Every Tuesday evening I stare into the face of a little girl I knew almost a year before I met her.

I began to know her in a pew in an urban Pittsburgh church during my final semester of college. She came to me in one of those God-filled mental miles when all of my future seemed to explode with purpose. From then on, I decided that whatever I would do for a career, wherever I would live, and whomever I would marry, I would give a part of myself to a little girl who needed a big sister, a friend, a guide.

Six months, a move across the country, and a new job later, I learned her name: Danielle, age 8. I had found a program for at-risk children in northeast DC, and signed up to tutor a child once a week in reading and math.

I thought she fit the bill. A child from a somewhat neglectful family, intelligent, excited to learn.

Together, we laid the ground rules: 1) We won’t be late to tutoring, 2) We won’t chew gum, 3) We will always be considerate of each other.

Then, we did phonics. We practiced multiplication tables. We read stories. I was a good tutor, and she was a good student.

And then one day, we switched roles.

“Don’t you ever give money to homeless people?” she pried.

 “What?”

All I had done was refuse a woman who had pounded on my car door while I was driving Danielle home. And now she was accusing me of insensitivity to the poor.

But it made me think. And then it made me shop. I went online and purchased a packet of gift certificates for McDonald’s. And, then I looked, and saw, and gave. And then it was Danielle’s turn

As we were finishing up a Tuesday lesson, I pulled out a slip of gift cards and handed her a pack of five. Now it was her turn.

I’ll never forget the look on her face the next Tuesday.

“I did it!” she exclaimed.

She told me that she had seen a somewhat bedraggled woman outside of the McDonald’s near her house. She thought for a moment, then went back and gave the woman one of the coupons.

As she told me, she blushed that look you get when you do something scary then turn around to realize it’s what you were created to do. And then the blush became mine. She was beginning to teach me that when she was doing what she was created to do I was doing what I was created to do.

Since then, Danielle has walked me through many more lessons. She has taught me that 10-year-olds don’t always say ‘thank you’ even when they’re the most grateful. She never hesitates to put my externals in their place—when a hair is out of place, or my shoes look silly, or that zit is just too prominent on my face. She has taught me that children can—and do—let you down.

But she has also made me realize that there are very few things more eternal than Tuesday nights.

I always give her the chance to pray before our lessons. Some days she does it. Some days she lets me. The other day, she closed: “And, dear God, I pray that I would know Miss Zoe my whole life…”

Maybe someday I’ll take her to that pew in Pittsburgh.