Saturday

It was suggested that I write about last Saturday, because that day was filled with far too many emotions; the hopefulness of meeting up with some girls; the dashed hopes of not meeting up with some girls; the gag-reflexes of teenage boys smashing chicks with bats (please keep them in your prayers actually); the insanity of a children’s class where a boy had the gumption to ask me if he could endure the lesson under the table (“You sure can’t!”) Yep, I’m sure that the many emotions might have driven me right up a wall without a bathroom stop a few months ago, but I’m surely used to Saturdays by now. Fortunately it was followed by a lovely evening with Ms. Lynn at her house where I became a couched, punching-bag of uselessness, filled with Rick’s delicious stew, steadily drawing a hand over cardstock and fashioning a wire garden of quotes for our reflections gathering. Lynn was very gracious to allow my brains to melt out of my head onto her floor. She cleaned them up as gracefully as if she were a ballerina janitor. Thanks, Linny!

Sometimes, whether or not you get enough sleep, mornings are the worst. Friday night ended early and leaked into late Saturday morning. I was in a funk that no amount of Arm and Hammer could have de-stenched. But you can’t let funks get you down, especially when you’re about to spend the afternoon with a bunch of kids. Nasim helped me pull myself up by my Birk straps and, miraculously, we made it from the living room sofa to a state of growing excitement.

Until Nasim called our friend who’d forgotten about us.

Funks can quickly return when plans fall through. I’d had big plans to utilize the extra two hours productively but I’d only managed to internet slum my way into another emotional mess. By the way, Facebook, go somewhere.

When finally we arrived in the neighborhood we found our kids playing baseball in the courtyard. There is no amount of coaxing that can help our kids unwind after a baseball game into class-mode. Instead we decided to visit Melissa who was spending a quiet afternoon braiding her two babies, who were falling asleep to Bill Cosby’s Little Bill. Merita gave us a happy but short peek before collapsing again on her Mama’s lap. Maia was utterly wiped out. A pile of laundry, literally higher than the couch upon which it sat, lay lifeless, gathering more and more angst with every passing unfolded second. I wanted to dive into it and begin sorting those clothes, but I wouldn’t have known where to begin. Melissa was loosening the braids of her baby, combing, greasing, and re-braiding with typewriter determination, flattening hair down as if punching button keys.

“Oh em gee, you awake?” Melissa asked her sleepy daughter, Maia, who’d just stripped her eyes from the backs of her lids and sat up completely to happily say to Nasim, “Cara!” before falling back down asleep onto her bed. We laughed and took some seats on the floor and ataman. I’ve never felt so unconditionally welcomed.

Maia soon awoke fully and Nasim offered to loose and comb out the child’s hair. Thing about Maia is, nobody can’t tell her nothin’. Earlier in the day she’d taken off from the baseball game to follow her Grandmama across the street, unbeknownst to Grandmama. A friend of Melissa's saw her walking alone and called out, “Maia, where you goin’?” But Maia’s only response was, “No.” Fortunately she’s small enough to pick up and carry. So Nasim’s effort, while generous, was futile.

Maia stood and looked up at Nasim, “I coo-coo!” She announced. Unfortunately, she wasn’t wearing anything resembling a diaper. Melissa took her to get cleaned up and within moments was back to braiding. Nasim thought to try one last time to unloose Maia’s braids while Maia colored on the floor. Next thing I knew Nasim was asking Maia if she needed to go to the bathroom again. Maia had actually already gone and nearly unleashed on poor Nasim. Being nearly poo-ed on was only the beginning.

Later on we came out of the house to find our kids dispersed on the playground where some teenagers had taken a bat to the chicks. I hate to relate such a horrible thing in this blog, but it’s only to let you know exactly how a neighborhood full of unattended children can unfold into pre-sociopathic pandemonium. Maybe that’s a harsh and unrealistic prediction and generalization, but this happened in our hood and it was horrible.

The childen, riled up, took us to a corner of the courtyard away from the playground where we sat down to have class. I asked if anyone remembered how we usually start the class. “SONGS!” Jameisha cried out. “Before songs?” I asked. “PRAYERS! OHHHH LET ME SAY A PRAYER!!” Jameisha begged. How could I say no? It was the first time anybody had ever offered to say a prayer for the class.

Jameisha stood, “Everybody clasp your hands.” We did. “Now close your eyes.” We also did. “Ok, Our Father who art in Heaven….” The others joined in at the top of their lungs. When we neared the end, “forever and ever, Amen,” everyone burst into the Pledge of Allegiance, and finally a rendition of the Virgin Islands' National Anthem. You just never know what to expect.

Someone complained about sitting so close to the gutter with too many bugs (accustom to hardship) so we trudged to the Center where we hoped to have the class on the porch since the Center had been locked. Ms. Linda met us there, however, with a key. The kids unleashed as soon as those doors opened as if somebody opened the gates to an entire room of buck wild. It took us all of 15 minutes just to hear ourselves think and I stopped counting after we tried setting up the tables. Finally, amidst the giggling and accusations, we settled back into our class routine. We had to pull out the “I’ma telllll yo mama!” and “You know better,” cards, but, you know what? little by little. They really are making progress. That drizzly Saturday they actually paid attention during the slightly abstract story and there was only one physical fight…which was forgotten as soon as the buck wild doors were opened. I have to say, the girls did amazingly well and even added some beat to the song, “Listen to the voice (clap clap), that makes our hearts rejoice (clap clap)….”

Tired, buzzing with reprimands but also happy from the progress we'd witnessed, we stood a moment in the dazed silence of the absent children who’d run off to show their mama’s their pictures of pure hearts. I love them, each and every one, but in a big group they struggle. How do you measure progress? Reggie, who came to the first class with the most crazy, I-might-backhand-you-at-any-moment look on his face and hadn’t been back since, has come to class the past two weeks and stayed both times. He even laughed a few times. His mom works a couple of jobs making her home-time minimal and the men on the block don’t seem to offer much in the way of guidance (I could be wrong), so I think if we find Reggie more and more in class, even if he spends the majority of it under the table snickering, it might be progress.

Saturday mornings used to be days for sleeping and mowing the lawn but for the past five years more and more people are setting aside time for getting together lesson plans for children’s classes, preparing a service project with their junior youth group, and calling up their study circle participants. I’ve had the priviledge of being allowed to do Saturdays like this since my Saturdays in Costa Rica where we would walk an hour or so to a children’s class on the other side of the reservation, uphill…both ways. So you’d think I’d be used to Saturdays by now, but they keep surprising me by the little progressions of the Reggies and the hospitable sincerity of every child, adolescent, adult, or grandparent, be they in Raleigh-Durham, Falls Church, Progreso, Roanoke, or Kirwan Terrace. The afternoons or evenings always end the same, with a hug, a “thank you”, a glass of sugary tea, or the expressed desire to come with.

(Pictured below: Kirwan Terrace children's class; Some friends in Progreso at the 19 Day Feast; Loudon County, Virginia children's class; Roanoke, Virginia children's class; a junior youth group in Carrboro, NC)