In South Africa, the preschool is called the creche. Little kids run to and from a small building with light coats and empty backpacks.
When we arrived, I could not see the ground beneath my feet. All I saw were their bright eyes and smiling faces. They didn't know who we were, but they loved us. Their laughter and shouts of joy overpowered our voices so that all we could do was laugh right back.
Some of us were mauled by small children--I think of 6 foot Brad sitting on dusty ground (which he later got up from as kids swatted his bum "helping him clean up") with only his white face peaking out among the sea of brown.
Despite the roaring wave of excitement, I, of course, found a way to separate myself to take in the full scene and enjoy the love that poured from every living being. Before long, a little boy about two years old caught my attention. Sitting on the ground I simply reached out my hand to him. He stared at it for the longest time, but then his little hand peaked out from his olive green coat and came to lay in mine. His name was Prayer. He never said a word and didn't want to play. He was content to sit on my lap and watch the other children run by chasing a flat soccer ball.
We sat for what seemed like the longest time as white American adults chased the smiling South African children. It crossed my mind that maybe I should get up and try to convince Prayer to come and play with everyone else, but everytime I moved, Prayer frowned. I figured this meant playing was not an option, so we contently sat in the dirt and watched everyone pass by. One little boy waddled past us several times in a green overstuffed coat, bright colorful backpack, and a red and blue stocking hat. He had an apple in his hand with one bite taken from it and tears streaming down his face.
I watched him walk by several times, but no one else seemed to notice this little child crying out for comfort. The rest of my team were surrounded by dozens of children and didn't see him. Even the women working at the creche walked right past him without so much as a glance in his direction. I couldn't just sit there five feet from this crying boy. I picked up Prayer (much to his dismay) and carried him over to where the other little boy stood. I didn't bother asking him, I simply picked him up and placed him on the other side of my lap across from Prayer.
As I rubbed his back trying to provide some comfort, I noticed the writing covering his backpack.
Robbie was written several times in various places in all different sizes. Using what I presumed to be his name, I talked to him and Prayer and commented on the other kids playing, but neither one was interested in my musings. However, Robbie's tears slowly dried.
As we sat staring off into space, another child came and accidentally bumped into Prayer. This of course started another wave of tears from both boys on my lap. Not knowing what to do I began to sing. I knew the boys probably didn't speak English and it really didn't matter to them what song filled the air, so I simply sang in the language God had given me. Whatever melody crossed my mind I let flow from my mouth in words it seemed no one understood. Often, it was just some little phrase of music I made up on my own and would repeat with a few variations. The singing seemed to calm both boys. They stopped crying, and Prayer's eyes once again followed the children chasing the soccer ball. Robbie, however, stood up and left my lap. I thought he was leaving for good now that whatever upset him didn't seem too terrible. He started walking behind me but was never more than an arm's length away. He circled around watching the other kids and took a bite of his forgotten apple.
Seeing that he no longer seemed sad and upset, I decided I would try to get him to smile. As he walked near me, I quickly leaned towards him opening my mouth and pretending to eat his apple with the most ridiculous biting sound effects I could muster. It sounded like something between a sick dog growling and a baby's babbling. At first Robbie seemed shocked. I had truly surprised him, and as I repeated my silly antics over and over again and he realized that I was purposely sounding like a wild animal, a smile crept over his cheeks.
After awhile he came over and sat next to Prayer and me and played in the dirt that seemed to cover everything in sight. His little hand grasped the dirt and let it fall between his fingers. He grabbed another handful of dirt and my hand enclosed around his. As I let go, he poured the dirt onto my extended hand. I gasped in fake surprise and frowned at him. His smile once again returned in its full beauty, and as our game continued that smile evolved into the most beautiful quiet laughter I have ever heard.
As time went on, Prayer, not amused with our games wandered off towards the teachers and the building. Robbie and I played until it was his turn to have his face painted. He wasn't overly excited about the work of art that was about to be placed on his cheek and seemed disappointed about the break in games. So of course we started another one. As we stood in line, Robbie took to leaning to one side and then another. I stood behind him with my arms around him pushing his leaning to the limit. Just as he was about to fall over, I'd lift him back up and the leaning would begin again. His laughter got louder and louder with each near fall.
A river of children flowed towards the small building as one of the ladies emerged with a giant kettle of food. One by one each child took a overflowing plate of food back to the little red chairs set up near by.
Robbie and I slowly wandered over to the black basins of water to wash his hands. He was hesitant at first, but with his hands in mine they were washed without a fuss. Back to our leaning game we waited in line for his plate of food. The line slowly dwindled, but no food was put in Robbie's hands. Teacher after teacher passed over him. Robbie's mood had dropped exponentially and he began crying, so we sat down and I held him tightly in my arms. It was warming up outside, but every attempt to take off his coat or stocking hat was met with a new burst of tears.
We continued to sit there next to the kettle as all the other children sat with their plates of food. Finally, one lady came back and silently handed me a plate not even half full. Robbie refused the spoon of food I offered over and over still crying. The melody from our first interactions returned to my head and I began singing. Slowly Robbie became more receptive, and two spoonfuls were emptied into his little belly. We pressed on alternating crying, singing, and eating, and the food on the plate was disappearing with each cycle. I looked up to see one of the African ladies running towards us. "Praise God! Praise God!" she shouted. She was so overjoyed I thought I saw tears in her eyes.
***
Robbie had started at the creche the Wednesday before. He had refused to let anyone remove his coat, hat, or backpack no matter how much sweat dripped from his face. And he turned every bite of food away except for that small apple they had given him. Even the apple had been barely touched. He spent each day crying endlessly. They had never seen him smile or heard his beautiful laughter--until today.
Leaving him that day was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. Reluctantly, I handed him to one of the ladies as a new reservoir of tears burst open. I climbed into the car reminding myself he had a family. He had a group of people that loved him. While his transition to the creche school days had taken a tremendous toll on his small spirit, I new he had overcome so much today. With that small plate of food and joyous laughter he moved into the light. I am blessed beyond words to have met such an extraordinary boy and to have witnessed God's work in just a single day of his life.
***
For Robbie a thousand times over.
