Squeals erupt from the playground as a pack of pint sized girls tackle the monkey bars. The moms gather close, gobbling up grown-up time like precious pearls.
A small voice shrieks, “Mommy, sister said she hates me.” Tears fall. A little sister sobs in frustration–she just wants to hang with the older girls. Be cool like them.
The lovely young mother administers a hug and kisses to her four-year-old, then calls the five-year-old over for a reckoning.
I watch the other girls stop their play. Somehow the word “hate” shocks us all out of our reverie. It get’s very quiet.
(When you play at the church school playground, it’s like God is watching)
I walk over and kneel down. A storm is brewing over their tiny countenance.
The girls are looking to lay blame.
“She said she hated her sister,” points out one little pig-tailed cutie. “That’s a bad word.”
I nod yes. “That’s true. But are you always nice to your little brother?” I probe, ever so gently.
A guilty smile sneaks out of the corner of her mouth. “No, she whispers.”
I turn to little Kolby. “Sometimes you and your sister fight, right?”
Kolby agrees sheepishly.
And suddenly they realize the “bad word” is in them too.
“Sometimes I say awful things I wish I could take back.” I confess.
I think of me sitting in the counselor’s office telling my husband his pride is an issue–as if I am somehow exempt from the very same malaise.
And we all look down at our feet and the focus shifts off the bad child to the bad in us.
The next day the mom tells me her older daughter shared with her how she fears her friends like her little sister more than her.
In all truth, her little sister is a bit of a tot-sized hottie. She is vibrant and gorgeous with long golden hair and a winsome personality. She will probably be cheer captain and princess of everything. I’d probably want to punch her in the face a few times if she were my sister too. “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia ..”
Who wants to live up to that?
(I’m sure Jesus’ siblings struggled a bit too)
And then the mom laughs and said my little Kolby tried to empathize with her older daughter. Her daughter apologized for the bad choice of words and my Kolby explained that she too battles with jealousy towards her older sister Faith.
Kolby patted her on the back. “It’s tough, I know.”
The two hugged–closer now because of the rupture and the restoration.
I shook my head in disbelief. These are kindergartners–not thirty-five year old women. And yet somehow they are learning to self-identify and give grace and empathy to one another, not in spite of their brokenness but because if it.
I’ve learned down the long and bumpy road of life (and with a billion hours of therapy) that our broken pieces heal ONLY in relationship.
What a gift we give our children when we teach them to look within before casting stones and to share their hurt instead of bottling it up inside to fester and grow darker.
The mom and I hugged too–closer now because of the shared journey of parenting our girls together.
And I am grateful for friendship, forgiveness, and the sweet gift of grace we all desperately need.
–Samantha
