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“Okay guys. Yes, I guess I’ll play,” I tell a group of four boys. For the fifth week in a row, the skies outside are open, and rain pelts the sides of the windows. The chaos outside the Boys and Girls Club mirrors that on the inside. The rain runs down the streets of the city, and children run through the hallways of the club. Loud games of ping pong, foosball, and pool don’t disturb our quiet corner where we play “King’s Castle.” We compete against each other as we construct and attack each other’s castles.
Growing up in a household of brothers, I cannot contain my competitive spirit, and soon we are reveling in sneak attacks on each other’s castles. We conspire and betray each other (within the rules of the game, of course), but as one player is plotting his next move, I see a young boy travel to our corner of the room. I notice that his eyeglasses are bent and askew. His shirt hangs out the sides of his waistline, and he puts his head in his hands—the universal “little kid” sign that silently announces “I’m upset, and I don’t want to talk about it.” The other boys look to me for guidance, and on cue, I reach for my next card and then decide to attack the fortress walls of my opponent’s two castles. I know that this seven-year-old will lift his head when he is ready. His name is Josua, and I know he is thinking and silently deciphering his emotions. Soon I see two eyes peak through his crossed arms. His curiosity has overtaken whatever catastrophe previously befell him. Much to my surprise, after a few minutes, I hear whimpers, soft at first and then loud enough to disrupt the game. Now, I find myself with mixed emotions and reactions. How do I respond? Do I continue playing? Do I ask him what’s wrong and potentially embarrass him in front of the other boys? I bite the bullet and invite him to share his problem with the group. Josua explains that a boy his age had reached for the pool cue with which he was playing. They grappled with each other, and promptly landed themselves in the director’s office. As evidenced by his glasses, his seven-year-old tough guy attitude had its limitations. Knowing the resilience of seven-year-olds, I invite Josua to play the castle game while I attempt to fix his twisted glasses. I leave the club that day thinking that Josua will not remember me tomorrow, but to my surprise, at nine o’clock the next morning, I feel a tug on my shorts. “Will you be my friend and play ‘real’ basketball with me?” I look down to see Josua. He barely reaches my waste, and I soon understand that “real basketball” consists of me playing one-on-one with a seven-year-old who needs to have a running start and then sling the ball over his back like a catapult to have even a hope of reaching the backboard on the “big boy’s basket.” For the next hour, we play basketball. I try teaching him layups and free-throws, but I can’t stop laughing as he runs circles around me. As I watch him, I think about childhood innocence and freedom, and I think of Jesus’ message to “be like the children” because it is through children’s eyes that we find simple happiness. Through children’s eyes, I become a friend by asking a question, fixing a set of eyeglasses, or playing “real basketball” on another wet, rainy day. By interacting with children, I rediscover the beauty of the simplicity. The experience humbles me because I realize that like a young child I have so much more to learn about life and about the relationships I build with those around me. |
