Even the sparrow has found a home, a place near your altar.
Psalm 84:3
I have stood in this place before, this place of deep injustice.
Children and injustice.
It looked different, yet it felt exactly the same.
Like the leftover spin from the merry-go-round, leaving you off kilter.
Like the leftover spin from the merry-go-round, leaving you off kilter.
We sat in the meeting called on our behalf.
The words coming from the man who sat behind the desk had been chosen to smooth and justify.
Justify why this place was here, why one hundred and eighty-two children lived in this place.
I knew the argument brewing in my head well.
"These children had been charged as criminals."
I had just watched four year old "criminals" who knew lessons taught with fists clenched, swinging with great aim and drawing blood.
There isn't a space for this in my head.
Was there a need for conflict resolution for three year olds?
criminal |ˈkrɪmɪn(ə)l|
I knew the argument brewing in my head well.
"These children had been charged as criminals."
I had just watched four year old "criminals" who knew lessons taught with fists clenched, swinging with great aim and drawing blood.
There isn't a space for this in my head.
Was there a need for conflict resolution for three year olds?
criminal |ˈkrɪmɪn(ə)l|
His empty, hollow words with no weight floated, hung in the air.
I doubted he believed them.
I thought he must have carried small lined note cards around in his pocket to memorize the words that floated out the windows with bars and no screens.
Cards to remind him in case he forgot what to say when the things he must see every day jar the truth.
The truth seemed to be tipping on it's axis so that it wobbled out of control like a top spinning, tipping from side to side or plates falling to the ground off their axis.
He had learned to walk the tight rope well.
I doubted he believed them.
I thought he must have carried small lined note cards around in his pocket to memorize the words that floated out the windows with bars and no screens.
Cards to remind him in case he forgot what to say when the things he must see every day jar the truth.
The truth seemed to be tipping on it's axis so that it wobbled out of control like a top spinning, tipping from side to side or plates falling to the ground off their axis.
He had learned to walk the tight rope well.
He said things like, we don't want farming to be a punishment and we pride ourselves on hygiene.
Had he not just walked into this place?
I wondered if he was talking about here and now.
When he finished and had tucked away the imaginary note cards, he dared to ask if there were any questions, fool.
fool 1 |fuːl|
I raised my hand.
Just as I thought, he was at a loss for words.
No cards.
No answers.
Was he a fool, a puppet or just a man doing a job with his hands tied.
Maybe he felt the spinning, the wobble and heard the crashing plates.
Maybe.
No matter, the truth was speaking very loudly, yelling actually.
We had been dismissed and given permission to walk the property.
A tour.
I have done the "Long Walk to Freedom" on Robben Island, this left the same car sick, head pounding, need for fresh air feeling in my stomach.
However, this was about children and injustice not grown-ups.
It would soon be lunch time, a massive bell would ring as the children gathered in the court yard.
A foaming white watery mess of flour and water was served from a huge pot into colourful plastic bowls.
I watched as one of the few older girls flip her bowl on the ground in disgust and walk away.
Good thing farming wasn't a punishment(or a privilege)flour and water seemed to me to be punishment enough.
I needed to stop.
Stop throwing spears and daggers.
That is what my heart does when it is broken, hurls words at people.
Words that become weapons.
I would sit in silence, watch the children and collect myself.
As I sat, I was thinking about anything and everything all at the same time. There was no more room in my head for this place or the places I have been in other parts of the earth.
Haiti, Cambodia, India and Thailand.
Children and injustice.
As I looked out the window with bars and no screen a tiny bird sat alone. Honestly, it felt like the bird had the better deal and I wished I could join him. I had seen enough on my tour.
As my mind wandered aimlessly looking for the map out of this place I could hear the Lord say,
"They are worth more than many sparrows. I know them by name and I have numbered the hairs on their head."
hope |həʊp|
I don't have any answers.
Just a warehouse full of unanswered questions in my head that I carry with me waiting for the day I will have an answer.
Understanding this may take a life time.
Here is what I do know.
The earth is full of people looking, with me, to bring hope to these children.
We don't have note cards with answers or quick fixes.
We are not willing to do these things the old way, we are looking for new wine skins and new wine, convinced that the old ways aren't working any longer.
They too, are willing to spend their lives believing and hoping.
Won't you join us.
I wondered if he was talking about here and now.
When he finished and had tucked away the imaginary note cards, he dared to ask if there were any questions, fool.
fool 1 |fuːl|
I raised my hand.
Just as I thought, he was at a loss for words.
No cards.
No answers.
Was he a fool, a puppet or just a man doing a job with his hands tied.
Maybe he felt the spinning, the wobble and heard the crashing plates.
Maybe.
No matter, the truth was speaking very loudly, yelling actually.
We had been dismissed and given permission to walk the property.
A tour.
I have done the "Long Walk to Freedom" on Robben Island, this left the same car sick, head pounding, need for fresh air feeling in my stomach.
However, this was about children and injustice not grown-ups.
It would soon be lunch time, a massive bell would ring as the children gathered in the court yard.
A foaming white watery mess of flour and water was served from a huge pot into colourful plastic bowls.
I watched as one of the few older girls flip her bowl on the ground in disgust and walk away.
Good thing farming wasn't a punishment(or a privilege)flour and water seemed to me to be punishment enough.
I needed to stop.
Stop throwing spears and daggers.
That is what my heart does when it is broken, hurls words at people.
Words that become weapons.
I would sit in silence, watch the children and collect myself.
As I sat, I was thinking about anything and everything all at the same time. There was no more room in my head for this place or the places I have been in other parts of the earth.
Haiti, Cambodia, India and Thailand.
Children and injustice.
As I looked out the window with bars and no screen a tiny bird sat alone. Honestly, it felt like the bird had the better deal and I wished I could join him. I had seen enough on my tour.
As my mind wandered aimlessly looking for the map out of this place I could hear the Lord say,
"They are worth more than many sparrows. I know them by name and I have numbered the hairs on their head."
hope |həʊp|
I don't have any answers.
Just a warehouse full of unanswered questions in my head that I carry with me waiting for the day I will have an answer.
Understanding this may take a life time.
Here is what I do know.
The earth is full of people looking, with me, to bring hope to these children.
We don't have note cards with answers or quick fixes.
We are not willing to do these things the old way, we are looking for new wine skins and new wine, convinced that the old ways aren't working any longer.
They too, are willing to spend their lives believing and hoping.
Won't you join us.
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