“I don't remember who said this, but there really are places in the heart you don't even know exist until you love a child."
(Anne Lamott)
They hold up normal rocks and see
treasures that only they could have discovered with their plastic
shovels. “Can I take it home Miss Myra? Can I? It’s for my Mom.”
They share everything they have, down to germs and offenses.
They share everything they have, down to germs and offenses.
The playground is filled with pits and
ridges, booby-traps and clicks of 3-year-olds who decided not to let
the last kid standing play. Even at so young an age they create their
worlds and build their barricades. But simple words and smiles knock
down the gates all too often.
“He drew a circle that shut me out –
heretic, rebel, a thing to flout. But love and I had the wit to win;
we drew a circle and took him in!” (Markham) And they do, when
reasoned with just a little, they budge and they widen their circles.
Little socialites selling dropped feathers and friendship between the
monkey bars, not realizing that they are cultivating kindness and growing generosity.
Anyone who works with young children
knows that it takes an energy that doesn’t seem fair at times.
There is more coffee than water and cotton than silk. Our clothes take a beating and heels don't go to work. But the
fairness of tying a shoe for the 10th time in an afternoon
isn’t mine to judge. I tie the shoe because there are little hands
which can’t do it on their own, and I know that if I leave the job
unfinished I am teaching them that my time is more precious than
their safety. My heart is more important than their pleas and my
energy more valuable than their need to burn theirs.
How can you
look in disgust at one who cannot serve themselves?
They curl up on their cots in the
afternoons, scattered through the classroom, the curtains drawn and
the toys put up. All snuggled up in their blankets they fade away for
a few hours of sweet rest, hugging the animals they’ve loved since
birth and sucking their thumbs. But sometimes the afternoons aren’t
peaceful and the rests aren’t welcome. Sometimes their parents are
forgetful, and sometimes the grace we give to the moms who forgot to
pack a blanket isn’t offered by their children.
I saw God last week in my classroom.
He was sitting next to a screaming
3-year-old. Tear-streaked and red, that tiny body fought with every
bit of energy she had left. She was the only one without her blanket
and she didn't understand that naps can still happen without a cover. The
wailing and frantic tantrums brought us into a quiet, empty classroom while the other children rolled around, unable to sleep with her screams across the hall. I
took her tiny hand in mine and led her to an empty chair.
The minutes ticked by as I reminded
her to take deep breaths. We sat in the fall sunshine illuminating the colorful surroundings and attempted to calm down, but with each deep breath the
anger grew. It was controlling and mind-altering, Reason was not an option. And as she began kicking my shins in defiance, she began to
kick at a hard part of my heart.
It was bolted up and tense, and Satan
was whispering that my rope had no more knots left. My hands were
slipping down as her little anger grew. But in that flickering
afternoon light, I looked into her wide, terror-filled eyes and
recognized myself. Behind the sweaty hair and snot running down to
her mouth, I was in that pint-sized plastic chair, and God was in
mine.
We are angry preschoolers.
I am the screaming child who doesn’t
see the answers and desires no consolation, and my Heavenly Father
sits there and reminds me to take deep breaths. When He could walk
away, when He is justified to leave me alone to my complaining, He
chooses to stay. And when the tantrum is done, He lets me sit at His
feet once again.
“He will tend his
flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms; he will
carry them in his bosom, and gently lead those that are with young.”
(Isaiah 40:11)
Yet I do.
Grace,
Myra Elizabeth
