Yesterday, I was reminded just how fragile our lives can be.

I had travelled to visit Go Guatemala, an inspirational project working with around one hundred at-risk children and young people in the largest and most dangerous zones of Guatemala City - the notorious Zone 18.

To many people, Zone 18 is known for gangs, extortion and violence. Earlier this year, soldiers patrolled its streets after a wave of attacks that left police officers dead and schools closed.

But that is not what I saw.

I saw children painting pictures. I saw football shirts and school books. I heard laughter and the inevitable squabbles over games. I watched boys and girls doing exactly what children should be doing: enjoying themselves as they played together in a safe place.

As Herbert and I drove through Zone 18, I explained that Street Kids Direct has partnered with Go Guatemala for the past thirteen years. During the first five years, I volunteered every Saturday, running sports activities for the children.

Herbert has worked alongside me since 1993 and has helped develop systems that support our vision of reaching every street-living child in the world.

When we arrived, we were greeted by an incredible team of ladies and girls preparing a hot breakfast for the children. Inside one of the classrooms, Alex was in his element, speaking with humour and passion to a group of young people about the dangers of pornography.

Later, we sat together on a worn wooden bench outside the classroom. We wanted to hear how the project was growing, the victories and the challenges, and how Alex, his wife Evelyn, and their three children were coping.

Alex admitted that he does not sleep well.

The constant struggle to raise funds for the programme weighs heavily upon him. He and his wife, Evelyn, have given themselves wholeheartedly to this work, bringing hope to one of the city's most vulnerable communities.

As Herbert listened, he was beginning to understand just how fragile life can be for Alex and the young people he serves.

One of the things that impressed me most was Alex's commitment to visiting families in the community. He regularly walks the streets delivering food parcels, water filters and practical support. Depending on what donations arrive each week, some families also receive fresh fruit and vegetables.

Most families survive on just a few large containers of water each week, making clean drinking water a precious commodity.

As I watched the children playing all around us, I could not help but think how fragile their lives are.

The difference between a child flourishing and a child joining a gang can sometimes be frighteningly small. A loving family, a safe place to play, a mentor who believes in them, an education, a meal, or simply someone who knows their name can alter the direction of a life.

We often imagine that great changes come through grand gestures, but I have learned that they are more often found in small acts of faithfulness, repeated day after day.

Then Alex told us about last week.

He had been driving through Zone 18 delivering water containers when four youths on motorbikes began following him.

When he reached another of the area's many slums, they pulled up alongside him.

The teenagers drew their guns.

"What are you doing here?"

"How much do you pay the gang each time you come through?"

Being threatened at gunpoint is simply another part of working in Zone 18, something Alex has learned to live with over the seventeen years he has led Go Guatemala.

Alex explained that, many years ago, he could easily have been one of those young men.

His uncles were gang leaders. He grew up watching them control their territory at gunpoint. It would have been easy for him to join them and, because of his family connections, he would almost certainly have quickly risen through the ranks.

"It was God who changed all that for me," Alex said quietly.

He spoke about the violence and hardship of his childhood and how he believes God rescued him from gang life so that he could return to rescue others.

Alex explained to the young men that he was delivering donated water and could not afford to pay a gang tax every time he entered the community.

Eventually, after threatening to kill him if he ever returned, they let him leave.

The cost of that encounter was more than Alex's own safety.

He had to make the heartbreaking decision not to return to that community for the time being, meaning that the very families he was trying to help would no longer receive water and support.

Back at Go Guatemala, another surprise awaited him. A boy was waiting outside the centre with a cheap mobile phone.

Children are often used by gangs as messengers and runners. Alex immediately knew what it was.

The gang wanted him to keep the phone so they could contact him and demand a monthly payment to keep the centre operating.

Fortunately, one of the older young people from the project saw what was happening. Knowing that his own uncle held influence within another gang, he chased after the boy and returned the phone.

Alex was spared another threat.

As I sat opposite Alex and looked into his eyes, I could see that life had dealt him a difficult and painful hand. He was close to tears. But I could also see something else - resolve. A quiet determination to keep going, to keep serving, and to keep believing that the children of Zone 18 deserve a different future.

As Herbert and I drove away through the labyrinth of alleyways and roads that lead back into the heart of Guatemala City, we sat in thoughtful silence.

The children of Zone 18 reminded me that fragility and hope often live side by side.

But so did Alex. His life is fragile. The lives of the children are fragile. Our lives are fragile.

The Bible reminds us that our lives are "a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes" (James 4:14).

Perhaps that is why we should treasure every opportunity to love, encourage and protect those around us.

Yesterday, in one of the most misunderstood parts of Guatemala City, I was reminded that the strongest communities are not built by wealth or power.

They are built by ordinary people who refuse to give up on children.

And perhaps that is where hope is found.

Violence against women and girls in Guatemala is not simply a women’s issue. It is a human rights crisis, and a reflection of deep social inequalities that continue to scar one of Latin America’s most beautiful yet troubled nations.

I have been deeply burdened since returning to Guatemala this week by the way so many women and girls have their lives destroyed by violence.

As one of the mentoring centres organised an event to celebrate Mother’s Day this week, many girls were finding ways to hide the painful realities of the world they live in.

What brought this all to mind was a trip I made to Boots, the chemist in Amersham, on Monday. I needed to buy vitamins for one of the grandmothers we support, and while I was there, I picked up some protective skin cream. I was overwhelmed by the range of products and only needed a simple cream with a high UV filter.

It was then that I noticed a lady wearing a headscarf carefully checking the information on the boxes. She selected a cream designed to help heal damaged skin, and when she turned towards me, I could clearly see she had a large black eye. She quickly pulled the scarf across the side of her face and quietly made her way to the till.

I wished I could have spoken to her and hoped that perhaps a member of staff might notice and offer some support or advice.

She shuffled her way out of the shop, once again covering one side of her face with the scarf, her head hanging low on her shoulders.

That image stayed with me, and I could not stop thinking about the life she was forced to return to.

Yesterday, I spent time with some of the children in the mentoring programme at La Terminal in Guatemala City.

The squeals of joy, the excitement of being with their friends and the SKDGuatemala team, (intro photo) and the sight of bags of chocolate in my hands made for the perfect welcome back after three months in the UK.

Yet behind the laughter and excitement were deeper struggles.

Two of the girls in the programme may need to be taken into protective care because of violence at home.

The girls' smiles, joy, and natural, playful spirit often hide the reality of their lives when they are away from the safety of the mentoring centre.

One day, one of the girls arrived at the centre with a huge black eye. Throughout the afternoon, she kept one hand covering the side of her face. She was withdrawn and struggled to smile as her friends greeted her.

What struck me most was that not one child asked her what had happened.

There was a silent acknowledgement that her pain was also their pain. The gentle touches on her shoulder and the quiet stroking of her hair by some of the other girls communicated something words could not — they understood, and they cared.

For many girls growing up in Guatemala, violence is not something distant or occasional; it is woven into daily life.

The numbers are both shocking and heartbreaking.

Almost half of Guatemalan women (48.8%) report having experienced some form of violence during their lifetime, while more than one in three women (34.5%) have suffered sexual violence.

Guatemala also continues to record one of the highest rates of femicide in Latin America. In 2022 alone, more than 530 women were killed in acts classified as femicide.

Girls are especially vulnerable. Between 2018 and 2024, nearly 14,700 girls aged 14 and under gave birth in Guatemala, often following sexual abuse or rape. Many crimes are never reported, and countless women continue living alongside those who abuse them.

For those of us working directly with vulnerable children and families in Guatemala, these statistics are not abstract. They have names, faces, and stories.

We meet girls who have stopped attending school because they fear harassment or assault. We support mothers carrying the trauma of domestic violence while desperately trying to protect their children from the same and from the pull of the streets. We hear stories that no child should ever have to tell.

But lasting change requires more than outrage.

It requires investment in prevention, education, justice, and community transformation. It requires men and boys to become part of the solution. And it requires the world not to look away.

Thanks to your support, we are able to play our small part in bringing hope, protection, and safety to some of the most vulnerable children and families.

The last three months of travelling around the UK have taught me one important thing: despite the economic struggles many people face, there remains a deep desire to help make a difference.

Thank you for standing with us as we stand with those who need a champion, those who need protection, and those who simply need a safe place amid their chaotic and often violent lives.

Cobán is tucked into the green highlands of Alta Verapaz and feels a world away from the noise of Guatemala City. The air is cooler here, the clouds hang low, and the streets move at a gentler pace. The surrounding hills remind me of Germany and Switzerland, and their likeness to Europe was one of the reasons many Germans settled here in the late 19th Century, establishing businesses and creating an intriguing fusion of Guatemalan and German culture.

But as is so often the case, the serenity of this city, cradled in misty mountains, does not tell the whole story.

This past week, I came to Cobán to continue the mapping of street-living and street-connected children, work that requires time, listening, and presence. Unlike larger cities, the vulnerability here is quieter and more dispersed. Children are less visible, less obvious, and often woven into informal work, family breakdown, migration routes, and hidden urban poverty. You don’t “find” them by accident. You have to walk, observe, talk, and earn trust.

Mapping isn’t about numbers alone. It’s about understanding where children gather, why they are there, and what risks surround them. It’s about noticing the boy who drifts around the market all day but never seems to go home; the girl selling small items on the pavement long after school hours; the group of young people who sleep somewhere nearby but remain invisible during the day.

Cobán once again reminded me why this work matters so deeply. Because even in places wrapped in beauty, children can grow up believing that hope isn’t meant for them. And yet, with the right intervention at the right time, even the smallest glimmer can become a turning point.

This week was about listening to the city and to children whose stories are so easily missed. It was an intense and exciting time of wandering the city centre, meeting people whose experiences and memories no one had taken the time to truly listen to or record.

My time on the streets is always an initial burst of information overload. I was joined by Sandy, an old friend who worked alongside me on the streets of Guatemala City 12 years ago and who, together with her husband and three children, now lives, works, and ministers in San Juan Chamelco, a small town just 15 minutes from Cobán.

Despite living here for nearly ten years, Sandy was keen to walk the city streets with me, listening to the voices of those who call the streets home and to those whose connection to street life remains strong.

I wasn’t expecting to receive so much insight in such a short period of time. We listened to Andrés, a 65-year-old man who has been cleaning shoes in the city park for 52 years. His experience was invaluable, offering a window into the past that confirmed many of my observations about street-living children.

In the early 1990s, the number of street-living children in Guatemala rose to an estimated 5,000 (Casa Alianza and the BBC), with the majority surviving on the streets of Guatemala City. Sitting on the low, crumbling concrete wall where his customers rest while Andrés polishes their shoes, he told us about the 30 to 50 street-living children once present in Cobán, and how those numbers gradually reduced through the intervention of local charities, churches, and the development of state institutions that began offering children alternatives to life on the streets.

His memories were later confirmed and expanded through conversations with local police, municipal authorities, and charity practitioners, including Odethe, who has supported children in the city for more than 30 years.

The situation today is starkly different and helps explain both how and why the number of street-living children here has fallen, now effectively down to zero.

I still have two more major cities to visit in Guatemala before my studies take me to Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua, and Costa Rica. I’m quietly encouraged to see that what has been achieved in Guatemala City has also been realised in Cobán, something I also witnessed earlier this year in Belize.

Yet as we continued walking and listening, another reality emerged. Conversations with people across the city revealed how urgently the hidden risks facing children must still be confronted.

We met Osman, a 12-year-old boy who, alongside his nine-year-old sister, spends his days wandering the city streets selling sweets. Their small hands clutch a small cardboard tray of sweets, and with them, a constant battle, not just to earn enough, but to resist the hunger that tempts them to eat what they are meant to sell.

Osman embodies what it means to have a strong connection to the streets: too young to carry such responsibility yet already navigating survival with quiet determination. The streets are not just a workplace for him; they are shaping his childhood, his choices, and his future.

Recognising the risks he faces, Sandy and her husband, Josué, have committed to following up with Osman and his family next week, a first step towards ensuring that this moment of encounter becomes the beginning of something safer, more hopeful, and more permanent.

As the mapping progressed, the data told a far darker story than the quiet streets suggest. I discovered that girls as young as nine years old are dying in childbirth, not through accident or illness, but as a direct result of sexual abuse by family members. The prevalence of these cases here is more than twice the national average, exposing a level of harm that remains largely unseen, unspoken, and unchallenged.

These are not anomalies. They are the consequences of silence, stigma, and systems that fail to intervene early enough. When abuse is hidden within families, girls become trapped in cycles of violence with devastating, and sometimes fatal, outcomes.

As we continue to reach the most vulnerable children, we will need more resources, more volunteers, and far more time to listen to those who understand this reality best - the children themselves.

To finish the week, Sandy invited me to visit a small Christian children’s club that she and her husband, Josué, run in a town just outside Cobán. The contrast could not have been more striking.

Around 80 children, aged five to twelve, gathered that morning. Laughter filled the space almost immediately. Games helped break the ice, songs were sung with the kind of enthusiasm only children can muster, and Bible stories were shared in ways that felt joyful, accessible, and alive. For a few hours, their large garage became a place of safety, fun, and belonging.

What stayed with me most was not the programme itself, but what it represented. In a region where so many children experience neglect, abuse, and invisibility, this simple club offered something profoundly powerful: attention, care, and consistent love. Each child was known by name. Each one was welcomed without condition. And each one was fascinated by a tall Englishman who had come to listen and to learn.

It was a reminder that prevention doesn’t always begin with large systems or complex interventions. Sometimes it starts with a safe space, a trusted adult, and a message repeated week after week: every child has value, dignity, and hope. In places where the risks are hidden, and the need is great, moments like these matter more than we often realise.

A single choice can feel insignificant in the moment, a word spoken, a hand held at the opportune time, a door left open rather than closed or a smile in the midst of discontent.

Interestingly, the butterfly effect reminds us that small actions are rarely small in terms of consequence. Just as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings can, in theory, influence the course of a distant storm, the smallest decisions we make can set off chains of events that reshape lives, futures, and maybe even generations.

None of us can fully see where a moment will lead. A decision taken in seconds can echo for years, altering direction, opening possibilities, or restoring hope where it once seemed lost. What appears ordinary can become extraordinary, not because it was dramatic, but because it was intentional.

Change does not always begin with bold gestures or grand plans. More often, it starts quietly: with presence instead of indifference, kindness instead of avoidance, courage instead of silence.

In those moments, the trajectory shifts and outcomes can, and often do, change.

As we begin a new year, many will be making resolutions.  Some want to become fitter, some want to spend less time on social media, read more books, or invest more time in friendships.

Yet it is often the smallest choices that can lead to the most significant change.

I was reminded of this by Allison, a nineteen-year-old mum from Guatemala City, who shared how the little things we did for her when she was young led to much bigger changes she is now enjoying in her life.

Allison grew up surrounded by poverty and violence, learning her earliest and hardest lessons on the city streets.

With her parents in prison, she and her siblings were cared for by their grandmother. Each day, their grandmother watched cars parked on the street, earning a few pennies from owners while they were at work.

Because of Allison’s strong connection to street life, our outreach team began working with her, her brother, and her sister. All three were invited into the mentoring centre, where we explored ways to support their education and, most importantly, keep them off the streets and out of danger.

Allison became close friends with Moses, a boy I have mentored since he was six. She also formed strong friendships with Danilo and his brother David. I often watched them play together, laughing, winding each other up, protecting one another, and instinctively recognising how to respond when one arrived in tears or covered in bruises.

Just before Christmas, Allison came to the Centro Opp mentoring centre with her baby. We had received a donation of supplies for her and her child, and I took time to sit with her and hear how she was doing.

She was keen to step into the Radio Christmas studio for a short interview and spoke passionately about the support she had received over the years. She reflected on how the small things we did, consistently and patiently over time, led to the much bigger change she is now living.

Her life and her siblings' lives have been profoundly changed.

Two years ago, she recorded a short video about the changes in her life for Radio Christmas.

Today, Allison is excited about her future as a mum. She is part of a Christian church that supports her, her husband, and their daughter, and she speaks with a hope I struggled to see in her eyes as a child.

Listening to Allison filled me with gratitude as she recalled the details we often forget: being woken every school morning, helped to get dressed and into class; having food and resources when there was none at home; support when her mother was released from prison; standing beside the family when her brother was shot at a funeral; and being present again when her grandmother died.

There was much to be thankful for.

Yet last week, I found myself staring at a photo of Allison and me, reminding myself that not every story ends the same way. Sometimes, the young people we rescue from the streets must still make their own difficult commitments to change, and not all of them survive long enough to do so.

I needed that reminder as I drove back from the countryside, having just buried David.

David was gunned down in the street this past week. He was not involved in a gang and was doing nothing more than visiting his girlfriend and daughter, a journey he made daily. He did not expect to be seen as a threat. But he was. He was shot nine times in the back as he walked past the gang.

His funeral was devastating on many levels, not least because it meant burying yet another boy we had helped off the rubbish dump, a child we had supported into school, walked alongside through mentoring, and offered countless opportunities to change the direction of his life.

David did not make one catastrophic mistake. It was the accumulation of small decisions, each one seeming survivable at the time, that led him onto a path he felt he could no longer turn back from.

After yet another funeral, I retreated into the darkness of my apartment and asked myself how long I could keep going. After thirty-three years of death, violence, death threats, and the most appalling abuse of children, it is impossible not to be affected.

What I do know is this: I need to pause. To make small, intentional decisions of my own. Decisions I hope will create a greater impact in the lives of many more street-living children in the years to come.

The butterfly effect teaches us this: impact is not measured by size, but by significance. And sometimes, the smallest decision is the one that changes everything.

Maybe now it’s time for me to take that next small step forward.