Service Project

Every other Tuesday, our youth volunteer at a Crisis Care Nursery. This is the place where children are brought when they are to be placed into foster care. They have been taken from a dangerous situation and are waiting for placement, either into a new home or back with their parent/s if the situation has been remedied.

Sometimes, a single mother in dire straights will sign over her children for 30 days while she tries to get on her feet and into a safe environment. I cannot begin to image the agony it must be to do this. I pray I will never know.

This last Tuesday, I went in the place of our youth pastor who was ill. I've gone quite a few times, but this time there were more helpers than children so I was able to sit and observe rather than participate.Upon arrival, one would think the children would be shy and hold back. The opposite is true. They often bang on the door separating us as we sign in, impatient for us to come and play.

And that's what we do; we come and we play.

Sadly, some of the children we already know. This means they are still there waiting for placement (or to be returned home), or even sadder, it means they have been placed in a foster home and returned because it didn't work out.

In my observations, I've noticed the hierarchy of the school playground compounded. Each have their roles. Some of them include:

The Sheriff: This is Miss F. She polices the play area for any infractions - these are reported immediately. If justice isn't served in her proper sense of timing, she will go off and sulk. She'll face outward, of course, to make sure she doesn't miss further infractions. If she's excluded from a game she's do whatever she can to ruin the fun of everyone else (grabbing the ball, throwing it at someone with the intention of wounding, etc).

Tom Sawyer: This is Mr. I. He can get the majority of the children to do whatever he asks, even Miss F! He had them pushing him all over the play area in a wagon the entire time we were there, and they were loving every minute of it! Not once did he offer to push anyone else, but they didn't seem to notice or care. (I overheard one of the socials workers ask another, "I need to go inside. Will you watch Mr. I for me?") None of the others seemed to have this careful scrutiny. He seemed so amiable, and yet it was obvious he wasn't trusted to enough to leave to his own devices.

Sister Beth: This is actually a boy, Mr. J. If you've read Little Women then you know the character I describe. Quick to laugh and well-liked, Mr. J was also a little weaker and a little sickly. He would laughingly join in on any game, but one try at the basketball hoop would have him clutching his chest in pain (asthma). All of the other children played with him readily, but they were just as likely to run off without him. Not minding one bit, Mr. J would make contented circles on the razor scooter until they returned.

From different homes and backgrounds, the one common denominator is anger.

These are angry children.

They're mad at their parents, they're mad at each other, and they're extremely mad at their circumstances.

I have never observed children so quick to strike out at teachers, counselors, and each other.

They never asked for this. They are powerless and try to gain power any way they can.

At the Crisis care nursery there are many, many rules to follow. When we're there they are able to have the freedom of play, but they don't have the freedom to be children. No picking up sticks. No jumping off the swings. No exploring behind the bushes. No going into that section of the play area. No. No. No. The workers have no choice in this lawsuit-happy country. Their safety is vital.

However, the children have found one area where just for a little while, for a moment in time, they can have control.

The entire play area is surrounded by a chain-link fence for (of course) their protection. This is where their power comes from.

You see, if one of the children continues to exclude them; if one of the children continues to call them names or exploit their weaknesses; if one of the children continually withholds a favorite toy, they find a way to take control.

As soon as their tormentor relaxes his guard, the child will grab the toy, football, base ball, Spiderman motorcycle, and throw it over the fence.

Gone.

Now no one gets to play with it.

Walking the fence line, one notices the testimony to this. I saw it happen myself on one of my visits. The tormentor, now the victim, wails in utter despair at his loss. The former victim walks away smug, triumphant, unapologetic.

We can't fix them. As two hour volunteers, we're not called to fix them. We've come to play.

We've come to love.

And we do.