For nearly four years now, Amy and I have welcomed neighborhood children to our home each Sunday afternoon for free art classes. It began as a modest gesture of goodwill after settling in our village outside Oaxaca. We simply wanted to share the joy of creativity—our small way of contributing something meaningful to our new community.
Over the years, we celebrated their milestones and mourned their struggles. We laughed, got our hands dirty in paint, baked cookies, told stories. There were difficult moments, too—times when boundaries were tested or our trust was shaken. But we always came back to the table, ready to continue.
This last Sunday, the table remained empty.
Amy prepared everything as she always does, with care and hope. But no one came.
We knew this day might come. The group has gradually dwindled. The children are growing up, moving into adolescence and its distractions. Some families have moved away, others are preoccupied with school, work, or simply life. It is a natural turning of the page.
Still, it is bittersweet. Our Sundays have been marked by the joy of shared creativity, and now, that rhythm has quieted. But we do not feel regret. We feel gratitude. We gave what we could, wholeheartedly. And we received so much in return—smiles, trust, unexpected gifts of warm tortillas, and the quiet reward of seeing imagination flourish in a child’s hands.
Service doesn’t always come with ceremony or closure. Often, it ends not with a farewell, but with an absence. And that’s okay. The door is still open. Should any of the children wander back, they will find the table ready, the paints and brushes available, and our hearts open.
Whatever happens next, this chapter has been a blessing. We carry its memories like colorful alebrijes—imperfect, vibrant, full of spirit—and remain grateful for the chance to have served.