn’t been easy. There was something heavy there. The haunted look of regret.
“I’ve always thought about him,” Fredy murmured. “But I haven’t seen him since the accident.”
“You were there?” I asked.
Victor never spoke much about his accident, and certainly never mentioned one of my former students being present.
Fredy nodded slowly. Tears welled in the eyes that had only moments before had shone with pride and achievement. “It was all my fault.”
The words came out strained, like they had been held back for years.
He sucked in a choked breath. “I was working in the carpenter shop. He was my assistant. I told him he could use the table saw. He was so young…”
“He was only 14,” I said softly. “You couldn’t have been much older.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, shaking his head. “I was in charge. I was supposed to train him.”
I waited.
A truck rattled up the mountain road in front of us, its bed stacked high with firewood. Fredy’s gaze followed it until it disappeared around the curve.
“I turned my back for just a moment.” Fredy’s head slumped forward, my phone hanging loose in his grasp. “And then I heard him scream.”
He swallowed hard. “I saw his fingers on the ground.”
For a second, neither of us said anything. The laughter from the soccer field carried faintly in the distance, but it felt far away now.
Fredy shook his head and his face twisted as he remembered. “Victor didn’t even cry. He was just yelling from the pain. I grabbed his fingers, wrapped them in a rag, and gave them to him. Then I ran to get the boss.”
He stared down at the picture again. “I’ve always felt guilty. I should have never turned my back.”
I pulled the phone from his grasp. He glanced up but couldn’t quite meet my eyes.
“You can’t blame yourself,” I said gently. “It wasn’t your fault.” I paused, then added, “God used it.”
Freddy shook his head. “Used that?”
I nodded. “After the accident, Victor came to Christ. His life changed. Now he loves the Lord, and he’s leading Bible studies.”
The wind picked up, moving through the trees above us. Fredy shifted, turning his helmet in his hands.
“God uses even the hardest things to draw us to Himself,” I said.
Fredy looked up. The pain in his eyes softened, and his easy smile returned. “I’ve actually started going to church this year,” he said. “I decided it was time to take things seriously.”
“That’s good,” I said. “What do you think of it so far?”
“I like the music… and the words in the songs.”
I smiled. “That’s a good place to start. Keep seeking the Lord.”
I turned my gaze to the lush rolling hills, full of green and life, the children’s laughter drifting in the breeze.
“And remember,” I said, looking back at him. “He used what happened to Victor to change his life.”
I held his gaze.
“And He uses everything in our past for good.”
A small pause.
“He’s not finished with your story either.”
Read Victor's Story
This One: The Story of Victor is the true journey of a boy growing up in the rural mountains of Chivoc, Guatemala.
Told by the missionary who walked beside him, through school days, Bible studies, heartbreak, accidents, questions, and victories, this book captures a raw and hopeful picture of how God pursues His children.
