During my service with CorpsAfrica in Rwanda, I’ve come to learn that impact often hides in the simplest exchanges, like a smile. Not all smiles come easily. Some bloom instantly, bright, open, and ready to meet you halfway. Others take time, unfolding slowly like morning light, revealing stories hidden beneath the surface. A smile can be resistance. It can be forgiveness. It can be hope disguised as a small, tired gesture at the end of a long day.

I’ve met children whose laughter carries through the hills, youths with restless dreams, adults balancing hope and exhaustion, and elders whose wrinkles map decades of resilience. Yet all of them, somehow, have smiled at me. And I have smiled back. We speak one language here, not Kinyarwanda or English or French, but the quiet understanding that passes between people when words fall short, a language of presence, of shared work, of small gestures that mean I see you, I’m trying.

We’ve toiled together under the sun and in the rain, mixing mud and carrying water. They’ve teased me for my persistence, even told me I should rest instead of showing up every day. Sometimes they’ve disliked my consistency, my intrusion into their rhythm, really. But that too is part of the connection, learning that meaningful service is not always welcomed, and love is not always soft.

Their smiles, though, even the reluctant ones, tell me much more. They remind me that development isn’t built in reports or slogans, but in these imperfect, human exchanges. Real change happens quietly, in moments of trust, patience, and presence.

My people’s smiles hold everything. They hold the struggle, the history, and the faith that tomorrow might be just a little better. They remind me why I’m here, not to change them, but to walk with them. To listen. To share in the loud conversations, the silence, and the laughter.

Sometimes, they notice my smile too. They tease me about how often I wear it, saying it’s too constant. They laugh when I use it to soften moments that could have turned heavy. But still, they understand what I mean by it, that I’m here, that I care, that even when I don’t have the right words, I’m choosing kindness. My smile, imperfect as it is, tells them that they matter, that being seen and valued is its own kind of comfort.

And if I’m lucky, I’ll get to leave behind not a monument, but a memory that transcends time.